Rescue Breathing Read online

  “So then… So then… So then...” I laugh out loud, trying to continue my story amid the raucous laughter from the group of Travis's friends that have joined us for drinks. “After Travis has the chick back in our room, he sees that I'm in there fucking some hot piece of ass that I met earlier that night. I turn my head as I'm pounding this girl,” I say, punching my fist into my hand, “and Travis just shrugs his shoulders and starts stripping off his clothes. At first I'm thinking, 'What the fuck is Travis doing? Joining in?' And then the chick Travis brought back starts taking off her clothes. And now I'm thinking, 'Holy shit! This is going to be an awesome night!' right?” I take a long pull of my beer and continue the story. “But no. Travis's chick recognizes the girl that's under me and calls her by name. Turns out the girls were sisters. Twin sisters. Travis's girl gets pissed off, dresses, and leaves. So there's Travis, naked, with a raging boner and his guaranteed pussy just left.”

  Travis's friends all groan mockingly while Travis stands there looking at me, not embarrassed one bit. “Finish the story, Owen. Tell them what happened after that,” he says before polishing off his beer.

  “The girl I'm fucking beckons Travis over. I flip the chick onto all fours and start doing her from behind while Travis proceeds to ram his cock down her throat. Don't worry. She wasn't gagging or anything. Travis isn't that big,” I say with a loud laugh and throw Travis a quick wink.

  “Fuck you, Maxwell.” Travis laughs, showing me his middle finger. “That was over spring break during our junior year of college. Best trip we took together,” he says with a big smile.

  “Wait a minute. Wait a minute.” Marc waves his hands. “What about our trip to Costa Rica after O broke up with Molly? Remember the sex club? That, my friends… That was an epic trip.”

  I swipe my hand down my face and then run my fingers through my already tousled hair. Travis's friends all look at each other. They look like rabid dogs that haven't been fed in weeks. They're hanging on every word.

  “Speaking of sex clubs… What's the best strip club in Seattle?” I ask, trying to keep the mood light but steer clear of the details of the Costa Rica trip. Travis works with most of these people. He needs to maintain some boundaries.

  “Little Darlings is good,” one of the guys in the group offers.

  “No,” I say immediately. “The name alone makes me feel like a dirty bastard. Next,” I command.

  “Dreamgirls is more like a gentleman's club,” another guy calls out.

  “Agreed,” Marc says. “We'll go there.” And again, just like that, things are decided.

  “Strip club, huh? Sounds like fun,” a very attractive blonde says, interrupting our conversation. She pushes her way through the middle of the group of men on her way to the bar and we all stare as she flags down the bartender to order a glass of red wine. She's wearing a sleeveless, very short, very tight, very low-cut navy dress that leaves little to the imagination. Her body is killer. Her legs are long, lean, and tan, and the muscle definition in her arms is impressive. She has to be a trainer or a trophy wife, because no one spends that much time in the gym and still leads a normal life—not even me. Although the dress is provocative, she pulls it off without looking like a complete whore—just a little whorish. She wore the dress to get attention, and that's just what she's getting from our group of men.

  As the blonde infiltrator waits for her drink order, she turns around, placing both elbows on the bar. The action juts out her ample breasts. Those things can't be real, right? I mean, you can't have such huge tits and still be that perky. Maybe if I just rubbed against her...

  The blonde smiles, knowing that the men are now watching her—or more specifically, her cleavage. “Whatcha celebrating, boys?” she asks, tucking a strand of her long blonde hair behind her ear and seductively licking her bottom lip.

  I smile and slam my hand on Travis's shoulder, gripping it tight. “My buddy here is getting married. We're here mourning the loss of his singlehood,” I explain, lifting my glass. The rest of the guys raise their glasses too and we all take a drink.

  “Trav, another drink?” I ask.

  “Keep 'em coming, Owen,” Travis answers, smiling back at me.

