Kristen Ashley - Breathe

Her wounded, crystal blue eyes were wide.

“Do you want me to make a reservation at Reynaldo’s?” his mother asked.

“Yeah, Ma,” he answered. “That’d be good. Now I gotta go.”

This time, hearing his voice sound took Faye out of her freeze and she didn’t hesitate to turn right around and hurry out the door.

“But, Chace –” his mother began.

Instinctively and definitely stupidly, Chace moved swiftly to the door. “Something just came up, Ma. Really, gotta go.”

He heard his mother sigh then, “Okay, honey. See you weekend after next.”

“Weekend after next. Love you, Ma, ‘bye.”

He heard her good-bye but vaguely. He was out the door and moving quickly down the sidewalk behind a quickly moving Faye Goodknight.

And he had no idea why.

Except he still felt the pain of seeing the hurt he’d given her stamped in her features and he had to do something about it.

He closed on her and called, “Miz Goodknight.”

She hastened her step.

Chace went faster.

“Miz Goodknight.”

She started run-walking.

His long strides no match for her, Chace easily caught up to her, wrapped his fingers around her bicep and halted her, turning her to him at the same time he turned his body into her and said softly, “Faye.”

Her beautiful, injured eyes lifted to him, wounding him as sure as if she’d shoved a knife in his gut.

But her shoulders straightened. She was calling up the backbone.

“Good morning, Detective Keaton,” she greeted, voice not cold but her usual quiet and now, unlike that night in Harker’s Wood, definitely distant.

He kept his hand on her as he murmured distractedly, “Chace.”

He said no more mostly because he had no fucking clue what to say.

She didn’t speak.

This carried on awhile.

Then she spoke. “As you’re detaining me,” she slightly moved the arm he was holding likely to point out he was still holding it and she didn’t want that, “is there something I can help you with?”

“Yeah, actually,” he replied, “I’d like to apologize for the other night.”

“Apology accepted,” she stated instantly. Then, again slightly shifting her arm in his hold, making her point that she wanted him to let her go, she finished, “Now you have a nice day.”

He didn’t let her go.

He also didn’t know why he did it, he just did. And what he did was use his hand on her arm to pull her closer until they were inches apart.

That got him much the same look she gave him at La-La Land Coffee but without the pain. Her pretty pink lips parted, her beautiful blue eyes got wide and her flawless pale skin got paler.

Without the pain and with only inches between them, that look was fucking spectacular.

He also noticed she wasn’t breathing.

Therefore, he bent his head toward hers and whispered, “Breathe, Faye.”

Her breath left her in a soft whoosh.

That was cute, the look on her face still magnificent, the effect of both together with her proximity was just plain hot.

Jesus.

Making matters worse, she smelled good.

No, not good.

Fucking amazing.

Christ, he wanted to kiss her. Ached to do it.

“Is there more?” she whispered and he blinked, his eyes shifting from their attention to her mouth to hers.

“You were right,” he whispered back. “I’m workin’ through some shit.”

“I can imagine,” she replied, swinging her body back a few inches, coolness washing through her features. No, not cold. Again distant.

“Doesn’t make it okay to be a dick,” he carried on.

“This is true,” she agreed.

“What I said was not nice and it was not acceptable.”

“I think I got that you felt that way when you apologized, Detective Keaton.”

He pulled her back the inches she’d shifted away at the same time he curled his body closer to hers, locked his eyes with her blue ones and whispered, “Chace.”

He watched her swallow, the coolness left her features, a flash of nervousness and uncertainty went through her eyes, but she didn’t reply.

“I’d really like to know, Faye, that you accept my apology,” he told her quietly.

“I already said I did.” Her sweet, quiet voice came back at him instantly.

“Right, then what I’d like to know is that you mean it.”

She held his eyes and he not only sensed but saw her breath escalating.

Cute and hot.

Fuck him.

Fuck him.

Then she whispered, “I mean it.”

“You mean it what?” Chace returned immediately, going for it. Shit, even so much as needing it.

Her head gave a slight jerk as she blinked and that was also unbelievably cute.

“I mean it what um… what?” she whispered.

He pulled her closer using her arm at the same time he lifted his other hand with the coffee cup, touched it to her waist and whispered back, “You mean it, Chace.”

Then, Christ, Christ, he watched the tip of her pink tongue move out to wet the fullness of her bottom lip. Her little, even white teeth sunk into that lip and that was off the charts cute and so fucking hot, he felt it in his dick.

She let her lip go and she whispered, “I mean it, Chace.”

He felt that in his dick too.

Jesus, what the fuck was he doing?

Abruptly, he let her go and stepped away. He regretted it immediately for she wasn’t ready for it and visibly teetered without his hold on her, his body close. She steadied herself but he didn’t like to see her teeter. However he did like the knowledge that she was as absorbed in him as he was in her.

That didn’t mean he shouldn’t shut it down. He should.

And he did.

“Thank you, Faye,” he said, his voice more formal. Not cold. Like hers, distant.

She blinked.

Then she pulled in breath.

Then she said, strangely, “Lexie.”

“What?” he asked.

“Lexie,” she repeated, leaned in almost the instant she leaned right back and then she squared her shoulders again and said in a firmer tone. “I bet Lexie Walker would be a good listener and I know she likes you. I’ve seen you two have lunch together at the diner and you make her laugh. I mean, everyone makes Lexie laugh. She’s a laugher. But you do too. You should talk to her. She’d help.”

