Hold Me Like a Breath (21 page)

On day two of my wait, the dachshund's owner let the Pomeranian's enter her number in his phone. I left the park smiling. They'd started talking last week because I'd seen her practically drool as he flipped his neat dreads out of his face, and I said, “I'm not sure who's cuter, guy or dog. What do you think?” When I caught
him
checking her out, I'd been more blunt. “She's interested. Go talk to her.”

It had taken nudges and encouragement, but they'd exchanged numbers, then both turned toward the bench where I sat with my cinnamon coffee; he winked, she mouthed “OMG.”

So maybe I was too busy self-congratulating my matchmaking skills. Or too distracted by the feelings they stirred up—how much I missed Garrett, my MIA knight in shining armor. Or too caffeinated. Or too careless.

The excuse didn't matter as much as the result—that when
I saw my parents' picture on a TV in the window of an electronics store, I ran toward it.

I ignored the city noise: the beeping the yelling the conversations and steam and buzz and clip of shoes on sidewalks—I tuned out everything but the screen. It was a photo from a Family wedding last spring. One that hung framed above the mantel in the den. Who had given it to the media? Shouldn't they have had to ask permission before turning Mother's favorite family photo into something sandwiched between garish headlines—NEW LEADS IN THE LANDLOW MASSACRES—and a scrollbar of sensationalized facts?

But whom could they ask? Everyone in the photo—Mother, Father, Carter, me—was dead.

The photo changed, the headline too: THE BODYGUARD SPEAKS above a candid shot outside a hospital. Jacob was helping Mick into a car. His head was bandaged, his arm in a sling. Garrett stood alone by the driver's door, his expression so lost it made me ache.

I ran—desperate to get close enough to read the smaller print before the news changed to selling someone else's tragedy. And then—in an instant—I wasn't running, I was reeling from a collision.

My forehead smacked into a chin, my face slammed into collarbones, chest to chest. I'm sure Nolan taught me the physics that explained why the guy kept moving forward like a teenage Asian wrecking ball, and why I ricocheted off him and would have fallen if his hand hadn't shot out to grab my shoulder. Something about forces, objects in motion, momentum.

He'd hit me. Hard. But when the guy reached out to steady me by cupping my elbow with his other hand and I met his eyes, I swear it wasn't just dizziness caused by the impact. I'd known plenty of guys in the Family—the ones that weren't truly
my
family—and they were not unattractive. But looking up at this guy, my breath was literally stolen.

“Are you okay?”

I blinked a few times. Trying to clear my head in the moments my eyes were shut and then swooning anew each time they opened.

“That was some hit. I'm sorry.” His fingers on my elbow slid around my arm, became a circlet of sensation as he tugged lightly, pulling me out of the crowd and against the building. Through the thin cotton of my red T-shirt, I felt rough brick at my back. He'd let go of my arm; was leaning one shoulder against the wall, shielding me from the crowd. “I've been hit like that before—in sports. It knocks the breath out of you. If you drop your chin a little, it will make it easier to breathe.”

I obeyed. Dropping my chin meant not looking at him. It made it easier to breathe. Easier to think. And,
oh
, I hurt. From shoulder to stomach was a flaming line of pain. Inhaling deeply made me gasp. And the ache was radiating in larger and larger circles. This was not good. This was days-in-the-clinic-with-Dr.-Castillo-hovering bad.

I looked up at this stranger and my head swam again. It was the light. The contrast of the sunlight on his black hair. The way it played across his golden skin, the ridges of his cheekbones, and the depth in his eyes.

“You're not okay, are you? I'm so sorry. I really should've been paying attention where I was walking. What can I do?”

“I'm …” I coughed, shook my head, tried to chase away the dizziness. “I should get home.”

“Let me take you.”

“I'm fine, really.” Except when I tried to straighten, I stumbled, scraping my elbow and forearm on the rough wall.

My blood was nearly the same color as my shirt.

“I'm sorry, but you don't look fine.” He crouched slightly, peered into my eyes as if he were looking for a mystery. His irises were the rich color of coffee beans. At least I thought they were? It was getting harder to concentrate. Things were kaleidoscoping in and out of focus. “I wonder if you have a concussion. Did you hit your head? Maybe I should take you to the hospital?”