  I'll never admit it, but I'm genuinely happy for Travis. He had a tough childhood, spending a lot of time at my house while we were young and even more so when we got into high school. Hell, he had his own room at my parents' house since he was over so often. Travis's mom had a gambling problem mixed with an alcohol addiction, and his dad was a workaholic trying to make up for his wife's “problems.” My parents stepped in when his parents failed, encouraging him in his academics, and since we played football together, they were there for the games too.

  Travis came into his own when he went to the University of Washington and I to UCLA, both of us on football scholarships. We always stayed in regular contact through school, talking about everything from our asshole roommates to relationships to financial decisions. When my dad was diagnosed with cancer, he was the first person I called. And when Dad died a few short months later, Travis was at my door within forty-eight hours.

  When I met his bride-to-be, Lucy, for the first time, I knew she was different because Travis was different. She had changed him for the better and could handle his ornery ass. She's a keeper and Travis is damn lucky to have found her.

  I lean around our female party crasher and grab our drinks from the bar. The woman looks up to me, her face close to my chest. Did she just smell me?

  “So, Owen”—she calls me by my name—“don't break my heart and tell me you're married. Tell me you're up for a little…fun,” she asks boldly as she looks up at me through her eyelashes.

  I smile warmly at her and grab my two fresh beers along with the maneater's wine, handing her glass to her. “I am not married,” I reply matter-of-factly. “And since you know my name, what's yours?” I squeeze my hand between us for a formal introduction.

  “Monica. And it is very nice to meet you, Owen,” she says, taking my hand and wrapping her fingers around mine. Monica lifts her glass in a toast. “To a memorable evening.”

  I nod my head and touch my glass to hers. I have zero interest in Monica. She's pretty to look at and the guys are getting an eyeful every time she bends over in laughter at one of their jokes, but I'm distracted—and it's not by Monica. It's no coincidence that I had the guys meet up with me here at The Fairmont Olympic to kick off our weekend. Olivia's staying at this hotel for her conference and I have to—no, need—to see her again. She's taken up permanent residency in my head and it's a problem.

  What I need to do is just fuck her and be done with it. Once I've gotten mine, I can move on. As it is, all I can think about is how she would feel under me. If Olivia would have just taken me up on my offer to bring her to her hotel last night, I wouldn't be in this constant state of arousal. I would have convinced her to come back to my hotel so I could finish what I started in the bathroom on the damn plane.

  Although she's staying at this hotel, my pride has gotten the better of me—again. I refuse to seek her out and ask for her room number at the front desk. I know I should just call her like I said I would. The voice in my head tells me otherwise—that I should just leave her alone. It's better if she doesn't get messed up with me. Make it a clean break. Perhaps a little distraction with Monica will help get my mind off Olivia.

  The guys and I continue to swap stories, each trying to embarrass Travis as much as we can. Monica throws her head back in laughter and places a hand on my chest.

  “You're just so funny!” she insists after hearing more of my stories.

  She's a pretty girl with an ugly laugh. I suppose it's one way nature keeps its balance.

  Monica stands on her toes, trying to whisper into my ear, but I don't bend down to accommodate her. “Why don't you show me your serious side upstairs in your room?” she whispers loudly. Wow. She moves faster than I do.

  I close my eyes. A part of me wants to take her up on her offer just so
I can get my rocks off, but a bigger part of me just isn't into her. Like, at all. I'd only be imagining that I'm with Olivia anyway.

  “I'm not staying at this hotel, doll. And, no offense, but I'm not interested.”

  Monica starts her ugly laugh again. “See? You're so funny!”

  I shake my head and take a long sip of my beer, realizing that I've got myself a cling-on. “Do you recognize my buddy, Marc, over there?” I ask Monica, pointing to my friend who is deep in conversation with one of Travis's co-workers.

  Monica wraps an arm around her waist and rests her opposite elbow upon her forearm, her free hand clutching her nearly empty wine glass. “Is that Marcus Kennedy from KQMO?” she asks, pointing her glass at Marc.

