Read Just Breathe (Blue #1) Online
Authors: Chelle C. Craze
Just Breathe (Blue #1)
Copyright © 2014 by Chelle C. Craze
Editing by Anne Gorman-Jacobs & Paige Maroney Smith
Cover Design by Melissa @ MGBookCovers & Designs
Photography by Cashia Lilly of Cherish’N Life Photography
Cover Model: Janie Elizabeth Bailey
Formatted by: Suzanne Soneira
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Just Breathe is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, actual events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/ use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owner.
Otherwise, hold on and enjoy the ride, you crazy lunatics!
Due to the nature of this book, it is only recommended for mature audiences. 18+
Please note this novel contains strong language, sexual situations, and abusive situations.
Nick
Life without you is not a life worth living.
You’re the one thing I didn’t know to ask for, my unspoken prayer that was answered.
logue
For the first time in a week, I can take a shower. Well, more of a birdbath, really.
Barricading a gas station bathroom and quickly washing off with smelly water from a filthy sink doesn’t exactly define either. Regardless of the stench and dirt sputtering from the spout, I welcome the warm water and greedily splash it onto my cold skin. Stinging pain throbs through my cheekbones and down my jaws, but I continuously splash and scrub my face, hoping to one day feel clean.
Chasing the unreachable.
No amount of soap and water will ever free me of the shame I carry. Even when soot and flowers cover my coffin and a preacher reads scripture, this burden will still linger. It is my crippling affliction. My unforgettable past.
“I swear, if you don’t open this damn door I’m calling the cops,” a raspy female voice calls from the other side of the door as my groggy eyelids flutter open. My chest heaves with panic as the doorknob jiggles, and I stare at the cinderblock keeping her at bay. I scoop all my belongings into my arms and stuff them into an old, ragged backpack. I remind myself I need to breathe and clutch the locket I wear.
The last thing I need is to get lost in the system. I’m sure they’ll eventually find me and force me into a foster home, but I’ll do everything I can to prevent that from happening in the meantime. “I’m sorry. I must have fallen asleep,” I say, shouldering my way out the door and stepping outside my cinderblock haven. Blood hammers against the walls of my veins, driving anxiety to take over my body. I dare a quick glance at the woman, who is impatiently tapping her foot against the frozen pavement and smoking a clove cigarette.
“Don’t lie to me. You’re trash. Look at the clothes you’re wearing,” she coughs out through a thick cloud of smoke. “It’s December, and your ass cheeks are practically hanging out.” She shakes her head and flicks the cigarette butt to the ground. “I’m sure your mother is ashamed of you.”
Tears of regret fill my eyes and blur my vision as I stare at her in shock. “I know she is,” I say and run as fast as my feet will move. I find a nearby tree on the far side of the parking lot and slide down its harsh bark, not caring if it breaks my skin. I close my eyes and begin to count.
Chap
ter 1
Another day in my life of the unexpected
Slipping through the hourglass slowly like sands collected
Losing my grip and scratching the walls
Forgetting my creed, losing my clause
Wash down the pain and swallow the pill
When I wake up, I’ll tell myself this was never real.
Cassandra
My best friend, Dartanya, pays the cab driver. She then hops out of the van that could easily break down at any moment, considering the amount of sputtering it is doing. As we round the vehicle, a thick gray cloud of smog rises from the tailpipe, making her cough. She links her arm through mine, hurrying to pull me closer to the building and the birthday celebration.
Dartanya, whom everyone calls by her nickname “Dar,” is not only my best friend but also my roommate. Apart from us having troubled pasts, sharing a two- bedroom apartment is one of the few things we do have in common. She likes to go out drinking and is the life of the party, whereas I would rather stay at home, reading a good book or watching a murder mystery show. Today happens to be her birthday, and she has spent most of it persuading me to come out with her to celebrate at this club. According to her, it’s the hottest one around.
My eyes curiously wander the dark-red façade of the building, squinting in scrutiny when I read the graffiti “Luca da Lady Killah” written in neon green spray paint on the door. Alarm spreads throughout my body, and my mouth goes dry when I consider the possible meanings of the artist’s words. “Luca” could be a mass murderer, leaving behind a trail of dead women, or he may be a player, who is responsible for breaking more hearts than King Henry VIII. The possibility of either being true causes a shiver to travel down my spine.
One, two, skip a few, ninety-nine, a hundred,
I count inwardly to myself. It’s one of the ways I cope with my panic attacks. My heart rapidly thuds inside my chest, and my pulse races like an animal seeking to escape its cage.
Holy shit! I can’t breathe! One, two, skip a few, ninety-nine, a hundred. Cass, you can do this. Do not freak out on Dar’s birthday!
Breathlessly, I raise my hand to my neck and tightly grasp the prayer-box necklace. Again, I inwardly count, telling myself I’m all right. By doing this, I’m usually able to back myself down from the hypothetical ledge from which I’m about to leap headfirst and plunge into a full-blown panic attack.
This tiny prayer box dangles from a sheer black ribbon that encircles my neck. The silver heart-shaped locket is about the size of a dime and has onyx lines swirling around its surface, making a beautiful spiral pattern. In the center, there is a miniature key-inscribed hole. On the side lies a latch that secures my innermost thoughts.
