Rescue Breathing Read online

  Rescue Breathing

  The Breathe Series - Book One

  Written by Zoe Norman

  RESCUE BREATHING

  Copyright 2014 Zoe Norman, LLC

  Smashwords Edition

  Cover design prepared by Robin Harper, Wicked by Design

  Editing by Michelle Kampmeier, Mickey Reed Editing

  Ebook formatting byWhite Hot Ebook Formatting

  Smashwords License Notes:

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  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorised electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, establishments, organisations, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously to give a sense of authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book is intended for mature readers as it is sexually explicit and, therefore, should be read by over 18's only.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Quote

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Epilogue

  About the Authors

  Acknowledgments

  A Personal Note from Stephanie

  A Personal Note from Heidi

  Rescue breathing, also known as “the kiss of life,” is a rescue technique where one person provides air for someone who has stopped breathing.

  - Excerpt from www.ask.com/health&fitness

  CHAPTER ONE

  Olivia

  “There is a time in every woman's life when she needs to just walk away. This, Olivia, is that time.”

  That lovely quote comes directly from the mouth of my best friend, Charley, over the phone and across the country. She is giving me her version of a pep talk, which I am grateful is not currently including a stream of expletives directed at my ex, Jay.

  About nine months ago, I found out he was not just cheating. Nope, that would have been too easy. In fact, at this point in my life, I would pay someone to turn the hands of time back and make it that easy. No, Jay provided me with a much more interesting betrayal. Wait for it. He was married. With kids. The whole time we were dating. All three years of it.

  It's okay. Take a moment to absorb that. It's taken me nine months to just scratch the surface of taking that in. I am now at that special place where I'm just angry. Angry and decidedly spending the majority of my time fantasizing about different ways to remove Jay's testicles in a painful manner. Charley is all too willing to assist with this part of the grieving process, even from the polar opposite side of the United States, since dealing with sobbing, falling-apart Olivia is too much for her to bear.

  “Liv, are you listening? This is your opportunity to have some fun. Get the hell out of the city and breathe a little. You need some space from all this. Even if you don't see him anymore, you need to get out of town. Come to this conference. I'll show you around Seattle. We'll go out with my girls here. It will be so much fun. Maybe you'll even get laid!”

  The conference she is referring to is an American Psychological Association conference where I'm supposed to present my most recent research to be published about trauma and servicemen. I've spent the last nine months of my grief process interviewing nearly every fireman, policeman, and paramedic in the city of New York. It's amazing how productive hating someone else and being devastatingly broken can make you.

  “Charley, I'm not looking to get laid. My God, that's the last thing on my mind!”

  This is a lie. A big, fat, stupid lie. I think about sex every time I go to bed. Not with my ex—that sex wasn't even that good. No, I think about the kind of sex I've always wanted, with a man who makes me feel amazing and cherished and isn't afraid of a little fun. So basically I think about my dream-man sex on the body of a celebrity. Whatever. It works.

  “Charley, if I come out there, you know I have to actually work. It's a conference. I'd be presenting at three different lectures.”

  I hear her sigh over the phone. “I know exactly what you're saying and I know you have to work. But you also have to have some fun, Liv. Hey, is that guy Rob going to be there? The guy you hooked up with at your last conference?”

  I groan. Rob is a psychologist who presented at conference I attended in Chicago, several months after I found out about Jay. In a fit of sadness—and a tremendous amount of alcohol—I had sex with Rob in a stairwell of the hotel in which we were staying. Suffice it to say, it took me another two weeks to get him to stop calling me. The last thing I need right now is to run into him again.

  “Absolutely not, Charlotte. That guy was like a leech. I have no interest in rehashing that disaster again.”

  I hear her giggle on the other end. “Liv, please. I haven't seen you in ages. I miss you. Just come out to Seattle. If there is a happy side effect, it's that you get out of New York, and if you're able to put some of the Jay stuff to bed, all the better, but at least we can visit, okay?”

  I sigh. “Okay, okay, okay. I'll come out. I'll send you the itinerary when I get it. I do know I'll be at the Fairmont Olympic, but I could probably use a ride when I get there if you don't mind. Maybe we can have dinner the first night?”

  “Yay! That's the spirit, girl. Oh my God, I can't wait to see you! Liv, you won't regret this. I promise you, I'm going to make it all better. I love you, Livvie girl.”

  I laugh as my heart clenches. Charley has been my best friend since we were in school together at Columbia. She moved to Seattle a few years ago for work and I miss her terribly. Not having her here during all this has been terribly difficult for me.