  Since Marc is now a reporter and anchor on a Seattle television station, he's a local celebrity of sorts. It comes in handy now and then—like when we need last-minute dinner reservations or tickets to a game. Most of the time, it's annoying because a shit-ton people come up to him all the time. Although, on the flip side of that coin, a lot of those people are women because Marc is so damn good-looking. A single, built-like-a-brick-shithouse, six-foot-two black man with eyes so green you'd swear they weren't real makes many a woman cream. A guy like him doesn't stay a secret for long. Needless to say, Marc has become quite popular since coming back to Seattle.

  “Yep,” I confirm. “He's not seeing anyone.” I flash my eyes wide at her. “A lot of these guys aren't married. Mingle,” I encourage her. “I'm bowing out of contention because I've just started seeing someone.” A lie, yes, but I need Monica to move on.

  Monica pouts her lower lip and looks at me disappointedly. I nod my head toward the group of men and she takes her cue, moving on to her victim. I let out a breath, relieved that Monica's attention is elsewhere. She's gorgeous, but she's no Olivia.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Olivia

  I've had a long, very long, boring day. I signed myself up for a series of lectures about post-traumatic stress disorder, the basis of my own research. This morning, I sat through several talks, a poster session, and then a “lunch and learn” presentation on the use of Minipress in patients with severe post-traumatic stress reactions. I'm a little disappointed. I haven't really enjoyed any of the presentations I've been to and I'm starting to lose faith that I'm going to get anything out of the rest of my time here. It's so rare that I get to come to these conferences, never mind present at one, that I guess I was kind of hoping this would blow my socks off. Oh well. No harm no foul. At least I got to get out of New York City for a few days.

  And of course I did meet Owen. Huh, Owen. Haven't heard from him since we got here, although that was a mere twenty-four hours ago. I'm not sure exactly what I was expecting, but if I'm honest, it bothers me a little that I haven't heard from him. It amazes me sometimes what a girl I can be. I guess I'll just chalk that one up to it was nice being flirted with and I may still have it after all. That's what Charley would tell me anyway.

  I sit alone in the conference hall for a moment, leaning back in the uncomfortable chair I've been in for the last several hours. I don't know what to do with myself. There is a dinner going on, which I am avoiding like the plague. I have no interest in being hit on by old psychologists over too dry chicken marsala and Italian cookie platters; not to mention, it starts at 5:30. Who the hell under the age of seventy-five eats dinner at 5:30?

  I decide I should probably go upstairs and give Charley a call so we can plan our evening. Plus, I haven't really had a chance to have a real talk with her since I got here, and even though I'm spending the evening with her, I'm longing for a heart-to-heart with my best friend. The distance from home is exacerbating my ever-present loneliness and I'm craving closeness with someone familiar. I gather my paperwork and notebooks, stuffing them into my briefcase. After taking the last drink from my cranberry and seltzer, the one positive from today's conference, I start toward my room.

  * * *

  “He said what?”

  Charley is telling me about her current boyfriend—if you can call him that. She's been dating this guy for just a few weeks, but it started intense and has fizzled just as quickly. Sadly that's Charley's M.O. She's phenomenal at giving advice to others, but taking her own? Not so much.

  “He said I'm a bitch. A bitch! Can you imagine?!” she huffs incredulously. “So I say to him, 'You're one to talk. You fight like a woman.'”

  I laugh. “Oh, Charley, when will you learn? A pretty face is just that, only that. You put too much stock in these one-night stands. They can't always end as a relationship.”

  “Liv, I'm telling you. You might have something here. I'm swearing off men. It's official.”

  There is a pause, and then we both start to laugh hysterically.

  After a few more minutes of boy talk, we plan our activities for the night. Charley is going to meet me in the bar. We're going to have some dinner and then go out on the town, maybe dancing.

  “I can't wait to hang out, Charley. I've really missed you,” I choke out, tearing up a bit. It's true. I have missed her terribly.

  “Ditto here, girlfriend. Get yourself prettied up and I'll meet you in the bar downstairs at your hotel at around 7:00. Does that sound good?”

  We agree on the plans and times and end our call.