This simple piece of jewelry wouldn’t catch most people’s attention, but to me, it’s a safe haven—a constant reminder of my mother. She gave it to me a few weeks before she vanished from my life. She was flawed. In fact, she really was a shitty parent after Dad left us. None of that mattered to me, though, because regardless of her parenting skills, I knew she loved me.
I let the silver heart fall from my hands, breathing out an indifferent groan, allowing Dar to pull me through the entrance. She nonchalantly rolls her eyes and knowingly shakes her head, no doubt fully aware of where my mind is wandering.
“I can’t believe the Chippendale dancers are here tonight! On my birthday!” she squeals, pulling her ID from her pocket and giving it to the bouncer. He winks and gives it back to her, holding his empty palm up for mine. He gives my license a quick glance and hands it back to me. He pulls a permanent marker from the windowsill and places black “X’s” on the back of each of our hands.
“Thanks!” she says, excitement practically bubbling from her words as she continues talking. Her eagerness shouldn’t shock me. She’s been counting down the days for the past month. I knew she would be enthusiastic, but I didn’t expect this much. She waited until today to tell me about watching male strippers. Most likely, she withheld this detail to prevent me from backing out of our plans, causing her to spend her birthday alone.
“Are you even listening?” she asks, pointing out that I’m not. In fact, I have no idea what she is talking about at all. “You haven’t heard one word I’ve said, have you? You were doing that bizarre zombie thing again. The one where you stare off like you’re a million miles away. When really, you’re stuck in your own head.” Her finger lands on the center of my forehead.
“Cass, it’s my twenty-first birthday.” She sighs as she narrows her eyes in my direction. “You promised to try to act normal for just one night.” She plops down into the booth and pulls me to her side.
“‘Try,’ being the keyword, Dar,” I scoff, making every effort to untangle our arms. “I’m doing my best, but right now, I’m trying not to catch something that Clorox won’t kill.” I put my fingers on the shiny leather booth and pull them away, causing a suction noise from the stickiness of the surface. I cringe and then swiftly wipe my hand across my jeans, hoping it isn’t someone’s leftover gum residue. “See, this place is disgusting!” I say, fighting the urge to gag.
“Would you relax?” She gives my shoulder a nudge. “We’re not here to inspect for the health department. The place could be crawling with every contractible disease known to man, and I would still come here and see this.” She rubs her hands together and wiggles her hips while checking out the dancer wearing a purple thong. With a huge smile, she turns to me and says, “Cass, for one night, just relax and enjoy yourself.”
“You know I’m kidding.” I arch a playful eyebrow. “Well, mostly anyhow. You know that new places make me uncomfortable. Seriously, I was joking about the Clorox bit.” After stealing another swift glance at her, I struggle not to laugh at her expression. Her cheeks tighten as a huge smile spreads across her face.
“You’re such a germaphobe.” She huffs. “But, I love you anyway!” She affectionately beams, hitting my knee with hers beneath the table.
I mirror her grin with a wink and tell her, “I love you, too, Dar. Happy freaking Birthday.” It may have been a bit over the top, but hopefully, it’ll help her forget how sour my attitude was when we first arrived. Taking her advice, I turn my attention to the tallest of the men on stage, flexing his muscles below the flashing lights harnessed to the rafters. The yellow light vibrates against its plastic casing each time the bass blasts through the speakers, making the rays appear as if they quiver on his oiled skin.
I’m not blind. I do enjoy a man’s body as much as the next girl, but seeing guys wear “banana hammocks” bothers me. What worries me the most is that men usually want to protect their manhood, not let it bounce around in something so thin.
I can’t complain, though. I have the opportunity to check out these guys without worrying about them coming on to me, and that’s a little nice. Generally, most men expect something in return whether you’re prepared to give it to them or not. It seems almost instinctual to the men I meet, and I accept that. What’s not natural are the thongs, and the way they divide a man’s ass. What’s worse is the “penis pouch “ in general. Despite my obvious distaste for the stripper’s attire, I’m not a prude. I frequently question my reckless decisions. One in particular was drinking with Harold Capps, which led to the loss of my virginity at age sixteen.
Dar studies me intently, and I remember I’m “trying to be normal” for her, even if it is only for tonight. “Dar, what is a ‘Lady Killah’?” I ask, truly curious, adding air quotes, and trying to strike up a conversation with her. She lowers her chin with her eyebrows narrowed, revealing the confusion caused by my question.
“Cassandra Blair Anderson!” Dar’s screeching voice reminds me of a banshee. “What in the hell are you talking about? ‘Lady Killahs’?” she chokes out, shaking her head. She then takes a big drink of her Tequila Sunrise, awkwardly brushing off my question.
Just as I’m ready to elaborate about the graffiti on the bar’s exterior of the door, a mousy-looking waitress comes over and asks, “You want a drink?”
Dar has been sipping hers for about ten minutes, and the glass is almost empty. The waitress brought it to her when we sat down, but she didn’t bother to even ask if I wanted anything.
