Susan Phillips - Breathing Room

She wasn’t telling Michael anything he didn’t know, just trying to make it real so she could cope, and when he didn’t respond, she regarded him apologetically. “You’ve been quiet all night. I’ve exhausted you with my complaining, haven’t I?”

He turned away from the window where he’d been gazing down on the park. “You’re not a complainer, Isabel. You’re just trying to reorient yourself.”

“Tactful, as always.” She gave him a rueful smile and straightened a tapestry pillow on the sofa.

She and Michael weren’t living together-Isabel didn’t believe in that-but sometimes she wished they were. Living apart meant they saw too little of each other. Lately they’d been lucky to manage their weekly Saturday-night dinner date. As for sex… She couldn’t remember how long it had been since either of them had felt the urge.

The moment Isabel had met Michael Sheridan, she’d known he was her soul mate. They’d both grown up in dysfunctional families and worked hard to put themselves through school. He was intelligent and ambitious, as orderly as she was, and just as dedicated to his career. He’d been her sounding board as she’d refined her lectures on the Four Cornerstones, and two years ago, when she’d written a book about the Healthy Relationship Cornerstone, he’d contributed a chapter offering the male point of view. Her fans knew all about their relationship and were always asking when they were getting married.

She also found comfort in his pleasant, unassuming looks. He had a thin, narrow face and neatly trimmed brown hair. He was only a little over five feet nine, so he didn’t tower above her, something that made her uneasy. He was even-tempered and logical. Most of all, he was contained. With Michael there were no dark mood swings or unexpected outbursts. He was familiar and dear, a little stuffy in the best possible way, and perfect for her. They should have been married a year ago, but they’d both been too busy, and they got along so well that she’d seen no need to rush. Marriage couldn’t help but be chaotic, even those that had been well thought out.

“I got the sales report on my new book today.” She tried hard not to give in to the bitterness that kept trying to worm its way to the surface.

“It was just bad timing.”

“I’m a joke on Letterman. While I was writing about the Financial Responsibility Cornerstone, my business manager was embezzling my money.” She kicked off her shoes, then pushed them under the chair to keep from tripping over them. If only her publisher had been able to stop shipment, she could at least have been spared this final public humiliation. Her last book had spent sixteen weeks on the New York Times bestseller list, but this one was sitting unread on bookstore shelves. “I’ve sold, what, a hundred copies?”

“It’s not that bad.”

Except it was. Her publisher had stopped returning her calls, and ticket sales for her summer lecture tour had tanked so badly she’d been forced to cancel. Not only was she losing her material possessions to the IRS, but she had lost the reputation it had taken her years to build.

She took a deep breath against the panic that kept threatening to overwhelm her, and tried to look toward the positive. Soon she’d have all the time in the world to plan her wedding. But how could she marry Michael knowing that he’d be supporting them until she got back on her feet? If she got back on her feet…

She was too committed to the principles of the Four Cornerstones to let negative thoughts paralyze her. This was something they needed to discuss. “Michael, I know it’s getting late, and you said you were tired, but we have to talk about the wedding.”

He fiddled with the volume on her sound system. He’d been under a lot of stress at work, and her own troubles weren’t helping. She reached out to touch him, but he stepped away. “Not now, Isabel.”

She reminded herself that they’d never been a touchy-feely couple, and tried not to take his rejection to heart, especially since she’d put him through so much lately. “I want to make your life easier, not harder,” she said. “You haven’t mentioned anything lately about the wedding, but I know you’re upset with me for not having set a date. Now I’m bankrupt, and the fact is, I’m having a hard time dealing with the idea of someone else supporting me. Even you.”

“Isabel, please…”

“I know you’re going to say it doesn’t make any difference-that your money is my money-but it makes a difference to me. I’ve been supporting myself since I was eighteen, and-”

“Isabel, stop.”

He hardly ever raised his voice, but she was coming on like a bulldozer, so she didn’t blame him. Her assertiveness was both her strength and her weakness.

He turned toward the windows. “I’ve met someone.”

“Really? Who?” Most of Michael’s friends were lawyers, wonderful people but a little boring. It would be nice to add someone new to their circle.

“Her name is Erin.”

“Do I know her?”

“No. She’s older than I am, nearly forty.” He turned back to her. “And, God, she’s a mess-a little overweight, and she lives in this crazy place. She doesn’t care about makeup or clothes, and nothing ever matches. She doesn’t even have a college degree.”

“So what? We’re not snobs.” Isabel picked up the wineglass Michael had left on the coffee table earlier and carried it into the kitchen. “And let’s face it, you and I can be a little uptight.”

He followed her, speaking rapidly and with a kind of energy she hadn’t heard in months. “She’s the most impulsive person I’ve ever met. She cusses like a sailor and likes the worst movies. She tells terrible jokes, and she drinks beer, and… But she’s comfortable with herself. She”-he took a deep breath-“she makes me comfortable, too, and… I love her.”

“Then I’m sure I will, too.” Isabel smiled. Smiled hard. Smiled forever. Smiled until her jaw froze, because as long as she smiled, everything would be all right.

“She’s pregnant, Isabel. Erin and I are going to have a baby. We’re getting married at City Hall next week.”

The wineglass dropped into the sink and shattered.

“I know this isn’t a good time, but…”

Her stomach cramped. She wanted to stop him. Stop time itself. Turn back the clock so none of this was happening.

He looked pale and miserable. “We both know this hasn’t been working out.”

The air wheezed in her lungs. “That’s not true. It’s been- It’s-” She couldn’t breathe.

“Except for business meetings, we barely see each other.”

