Breathe, p.1
Breathe, page 1
Contents
BREATHE
Prologue
1. Kian
2. Jericha
PAST
3. Kian
4. Jericha
5. Jericha
6. Kian
7. Jericha
8. Jericha
9. Jericha
PRESENT
10. Jericha
11. Kian
12. Kian
13. Jericha
14. Jericha
15. Kian
16. Jericha
Epilogue
DANYELL A. WALLACE
Books by Danyell
Breathe
Copyright 2021 by Danyell A. Wallace
Edited By: Little Pear Editing Services
www.littlepearediting.com
Cover Design: Michelle Sewell of RLS Images Graphics & Designs
This book contains strong sexual themes and content not suitable for persons under the age of 18. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the author or publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events, or occurrences, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Created with Vellum
BREATHE
I remember the first time I died. Lie lifeless in a puddle of my blood… And she was there trying to save me.
“Come on, Kian. Breathe for me.” I feel her palms pump against my chest and her tears pitter-patter against my lips. I swear I can taste the saltiness of them.
“It’s no use,” I remember whispering against her ear.
Then everything around me grew blurry and started fading away. Even me. Warmth streamed throughout my limbs, moving straight to my heart where it pumped rhythmically. My lungs expanded weakly, then my eyes shot open, and I began to breathe on my own.
The problem is the beautiful girl that saved my life that night thinks that I’m dead.
Now, I’m making it my business to let her know that I’m alive and well. That she’s the one who keeps my heart beating hard and strong in my chest.
She’s the reason I breathe…
Author Disclaimer: Breathe is a new adult, interracial romance that contains content about substance abuse, mentions of suicide, and sexual/adult content.
Prologue
Kian
I can feel, smell, and taste the fuckery in the air. My uncle and his wife are out of town on business, and his stepdaughter Oakley and I have the house to ourselves.
“You want more?” I grip her hips and pound my dick harder in and out some chick Oakley picked out for us to fuck tonight. I don’t even know her name, but that was okay since I had no intentions of seeing her again. Her hand beats frantically up and down on the sheets. She was tapping out. Giving up. I pull out, remove the condom, and motion for Oakley to suck me off.
“Gladly,” Oakley purrs then crawls my way and gulps my dick inside of her mouth. I work my hips and watch half of my dick penetrating the inside of her lovely, skilled mouth. Not even five minutes into her blowing me, I empty inside her mouth then collapse on the bed, and my dick falls limp against my leg. I close my eyes and listen to Oakley and her girl toy go at it. Some would get their rocks off on this life. No rules to follow, just as long as you get passing grades and stay out of jail. Do all of those things and I’m awarded a nice monthly allowance where a majority of it is spent on drugs, alcohol, and condoms. I drive a newer model, matte-black Mercedes sports sedan with matching eighteen-inch rims. If I get in trouble at school, I get away with it because my uncle uses the power of his money and influence to get Oakley and me out of shit we no doubt needed to get punished for. Basically, I live like a fuckin’ celebrity and can do whatever the fuck I want.
Whatever the fuck I want— and I choose to waste it away because I have nothing to live for. Not anymore.
I roll out of bed and pull on my jeans that are lying on the floor.
“Don’t you want to stick around for the grand finale?”
I glance over my shoulder to find Oakley’s head buried between—damn, what’s her name again? Anyway, Oakley is eating Jane Doe’s pussy now.
“Maybe later.” I reach inside my top dresser drawer where I keep a stash of Kush already rolled up and ready to smoke, and then I grab my dragon lighter that spits fire every time I press down on the button. Bypassing the girl-on-girl action taking place in my bed, I make my exit through the sliding doors of my own private balcony overlooking my uncle’s private beach.
The wind coming off the ocean jingles the seashell wind chime hanging from the wood awning above my head, and light rain splatters against my inked skin. When I turned nineteen two months ago, I got my first tattoo—a picture of my mom over my right pec. The saying that tattoos are addicting, that once you get one, you’ll want more, is true. I now have lost count of how many that I have. I have sleeves on both arms and every finger; some are scattered across my chest, and not an ounce of skin on my neck is untouched. My entire back is covered in a dark concoction of ink that tells the story of my life, in no special order, and around the scars where bullets pierced my skin are images of exploded metal.