“No.” My thoughts crystallized for a moment, long enough to concentrate on what that would mean. “I just need to get home. I'll be fine …” I tried to stand again. Still couldn't. The blood was dribbling down my arm, dripping off my wrist. “… in a minute.”

“Can I get you something? Water?”

“Orange juice.” It was my favorite, reminded me of home and Mother, but more than that, the errand would buy me a few seconds to get myself together. To escape before he returned, before we attracted the notice of concerned passersby.

“Stay here. I'll be right back.” He touched my shoulder. A tentative squeeze so reassuring I didn't care about the bruising consequences. At that point, what did one more matter?

I laughed. Or maybe sobbed. It was a sound that made a businesswoman turn and frown.

I couldn't stay there, not vulnerable and exposed, drawing attention to myself with blood and uncoordinated movements. And just a few yards from where my family picture had been featured on the news. Brown hair dye and a bright outfit were hardly a disguise.

I waited until his broad shoulders had been swallowed by the blur of people, then tried to straighten for a third time. Orienting myself was hard; the buildings seemed to sway more than I did. If I leaned a hand against the wall for support, I could stay upright, drag myself a few steps, then pause to rest.

I was tougher than this. Stronger. I wouldn't let myself collapse on the street. I couldn't let myself be caught. I pictured the headline: LIVING DEAD GIRL FOUND BLEEDING IN MANHATTAN. Took another step. Two.

A few more and brick wall gave way to the smooth glass surface of a store window. I was striping it red with the tips of my fingers. Were they bleeding too? Or was it runoff from the scrapes on my arm, which were refusing to clot, refusing to stop spilling blood I needed to keep inside my arteries and veins.

“Wait. Hey, wait!”

There was so much noise around me, but this cut through it. And then there was the softest brush of a hand around my back. Under my arm. Holding me up. There was a bottle of orange juice being held in front of my lips, tilted to the perfect angle so I could sip it.

“Where do you live? If you won't let me take you to the hospital, at least let me get you home.”

My answer was supposed to be
no
. It should have been automatic, as easy as an exhale. But exhaling hurt and nothing was easy anymore. I nodded and gave him an address on the street next to mine.

“You're really bleeding—are you sure I can't take you to a doctor?”

“It'll stop.” I hoped.

He didn't disagree, but he did peel off his outer T-shirt. He wrapped it carefully around my arm and secured it by crossing the long sleeves in an
X
on each side, then knotting them together. I let him touch me, let him do this. Then let him hail me a cab, help me in, and climb in beside me.

I was dimly aware of the cab driver asking if I was “on something,” slightly more aware that this guy was asking what else he could do, offering me an assortment of candy: Starburst, a crushed chocolate bar, a roll of Lifesavers that he pulled from pockets—asking for my cell phone the same way the Pomeranian's owner had asked for the dachshund's, pulling it out of my purse, turning it on, punching buttons, putting it back. Holding the orange juice to my lips, encouraging me with, “Take another sip. Good. One more.”

“Please call me if you need anything,” he said. “Please call me and let me know you're okay.”

I think I nodded. Mostly I focused on keeping my eyes open, keeping my chin from lolling onto my chest, and keeping Father's voice from echoing in my head.

Be on your guard. Stay alert. Focus, Penelope, focus like your life depends on this
.

The cab stopped and I stumbled out, pressed a useless hand on the outside of the door when the guy tried to follow me.

“Here?” I was too tired to lift my head and read his expression, but I didn't need to, his surprise, concern, and dismay all bled into his voice. “You're sure this is the right address?”

He was already so much closer to the apartment than I liked. No way I was letting him compromise my location any further.

“I'm sure. Thank you for seeing me home.” Mother's tone of dismissal poured from my throat. “That was kind of you.”

And I turned. Cut down an alley, swayed around a corner, in a side door and out the front of a bodega—the bodega I promised Garrett I'd never enter. They may have reacted to my stumble steps, but I wasn't looking up, wasn't caring. I was making deals with myself: a hundred more steps. Then a hundred after that. Then just one more set of a hundred and I was at the apartment building.