She sucked in air. Clamped her fingers around the gold bangle she wore at her wrist. “We’ve been… been busy, that’s all.”

“We haven’t had sex in months!”

“It’s just- That’s only temporary.” She heard the same edge of hysteria in her voice that she’d heard so frequently in her mother’s, and she struggled to hold herself back, to stay in control. “Our relationship has… It’s never been based just on sex. We’ve talked about that. This is- It’s temporary,” she repeated.

He took a short, swift step forward. “Come off it, Isabel! Don’t lie to yourself. Our sex life isn’t programmed into your fucking PalmPilot, so it doesn’t exist.”

“Don’t talk to me about PalmPilots! You take yours to bed at night!”

“At least it gets warm in my hand!”

She felt as if he’d slapped her.

He wilted. “I’m sorry. That was unnecessary. And untrue. Most of the time it was all right. It’s just…” He made a small, helpless gesture. “I want passion.”

She grasped the side of the counter. “Passion? We’re grown-ups.” She tried to steady herself, tried to breathe. “If you’re not happy with our sex life, we can… we can get counseling.” But there’d be no counseling. This woman was carrying Michael’s baby. The baby Isabel had someday planned on bearing.

“I don’t want counseling.” His voice dropped. “It’s not my problem, Isabel. It’s yours.”

“That’s not true.”

“It’s… You’re schizo when it comes to sex. Sometimes you get into it. Other times it feels like you’re doing me a favor and you can’t get it over with fast enough. Even worse, sometimes it feels like you’re not there at all.”

“Most men would appreciate a little variety.”

“You need to control everything. Maybe that’s why you don’t like sex that much.”

She couldn’t bear the look of pity he gave her. She should pity him. He was running off with a badly dressed older woman who liked awful movies and drank beer. And wasn’t schizo about sex…

She heard herself falling apart. “You’re so wrong. I crave sex! I live for it! Sex is all I think about.”

“I love her, Isabel.”

“It’s not really love. It’s-”

“Don’t tell me what I’m feeling, damn it! You always do that. You think you know everything, but you don’t.”

She didn’t think that. She only wanted to help people.

“You can’t control this, Isabel. I need a normal life. I need Erin. And I need the baby.”

She wanted to curl up and howl from the pain of it. “Then take her. I don’t ever want to see you again.”

“Try to understand. She makes me feel-I don’t know… safe. Sane. You’re too much! You’re too much of everything! And you make me crazy!”

“Good. Get out.”

“I’d hoped we could do this civilly. Stay friends.”

“We can’t. Get out of here.”

And he did. Without another word. He just turned his back and walked out of her life.

She began to choke. She stumbled to the sink and turned on the water, but she couldn’t breathe. She staggered to the kitchen window and struggled with the latch, then pushed her head out into the air shaft. It was raining. She didn’t care. She gulped in air and tried to find the words to pray, but they weren’t there. And that’s when it hit her.

Healthy Relationships

Professional Pride

Financial Responsibility

Spiritual Dedication

All Four Cornerstones of a Favorable Life had crashed in on top of her.

Lorenzo Gage was viciously handsome. Hair as dark and thick as devil’s velvet set off silver-blue eyes so cold and piercing they looked feral. His thin black brows shot into dangerous angles, and his forehead spoke of an ancient aristocracy tinged with corruption. His lips were cruelly sensuous, while his cheekbones could have been carved by the knife he held in his hand.

Gage made his living killing people. His specialty was women. Beautiful women. He beat them, tortured them, raped them, and murdered them. Sometimes a bullet to the heart. Sometimes slice-and-dice. This was one of those.

The redhead who lay in his bed wore only a bra and panties. Her skin gleamed like ivory against his black satin sheets as he gazed down at her. “You betrayed me,” he said. “I don’t like it when women betray me.”

Terror filled her green eyes. All the better.

He leaned down and flicked the sheet from her thighs with the tip of his dagger. The gesture galvanized her. She screamed, rolled away, and shot across the room.

He liked it when they fought back, and he let her reach the door before he caught her. She struggled in his arms. When he grew bored with her resistance, he backhanded her. The vicious snap knocked her across the room. She fell onto the bed, breasts heaving, those lovely thighs separating. He showed no emotion beyond a subtle flicker of anticipation. Then his brutally sculpted lips curled in a cruel smile, and one hand flicked open his silver belt buckle.

Gage shuddered. His stomach was unpredictable when it came to atrocities, and unlike the audience in the movie theater, he knew what was coming. He’d hoped the Italian dubbing would distract him enough from the carnage on the screen so he could actually watch his last film, but the remnants of a nasty hangover combined with a serious case of jet lag conspired against him. It was a bitch being Hollywood’s favorite psychopath.

In the old days John Malkovich had done the job, but from the moment the public had set eyes on Ren Gage, they’d wanted to see more of this villain with a face to die for. Until tonight he’d avoided Slaughter Alliance, but since the critics had only mildly detested it, he’d decided to give it a shot. Big mistake.

Rapist, serial killer, assassin for hire. Hell of a way to make a living. In addition to the women he’d mortally abused, he’d tortured Mel Gibson, slammed a tire iron into Ben Affleck’s kneecap, given Pierce Brosnan a nearly fatal chest wound, and gone after Denzel Washington in a nuclear-powered helicopter. He’d even killed Sean Connery. He’d burn in hell for that one. Nobody messed with Sean Connery.

Still, the stars got even with him before the picture was over. Ren had been garroted, set on fire, beheaded, and castrated-that one had hurt. Now he was being publicly drawn and quartered for driving America’s movie sweetheart to suicide. Except-wait a minute-that was his real life, wasn’t it? His very own, very real, very fucked-up life.