  “I love you too, Charley. I can't wait to see you.”

  We hang up our call and I collapse into my couch. The conference is next week. I have a lot of work to do before I leave, not the least of which is call our travel coordinator at NYU and get my flight plan together. I pick up the phone and dial away.

  * * *

  My flight out to Seattle is tomorrow
night and I'm still packing. I decided to take the last flight out in the hopes of getting a little sleep before my plane lands. It will mean arriving very late at night, but that will allow me a full night's sleep before the start of the conference.

  I have all my clothes laid out in front of me. I have all the usual work stuff—skirt suits, pant suits, sensible shoes. But knowing that Charley wants to go out, I decide I should also pack some cute stuff too, so I've included some short black skirts that are fun, a couple of sexy tops, and some real fuck-me stilettos. I don't know who I think is going to fuck me in these shoes, but it's worth a shot, right?

  Just thinking about having sex with someone else, despite all my late-night fantasies, makes my stomach roil. I wish my heart didn't hurt so much still. I'm lucky I never run into Jay at all. My guess is that he's—smartly—avoiding the places I might be likely to see him.

  My discovery of his infidelity (it's easier to just call it that at this point) came on the heels of another revelation that I thought would be the best part of my life. I found out I was pregnant. Jay and I had always been careful, but fate has its way of intervening. And intervene it did. I had never thought anything about the fact that he'd never had me over to his place. Or that there were weekends he didn't contact me at all despite having had plans. Or that there were times of the year he was flat-out nervous. When you're desperate to be loved by someone, someone you are sure is your soul mate, you gloss over these items for which the rest of the female world scream, “There Is A Fucking Problem Here!”

  So when I told him I was pregnant and he freaked out, I was stunned into silence. I mean, I wasn't exactly prepared for it, nor had I been expecting it, but I certainly wasn't shrieking, “Fuck!” at the top of my lungs or “How the fuck did you let this happen?” From there, it was all downhill.

  During his tirade, he said, “I don't want any more kids.” And there it was. What other kids? What did he mean? And then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he told me that he was married, had two kids, and lived in a brownstone on the Upper East Side. And in that one quick moment, my entire life fell apart and his went back to normal.

  Jay and I had been seeing each other for three years, since grad school. He was bright, handsome, and slated to be a very successful psychiatrist. He also seemed to be increasingly unavailable. Scheduled visits, phone calls where he was whispering. I talked at length with Charley about this. She told me that I was being paranoid, that it was in my head, but I knew it wasn't. And then, the "incident." Two weeks late on my period, vomiting in the morning, hypersensitivity to smells, and fifteen positive at-home pregnancy tests revealed what was now obvious—I was pregnant.

  When I finally allowed Charley to convince me to go to the doctor to run a test and that too was positive, I decided that it was time to tell Jay. I called him and asked him to come over for dinner. He hemmed and hawed, complaining about some work commitment, but in the end, he agreed to come for dessert later in the evening. I was nervous, although I didn't know why. When I told him about the pregnancy, he blanched visibly and fell back into the couch. Not the response I'd been hoping for.

  He wanted to know how this could have happened, where had I gone wrong with my birth control. I watched him, frozen, as he spewed accusation after accusation until finally he spit out, "I don't want any more fucking children, Olivia!"

  Huh? More children? When had he gotten the first set? He turned and stormed out of my apartment and, eventually, my life. I had never been more broken in my life. I spent two weeks in a full-on fugue that then morphed into rage. Every day a little more bitter, a little more angry. By the end of the second week, I somehow found strength. Strength born by anger to be sure, but strength nonetheless.

  After a doctor's visit where we discussed my no-longer-existing relationship and what was left of my options, my doctor started in on the “termination of pregnancy” talk. I listened to her speak, my mind reeling, my heart splintering. We talked about how abortions happened, what I could expect, did I have a friend who could take me? In that moment, I suddenly realized that I wanted to try and do this. This baby didn't deserve to not have a chance just because its father was a piece of shit. This baby was still part of me too.

  I smiled the whole walk back to my apartment, eager to tell Charley I actually was as strong as she said I was. I was keeping this baby, damn it. So help me God, I was going to be such an amazing mother that I was going to blow all other mothers out of the water. We were going to do this together.

  Two days later, I miscarried. I had barely gotten home from the hospital confirming the loss of my baby when I texted Jay.

  No more worries. I lost the baby.

  Have a great rest of your life.