  Knowing I have a little time on my hands before meeting Charley, I lie on the bed and turn the television on. As I flip through the channels, my mind wanders a bit. I think about my brother's upcoming wedding. I'm the maid of honor and I still have a great deal to do, including planning a bachelorette party. This gets me thinking about my folks. I haven't talked to them in a while and I supposed I should call them—or better yet, visit. Visiting is tough for me, especially since the Jay incident. When my mother found out what happened, she was very disappointed in me, which was difficult for me to swallow. I've spent most of my life trying to please my parents, and having them be disappointed in me for anything was hard. But this was something I couldn't control, that even I didn't know about, so that was too much to bear.

  While time has passed, I find it hard to visit. I still see something in my mother's eyes that makes me uncomfortable. The only real cure for this is a new relationship, I suppose. I think deep down she's scared I'm going to become some spinster psychologist who spends all her time with her nose in books and not enough time meeting men and eventually making grandbabies.

  I fall asleep with my mind reeling and wake up a few hours later, refreshed but in a definite need of a drink. I decide I'm going to make tonight special, so I rummage through my suitcase and pull out my best outfit.

  Standing in the large bathroom, I stare at myself in the mirror. I remember the glow I saw on my face when I glanced at myself in the airplane bathroom with Owen. It has since gone, but for once, I can feel it lingering in the background, aching to come out. There is hope. It's the first time in a long time that I have felt like I may have a chance at being happy again. It's a heady feeling.

  My hair is curled and falls artfully down my back. I have a desire to look amazing tonight—another long-dormant feeling. I open my makeup case and start my transformation.

  Pulling the zipper up on my little black dress, I slip on my one pair of fuck-me heels. I feel a little silly getting this dressed up, but hey, I don't get to go out that often, so I'm gonna live it up, right?

  After grabbing my keycard, I head to the elevator, hitting the button for the lobby. I still have about fifteen minutes before Charley will meet me, but I figure that it's Saturday night in a busy city in a nice hotel, so we may have to wait for a table. As I step into the lobby, I am greeted with the bustling sounds of the Seattle nightlife. The bar is popular and crowded, and I can't help but smile. Sometimes it's nice to feel like you're going out somewhere special, and tonight, I feel that way.

  I walk into the bar and stand in the open entryway, scanning for a table for two. As I look over the crowd, I notice a very loud bunch of men and one or two very blonde women standing
in a group at the end of the bar. They are clearly celebrating something and they are loud, boisterous, and amusing. They look like they're having fun, and for a second, I actually feel jealous of their little gathering and the fun they're having. I peruse the room again only to find that all the tables are taken. I do see, however, two unoccupied barstools toward the middle of the bar. They are a little too close to the raucous men for good conversation, but maybe a table will open up soon.

  I settle myself at the bar, placing my handbag down and manage to hoist myself up on the stool without showing everyone in the bar what color panties I'm wearing. My phone buzzes on the bar top. It's a text from Charley.

  You won't believe this but I blew a tire. I'm calling for help now. Don't give up on me yet. I'll text you in a few to let you know if I can make it!! xoxo C

  I frown. Ugh, that sucks. The bartender comes my way and I order a mojito, light on the sugar. I'll have a drink, and if I don't hear from her, I'll just go back up to my room. I text back:

  No worries. Be safe. I'll be at the bar having a drink.

  I can't help but reminisce about my experience at the airport bar and I smile to myself. I start to look around the room, people-watching yet again. As I search for someone with an interesting story, my eyes pass the entrance to the bar, and I wonder if it's possible that Owen would walk in. Like some kind of movie? Honestly, Olivia.

  I spot the same couple I saw when I came in last night and I smile warmly at them. They are very lovey-dovey and kissing and hanging on each other with no regard for being in public. Jay was not a fan of public displays of affection (of course, now I know why) and I often craved that with him. Just a touch, a look, or a peck on the cheek would have been nice.

  I scan a little farther and see Rob, the clinger from conferences past. I quickly spin myself around on my seat, praying he doesn't see me. If he notices that I'm here, I'm done for.