“Yes, I’d like a vodka and cranberry, please.” Looking at her name tag, I intently reply just as pretentious as the server, “Lacey”.
It takes her a while, but Lacey brings my drink without an ounce of acknowledgement. Hell, she didn’t even look at me. She turns her head away from me to speak to Dar. “We go way back,” Dar whispers with a look of boredom and a quick shrug of her shoulders. Lacey couldn’t have been much of a friend to Dar, seeing how I’m just now meeting her.
Dar flips her short dark hair away from her naturally tanned face and glances over at me with her lush emerald eyes. The only way I can describe them is the color of green found in the center of a peacock’s tail. I refer to them as the “siren”. She uses them to gain control over men, holding the same hypnotic power as you would read about in a mythology book. A siren would lure sailors from their boats into the waters, usually meeting their demise. Maybe that’s it; her last name is Waters, and she can get any man she wants with just a glance.
As I sit wondering about Dar’s eyes, she turns to me and says, “She’s dating Luca, Johnny’s friend.” She sucks the remainder of her drink through a straw. I realize she only wishes to include me in the conversation, but given the choice of talking to Lacey or downing my drink, I would select the latter of the two. There is something about Lacey I don’t trust; something that bothers me. I can’t quite place what it is. Maybe it’s all in my head? It could be that she is ignoring me, and on some deep, subconscious level, it might spark the annoying side of my brain, the side that makes me want to slap her. Even though I want nothing to do with her, it takes everything I have not to pop her in the mouth.
Johnny may be Dar’s older half-brother, but I love him as if he were mine. At least Dar has him to confide in, even if she didn’t meet him until after turning nine years old. They share a deep bond, giving no sign of only knowing one another for twelve years. They both have their suspicions of more unknown Waters’ kids running around the area, but they haven’t met any yet. According to Dar’s mom, Donna, her husband slept with a lot of women in his younger days.
Just as I open my mouth to speak, Lacey interrupts, telling Dar about some guy. Dar smiles and shrugs her shoulders apologetically and mouths, “Sorry,” to me as she rolls her eyes. By the way Lacey is leaning against the booth, it doesn’t look like she is going to let me have considerable input, so I chew on my straw and listen to her ramble. Maybe I’m just in a mood, but it seems deliberate of her to interrupt and speak over me. I dislike her more and more.
“Ch’yeah, isn’t he freaking gorgeous, Dar?” she drawls out each word in a Northern accent. Then, she claps her hands together while her eyes gloss over with lust as she mentions this ‘Luca’ guy. Obviously, she has something for him. Is she talking about the same ‘Luca’ who clearly thinks of himself as a ‘Lady Killah’? Again, I consider all the possibilities behind the meaning of this name, deciding a killer in Bluewood, West Virginia, is extremely unlikely. Nothing remotely interesting goes on here. Sadly, a cat getting stuck in a tree is often the front-page story of the local newspaper.
Even if this guy is a player, it shouldn’t bother me, but for some reason, it does. If he is a murderer, he might spice up this little town. I haven’t met him, and I’ve spent too much time thinking about him. The only thing in which I can be certain is he obviously has awful taste in women since he’s with that Lacey girl.
Lacey taps her foot impatiently, staring at me as she awaits some answer to a question in which I’m unaware. “So, Hus…Uh…Could you repeat that?” I ask, clamping my lips together.
Lacey sighs and says, “You want another drink or not?”
I cannot believe this girl is such a pain in the ass. “Well, yes, I would and tell me more about this Luca guy?” I ask, smirking and sounding as sweet as possible after that blunder. I shake my head to clear it and nervously pick at the edge of the table, hoping she doesn’t figure out the rest of the name. Sure, Lacey is getting on my nerves, but I highly doubt she deserves to be called a hussy as I so absentmindedly almost blurted out.
“Aw, he’s the best.” Her eyes light up like she just won a Pulitzer Prize, and a Cheshire cat smile spreads across her face after she speaks. The reflection from the strobe light on her teeth sure isn’t proving otherwise. After a brief pause, she turns swiftly on her feet and saunters back toward the bar. She’s definitely more peculiar than most people I’ve met. The way she abruptly starts and stops talking baffles me. Her mouth hangs as if to say something more, but then she stops herself and never finishes her thought. When she reaches the bar and leans over to whisper something into the bartender’s ear, he backs away from her. I quickly decide I should find something better to occupy my time.
Dar eagerly welcomes one of the dancers onto her lap. By scooting down in the black leather booth, she gives him more room for straddling her legs. She winks in my direction and then smiles as he lifts himself from her lap to thrust his crotch upward. His skin gleams in the pulsating lights as he grooves to the music. His tight muscles flex to accommodate the movements.
When Dar tries to tip him, he takes her dollar bills and stuffs them into her cleavage. “Your birthday present, sweetheart,” he purrs through a sly grin, probably the same one he uses to get a woman to do practically anything he wants. My hat is off to him, so to speak. Having the ability to hold that much power over someone at a single glance is both incredible and disturbing. Not that I would have any experience in that department, but I can imagine the feeling of euphoria.