  There was no helping or consoling me. I would vacillate between deep, debilitating depression and almost manic work hours when I was trying to forget. My parents were devastated, my friends were full of sorrow and my heart was pulverized. From that point on, I had no interest in anything related to the opposite sex. Not dating, not sex, not marriage. Oh, in my heart, those were still things I wanted, but I mourned the loss of that dream lifestyle I thought I would have with Jay every day. It was safer to just close off.

  The following months were a blur. It was as if someone had uncapped his bottle of lies and it came spilling out all over me. It turned out, people we had been friends with had all known. Every little thing I'd thought was real fell apart under his betrayal. I locked myself in my apartment for a week straight, crying and sitting in the fetal position on my couch. I didn't shower. I didn't eat. I didn't talk to anyone until my brother, Simon, and his fiancée, Reese, showed up one day and threw me in the shower, force-fed me some soup, and then let me sob in his lap.

  For some reason, that pulled me out of my funk, and I returned to work. I threw myself into my research, everyone around me walking on eggshells and avoiding the topic of Jay. To this day, his name is not uttered by anyone I know, friend or colleague, with the exception of Charley and Simon. And good riddance for that.

  * * *

  I haul my bag out of the trunk of the cab in front of my gate at LaGuardia. The taxi driver doesn't consider helping me out of the cab. Thanks, asshole. There goes your tip. I'm early, but being that it was an evening flight, I didn't want to get stuck feeling rushed. I always carry on my bags. It's so much easier than having to wait for the carousel in an airport you've never been to before. I pop up the handle to my rolling suitcase and walk toward a bar I can see in the terminal. Charley suggested I get a drink since I hate flying—especially across the country. I decide that it isn't such a bad idea.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Owen

  Is there a term for being more than exhausted? Whatever the word is, I'm it. After having worked a double shift where I was on duty four twenty-four hours, I fell into my own bed around 9:30 this morning. FDNY Brooklyn, Rescue Company 2 is a very active firehouse, and you're lucky to get a few hours of shuteye during the night shift. Last night was no exception. Between a code 10-75, or multiple dwelling fire, on 73rd Street that required four engine trucks, two ladder trucks, and Rescue and a single-car drunk-driving accident at 3:00 a.m., I saw it all last night.

  Part of being selected for the Rescue Company is just that—you're selected. We are the most highly trained fire company of its kind in the world. Many apply, but only an elite few are chosen. We're a specialized group. Six men make up a team each shift, and we assist other fire companies on emergency calls. When you need the heavy equipment, the special skills, and the dexterity to execute the job, the firemen call in the Rescue Company. We do what the other firemen cannot. I'm proud of what I do and wouldn't trade my career for anything, but being on the Rescue Company brings its own set of issues. I've seen things that make a Herschell Gordon Lewis movie laughable. Things that stick with you and fuck with your head.

  After I got home from my shift, I managed to sneak in an all-too-short two-hour nap before hurriedly packing for my flight to Seatt
le. My buddy, Travis, recently got engaged and I'm going out there for a guys' weekend. My sole job will be to make him remember how much fun it is being single. Why he called me after he proposed instead of having me talk him off the ledge before he proposed, I'm not sure.

  I spent countless minutes on the phone with my other good buddy, Marc, who also lives in Seattle, discussing how this weekend will go down. I'm fairly confident it'll be a shit show with our lack of planning, but we'll have fun. Excessive indulgence of all forms is on tap for the next five days and I'm a-okay with that.

  As I walk down the stairs of the brownstone I own in Brooklyn, I see my tenant and neighbor lady coming up the stairwell. “Off to work again, Owen?” she asks, eyeing my large duffel.

  “Not this time, Claire. I'm heading out of town for a few days. Mind grabbing my mail and watering the plants while I'm away?” I ask, pausing at the stairwell landing to let her pass.

  Claire Martin has been my tenant since I bought the building and had it rehabbed four years ago. The day I held interviews for the downstairs apartment, I knew I didn't need to look further than Claire. She keeps telling me she's thirty-five years old, but her salt-and-pepper hair and smile lines around her eyes and mouth say that she is sixty-two, which her New York driver's license confirmed. Claire is a retired meter maid—her words, not mine. The more politically correct term would be a traffic enforcement agent, but Claire is old school and has no pretenses. She's a tough broad—again, her words—but she has a generous soul. Being a divorcée with no children, she has a full life. Her social calendar may be more active than mine. She takes various classes and trips with friends, and I always know when she has people over because her infectious laugh will drift out her open windows and up through mine.