I light up my joint and take a long drag, breathing in the saltwater smell of the Pacific Ocean mixed with weed. I knew once the Kush got into my system that was already laced with cocaine and prescription pain meds it would have my heart racing close to stroke level. It seems that I’m invincible since I’ve cheated death already twice in my life. Drugs, not even the synthetic kind, have nothing on me. I stare out at the ocean, wondering if I were to stand on the rail of my balcony and jump. Would I survive? Would I fly high like Peter Pan and join Wendy and the Lost Boys in Neverland? Or would I sink to the bottom of the ocean like Captain Hook? Knowing my track record, I probably would cheat death, yet again, but instead, I’d be spending the rest of my life in a wheelchair while someone would have to hand-feed me and change my adult diapers. Fuck that. I swing my legs over the railing and take a seat, squeezing the metal with one hand for balance. I look down, swaying a little, and see gathered around the mosh pit on the beach familiar and unfamiliar faces with plastic red cups in hand, sipping whatever liquor of choice, dancing, smoking, snorting a line or two of nose candy off of willing naked bodies, and having fuckin’ orgies of all sorts: male, male, female; female, female, male. The list goes fuckin’ on. They were happily fuckin’ on the beach for everyone to see. Not everyone really, just the people who invaded the house tonight since my uncle doesn’t have nosy neighbors close by to call him up and let him know all the shit that me and his stepdaughter do when he’s not home or call the cops for disorderly conduct. But I’m sure a plane flying above could clearly see all the action.
My heart kicks up several beats in my chest, and my dick is insanely hard as if I’d popped several little blue pills. Yeah, the drugs are finally working their magic. Now, I needed to burn this extra energy out of my system or I would surely meet Death again. I’m sure the fucker is tired of seeing me. I could head down and partake in one of the orgies, or I can take my ass back inside and rejoin Oakley and her play date. But she was so boring and couldn’t handle my dick. Orgy it is.
I finish my joint, smoking it all the way down until the lava-blazing end meets my fingertips, singeing them. I climb down from the railing and go to slide the door open. I jerk at it several times, but it wouldn’t budge. Shit.
“Oakley!” I bang my palm against the glass several times. “Open the fuckin’ door!” I press my face against the glass and look through to see two immobile, pale, naked bodies sprawled across my bed. I bang on the glass again. They don’t move. I go to the railing and yell out, but the peeps below don’t hear me because the music is blaring so fuckin’ loud.
“Fuck!” I shout and start pacing because I’m too fuckin’ jittery to be still. My heart feels like it's about to explode out of my chest, and my dick is as stiff as a board. “Think, Kian. Fuckin’ think.” I reach inside of my jeans pocket, relieved that my cell is shoved inside. I scroll through my call list and choose a random name, hoping that maybe they’re here tonight and will come to my rescue. The phone rings several times and I’m about to end the call when someone finally picks up.
“Who the fuck is this,” an angry, groggy voice snarls, “calling me at,” the voice pauses, and I hear movement, “three o’clock in the damn morning? Is this some fuckin’ joke?”
“This is Kian,” I laugh and pull the phone away from my ear to look at the caller ID. Gareth. Shit. How many times had I told myself to erase all contacts associated with my past, but two still remained, even though I would never see them again. Gareth and Jericha.
“I think I might have the wrong num—"
“You’re supposed to be dead.”
His words are like fingernails scratching down a blackboard. I become silent.
I live in Laguna Beach, California now, the life of the rich and stuck-up, and know of the rumors of my supposed death, yet I failed to dispel them. Why? Because I sure as hell am not the same Kian people once knew, the star quarterback headed to USC on a full scholarship.
“It all makes sense now why we couldn’t locate your obituary. You just disappeared without a trace.” Gareth’s voice sounds calmer but still angry. “My mom couldn’t even find you in the hospital registry, and the surrounding hospitals claimed they never heard of you.”
“I see you have the same number.” His voice lowers. “Do you know how many times Jericha has called to see if maybe you’d pick up, only to get your fuckin’ voicemail? Every damn day I had to watch my sister fall into a deeper depression because she didn’t want to believe that you were gone— dead. That you’d call someday and tell her that you were okay. Now, it's a year later and I’m getting the call she’s wasted an entire year of her life for.”
“How is she doing?” I let the question rush out my mouth before I could think twice about it being a good idea.
“Oh, so you all of a sudden care now?”
“I deserve that.” I bring my knees up, jeans drenched, and bow my head, watching droplets of water fall from my hair. “I’m a fuckin’ mess, man. You wouldn’t want me bringing your sister down with all my shit. Unlike me, she deserves to be happy and live her life drama-free.”
“Then why are you calling now? You’re dead to us!”
“To be honest,” I laugh then my voice cracks as if I’m about to break down and cry, “I’ve locked myself out of the house. I’m high as fuck and need someone to save me.”
Save me from myself.
“Then maybe you should be calling a twenty-four-hour locksmith to let your ass in.”
I hear a hint of amusement in Gareth's voice that has me laughing. Like old times.
“Either I’m dreaming, or I’ve lost my damn mind to be talking to my dead best friend,” he says next.
Best friend. I clear my voice of all sentiment. “Trust me, you’re not dream—"
A piercing cry reverberates through the phone. A baby?
“Shit,” Gareth whispers. “I have to go. I hope you find a way back into the house.”
“Wait!” I wobble to my feet. “What was that—the crying? Is that a baby— your baby?”
“It’s okay, sweet baby girl.”