And without another word, she turned and moved quickly down the sidewalk.

Everything that was Chace Keaton urged him to follow her. To ask her to dinner. To get to know her. To find the right time to taste her mouth. To find the right time to taste her body. To take the time to teach her how to pleasure his. To lay his burden on her.

Everything that Chace Keaton had done, seen and heard for near on a decade stopped him.

So he turned in the opposite direction and walked to his truck.

“This is good.”

“This is not good.”

“I think it’s good.”

“It is definitely not good.”

I was standing behind the checkout desk in the library and in front of me were Lexie Walker, Krystal Briggs and Lauren Jackson.

Lexie was married to Ty Walker. She was a beautiful brunette and her husband was a gorgeous half African American, half white man who’d recently made national news when it was uncovered he was framed and went to prison for a murder he did not commit.

Krystal Briggs was a petite, buxom woman who, today (but it could be different tomorrow), had a mass of golden, honeyed locks akin to Farrah Fawcett’s hair in Charlie’s Angels. She was married to Jonas “Bubba” Briggs who had, for years, partied hearty and he did this without her while she worked at their bar called Bubba’s. She’d kicked him out and then about a year and a half later, for some reason, she married him. I didn’t get that and in the past few months, as Lexie introduced me to her posse, Krystal hadn’t shared. Then again, Krystal kind of scared me so I didn’t ask. What I did notice was that Bubba wasn’t partying hearty anymore and instead seemed pretty devoted. So I guessed things were going all right.

Lauren Jackson was married to Tatum Jackson who I’d had a crush on for forever (or, until Chace Keaton moved to town). Growing up, anytime I saw him, my heart would skip a beat. This was because he was the most handsome man I’d ever seen (until Chace Keaton moved to town). He was a little rough around the edges but he made it beyond attractive. He was also a nice man, well-liked, if a little messed up seeing as his on-again, off-again girlfriend was more than a little crazy. Now he was with Laurie and he was no longer messed up. Of course, this was after his on-again, off-again girlfriend was murdered by a serial killer and Laurie was almost murdered by the same guy. But now for Tate, and for Laurie, everything seemed cool.

Thinking all this, it brought to mind my Dad’s comment after Misty Keaton was killed which was, “Used to be, Carnal was quiet. Sure, the bikers could make a ruckus and did. But no one got dead. Maybe stuck with a knife but not dead. Now seems everyone’s gettin’ dead or almost dead or doin’ time for a crime they didn’t commit. Quiet, small town life ain’t all it used to be.”

This was, unfortunately, true.

Lexie was the first one who spoke after I told them what happened with Chace Keaton in Harker’s Wood and on the sidewalk the day before. Krystal was the second and forth comment. Laurie was third.

I watched Lexie turn to Krystal and ask, “How is it not good?”

“Uh… hello?” Krystal asked back sarcastically. “Did you not hear Faye? That boy is fucked up.”

“Yes, so, he needs someone to help him get unfucked up,” Lexie shot back.

“Is unfucked a word?” Laurie asked me.

As usual when these girls were around, I didn’t get the chance to say much since they were talking all the time but I did get the chance to get a shrug in to Laurie but just barely before Krystal spoke.

“Well, I had to unfuck one and, I’ll remind you, so did you and Laurie,” Krystal jerked a thumb at Lauren, “and it wasn’t much fun.”

“Mine was fun,” Laurie whispered to me.

“Mine was too,” Lexie did not whisper to Krystal. “Mostly because of all the fucking we did while I was unfucking him.” She looked at me, grinning. “And other parts. But the fucking was a highlight.” Then she muttered, “Still is.”

Krystal turned and rolled her eyes at me before saying, “The pain, it fades. Trust me, it is not fun.”

I could feel my cheeks burning and knew they were bright red at all this talk about fucking and, well, unfucking (whatever that was).

This was because I was a virgin and although recently I’d been spending some time with these women as they came into the library with relative frequency. Krystal especially, rarely held any punches (as in, never), I wasn’t used to talk about “fucking”.

Incidentally, being a virgin was by choice.

Kind of.

First, as a starry-eyed adolescent, I’d made it my mission to give it away only after I found the right guy (not that, at the time, I actually knew what “giving it away” meant).

This was because I’d read romance novels since I was thirteen. Therefore, I decided, just like the heroines in my books, I would only give something that precious to a man who deserved it. The perfect man. The one who would sweep me off my feet, make my heart race, fire my blood and be happy to dance with me all night. The one who was smart, strong, handsome, good. The one who was larger than life. The one who would look after me. The one who would hold me close all night long.

Then, thirteen years ago, Chace Keaton showed up in town, in uniform, thick dark blond hair, intense dark blue eyes, handsome white smile, tall, straight, lean body and I fell in love.

I know it sounds crazy but I did it. And I did it because I knew he was all that I needed him to be. A man like that could sweep me off my feet. He was strong, handsome and a cop so he had to be good. He was so beautiful, in uniform or out of it, wearing his jeans and western belt buckle and cowboy boots. Coming from Aspen money (big money, if rumor was true) but leaving all that to be his own man. A good man. A brave man. An officer of the law. He seemed larger than life.

I was sixteen but I knew he could make my heart race, fire my blood because I didn’t even know him and I was young but he already did.

And I never let go of that feeling.