I shook as I inserted my key in the lobby door. I only made it one flight of stairs before my legs refused to cooperate and I had to crawl on my knees. I had no plausible explanations to give if any of my neighbors—the anonymous people behind the other doors—had come into the hall.

But none of them did. Not one in the hours, days, months, lifetimes it took me to reach my floor.

I got blood on the door frame when I used it to pull myself up to the lock. I used the stranger's shirt to swipe at it, but there
was more blood seeping through its fabric. I had a moment of guilt about this.

Just a moment, then I was lurching, stumbling, falling forward—the couch was a few feet away and I didn't think I'd make it. The ground was coming toward me so much faster than I wanted, but when my face hit, it was on a cushion. The rest of me was more floorward, but that didn't matter. All that mattered was closing my eyes.

I dreamed of him. Over and over.

They started as my normal Carter nightmares—the blood, all the blood—stirred into a storm of waves and wind and pain that gagged me and flattened my lungs. And then the dreams changed. Carter was gone, and the stranger was there.

“You're my reason for breathing,” he said, and I found
I
could, I was no longer choking. I wasn't in blood anymore. Wasn't drowning. I was inhaling the sweetest air and staring at his sweetest of smiles.

And then I didn't need to breathe. I only needed to kiss him.

I stumbled in and out of consciousness. Being awake felt like being shipwrecked, drenched in agony, and cut off from the oblivion of dreams. I needed to do something, save myself, but could never gather up enough strength before I was dragged back into unconsciousness by the undertow of pain and disaster.

My eyes finally opened. This time being awake was different. I hadn't drifted there on my own. This time it was an insistent rhythm letting me know something was amiss, demanding I connect the pieces and pay attention. I didn't want to. I wanted to shut my eyes and float away, but the noise wouldn't let me. I located its source: the door was throbbing. The wall was throbbing. My head too. And my legs, which were still folded under me on the floor. My arm—the T-shirt bandage felt too tight. I made a feeble attempt to undo the knotted sleeves, then gave up and shut my eyes.

The throbbing stopped. The throbbing in the room, that is. My head threatened to explode when I turned to see why the throbbing had stopped.

The door was open. Men. In the apartment. I tried to sit, to push myself into a posture slightly less defenseless. To suck in a breath and scream. They were speaking, but I couldn't hear them over the drumming in my head.

They cornered me against the couch. Three of them. One of me. Less than one since the portions that remained didn't make up a functional whole. A man leaned down, extended his hand, and held something to my face. I tried to turn away, tried to take a deep breath before he covered my nose and mouth. If I could've, I would've bitten him, but even that was far beyond what I was capable of. It had to be chloroform—that was how it was going to end. And I wasn't even going to manage a fight or a whimper or a sob.

Except, it wasn't a rag. He didn't cover my nose or mouth; he held something against my ear.

“Penelope Maeve, are you there?” said the voice from the cell phone. “It's Bob.”

They'd gotten to the vice president. It was my fault. I'd made a mistake. Exposed him. “I'll cooperate,” I rasped at my abductors. “What—whatever you want.”

“No. Penny. Penny—listen to me.” Bob's voice was calm in my ear. “You're safe. No one's going to hurt you. The man holding the phone is my physician. The other men are part of my security detail. I trust them all implicitly. You are safe.”

I'm not sure how many times Bob had to repeat this before I believed him. Before I let the doctor cut the stranger's shirt from my arm and clean and bandage those scrapes. Examine the bruises that covered the front of my body like an apron, and settle me in bed with two IVs—fluids and glorious immunoglobulin.

Through it all, the vice president's voice was in my ear. “We tracked you through the GPS in your phone—you can't have that on, Penny. If I can track you, so can others.”

The stranger. I'd let him put his number in my phone. He'd left it on. I hadn't had the energy or awareness to think through the consequences. But maybe that was a blessing.

Bob continued. “My men have a new phone for you. It's secure. You can call me anytime. You are not alone. If I have a say, you will never be alone. But you need to be careful.”