Everything comes to a standstill, even my heart when I hear the soft, loving sound of Jericha’s voice. She isn’t close by but somewhere near enough. A baby monitor maybe? “Mommy is here,” she coos, and then her voice is gone. Gareth must’ve turned the volume down on the monitor.
Mommy? “Gareth!” I yell into the phone. “Gareth!” My body begins to shake, and my heart starts to pound impossibly faster in my chest. I press my palm against it. Shit, this is really it. I’m going to die.
“Calm the fuck down,” Gareth demands.
Goosebumps prick along my skin. “C-calm the f-fuck down?!?” My teeth chatter. “Is it y-yours or—" My words drift off and get lost in the gusty ocean wind.
After a brief moment of dead silence, Gareth finally responds. “Her name is Cora Jaslene Henric.”
Jaslene. My mom’s name. I can’t breathe. Black spots dot across my vision. I’m going to pass out or fuckin’ die this time of a drug overdose. I stumble, catching myself on the balcony railing before almost tipping over it.
“You have a daughter, Kian,” Gareth announces.
My airway feels like it’s closing up. I claw at my neck. Inhale. Exhale, you fucker!
“This doesn’t change anything. This conversation never happened.” His words sound final. The end. “Jericha has been through enough. You should remain in the witness protection program you’re in or whatever the hell it is that made you vanish off the face of the earth and just—disappear.”
Click. The line goes dead.
No! No! No! My eyes roll to the back of my head. I tilt forward but I’m jerked back.
“Kian, my God, why in the hell are you standing out in the rain?” I hear Oakley chastise me. She tugs at my wrist, and that’s when my phone slips from my grasp. My eyes snap open in time to see it falling down, down, down, bouncing off the shoreline, and getting gobbled up by the ocean.
1
Kian
Three Years Later
“How does it feel to die?”
Fuck, I sure as hell wasn’t expecting that question.
I peer up from the worn, first edition copy of Moby Dick that I stole out of my uncle’s home library. It was one of the few things I took with me when I packed my shit up, moved back to Seattle Washington with the money I received from my parents’ life insurance policy once I turned nineteen, and checked myself into a six-month inpatient drug rehabilitation center. I read this book about a trillion times while there because it kept my mind occupied or more so put me to sleep during the times I was fighting with my inner demons that kept taunting me to throw in the fuckin’ towel and return to my salacious lifestyle of sex and drugs.
I linger on my best bud in the whole fuckin world, Gareth. The one who’s been by my side during my tough times in rehab and afterward when I didn’t have rehab staff members dressed in white watching my every move. He stayed on my ass and reminded me every day that I have a daughter and the mother of my child to think about now.
“Think about the pain you felt when your dad took your mom away from you?” Tough shit, I know. When he asked me that question, it felt like Freddie Kruger himself had stabbed me repeatedly in my chest then sliced it to shreds. He forced me to be honest with myself. I’d walked around after the murder of my mom as if I didn’t care about anything when in all reality, I was hurt inside, using excessive drugs and sex to bandage the open wound.
I open my mouth then close it. Do you really want to know the answer to a question that everyone wants to know? Is there a God? Do you really see your loved ones on the other side when you die? But I guess I would be the expert on this sort of thing considering that I, in fact, died and came back to life like Jon Snow, not once, but twice. Kian two. Death zilch. I should be able to answer this question freely without pause. It wasn’t like I didn’t want to answer Gareth’s dying question. I just didn’t like thinking about the bad, old shit in my life.
I spent two weeks in the ICU of the Seattle Baptist Hospital hooked up to a ventilator as I recovered from gunshot wounds inflicted by my dad when he tried to kill me. My Uncle Derek, my dad’s brother, flew in from California with papers in hand stating he was now my legal guardian. Told the hospital staff that the care I was receiving was shit, which was totally not a lie, but unfortunately was the only hospital in the area that could treat the type of injuries I had suffered.
They had twenty-four hours to gather all my medical records because he was taking me away from that shithole that had a flood of malpractice lawsuits growing out of their asses. The doctors and nurses moved about my floor as if I was the fuckin’ prince of England. I was in a coma when all of this was going down. Once I woke up to my new life in California and in a hospital room bigger than my room from my old life in Seattle Washington, I was later filled in on the downturns of my health and how I’d died a second time, in the air on a medical helicopter. I met and watched God and the fallen angel himself play rock—paper—scissors on who would have reign over my life.
Just kiddin’. Or am I?
Rumor was I must’ve played Blackjack with the devil and lost the second time Death came to visit me because I came back into this world as a rebellious motherfucker. My life was flipped inside out and turned upside down, thanks to my dad taking everyone I loved away from me. My uncle and his new wife welcomed me into their gigantic home with open arms, even though I didn’t know much about him since my dad never let me or my mom meet his side of his family, which should have been a red flag for Mom. All I knew and cared to know about my uncle was that he had numerous businesses and made a lot of money, was on wife number three, and had no biological children that he knew of.
