Breathing Black

  Copyright © 2014 by Piper Payne

  Cover Design: Okay Creations

  Editing: Maxann Dobson – The Polished Pen

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 978-0-9908748-0-5

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded, or distributed via the internet without the author’s permission and is a violation of the International Copyright Law, which subjects the violator to severe fines and imprisonment.

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, incidents, and places are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or deceased, or actual events are entirely coincidental.

  Interior design and formatting by

  www.emtippettsbookdesigns.com

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  About this Book

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Coming 2015

  Larkin’s Playlist

  Note from Author

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Dedicated to those who are beautifully flawed from a tearful childhood.

  They say when you run from something you will never truly be free from it, because no matter the distance, it will always consume your mind.

  I was always running. It became habit, necessity, survival. Sometimes it was by choice, but most of the time it was because of my mother. I learned at a young age it was easier to be alone than to constantly miss the people you once knew. Everything in my life was temporary, and eventually I welcomed the invisible girl I’d turned into.

  I was a ghost, a drifter child numb to loss. Invisibility meant no one could love me; yet in return no one could hurt me either. There’s security in the loneliness, which gave me plenty of time to daydream about the life I secretly wished to have. I could watch others from a distance and picture myself in their shoes—picture their life as my own, their laughter as my laughter, and their smiles upon my face.

  Nothing is more pitiful than wishing for another life when you’re barely living in your own miserable existence. Yet secretly holding onto those simple dreams was the only thing keeping my defiant body breathing. I wanted to be like a satellite: still beautiful among the other three hundred billion stars in the sky and maybe, just maybe, someone would see me. Someone would look, notice, and realize I was alive.

  Surviving. Today was just another day I woke up and continued my life, the smallest efforts made easier with time. I appreciated my routine as I parked my Bronco and pressed the worn metal button to shut off the headlights. The ancient heater had finally melted the frost from the cold, dim winter morning that I’d been too impatient to scrape off.

  I opened the door, letting in a bitter breeze that whipped my long, wavy brown hair into a frantic rhythm stinging my skin as it wrapped around my face. My already frozen hands pushed it away, peeling the hair from my lips as I leaned over to grab my things from the passenger seat.

  My life had evolved. I no longer lived barely above a heartbeat. Too new to welcome it completely, my multitude of issues seemed to fight against my desire for happiness and normalcy, but here I was … alive and fighting for my sanity.

  I’d spent years running from my past, and as I walked the empty parking lot toward my office building, I never expected it, or should I say him to plow back into my life. I’ve replayed it in my head a hundred times, and for a while I thought if I’d only changed one single minute of my morning the following events would’ve never happened. One minute longer shaving my legs. One minute longer ignoring my alarm and continuing to dream. But instead our lives collided; my past tore through the parking lot in a shiny black Ford truck and drenched me with the cold, wet aftermath of a melting snowstorm.

  “Hey! What the hell was that for?” the driver began to yell after I hit him square in the face with a large snowball.

  It took him long enough to open the door and get out of his truck. I stood there dripping wet, preparing my snowball, hoping that five months with stepdad number six—the alcoholic baseball fanatic—had taught me something. To my surprise my aim was dead-on despite the distance and being blinded by snow.

  “Are you kidding?” I yelled back, widening my arms letting the dirty wet slush drip off of my body.

  I picked the wrong day to wear a white shirt. I blinked rapidly, fighting the sting of mascara running into my eyes. The initial shock of his tires splashing the frigid tidal wave of water wore off and was replaced with anger. The asshole came out of nowhere.

  I leaned over, picking up my ruined belongings submerged in slushy tire tracks, hoping the snowball I threw would give him an instant black eye. If not, I wasn’t above throwing another.

  I stood up, arms full of slop, watching my parking lot assailant walk quickly toward me, wiping the broken snow off of his apologetic face. My heart seized the second I recognized him. A surge of panic ran through me. Dizzy. Sweaty. Chest constricted. Shaky.

  Oh. My. God. It can’t be him.

  I’d recognize his face anywhere. I spent more time staring at it than I did my own. He was older now, his soft features hardened, but he still had those intense blue eyes, dark, perfectly placed hair, and light olive skin that came from genetics and the sun.

  “Are you okay? I’m so sorry, I didn’t even see you.” His voice was full of concern.

  My mouth opened but I was speechless, eyes wide, face pale. My confusion—or maybe horror—stopped him only a few feet in front of me.

  “You look like you’re in pain. Are you hurt?” His eyes traveled over my body, as if he was inspecting a piece of roadkill. The only response I had was to stand there and shiver, letting the water from my things drip from my hands.

  “You’re freezing. Come get in my truck and I’ll turn on the heat. I’d hate for you to catch a cold.” He reached for me, ignoring my uneasy stare like it was completely normal to grab a stranger’s hand and get in their vehicle.

  My flight instinct finally kicked in and I quickly masked my face with indifference. “No, I think you’ve done enough.”

  In mere seconds he triggered something I’d spent months fighting: the uneasy task of suddenly having to force air to enter and leave my lungs. I turned around leaving his outstretched hand empty, wondering how far and fast I could run before I dropped dead from lack of oxygen or hypothermia.

  The sun barely rising above the sharp, snow-capped mountains caused warm rays of light to slowly creep and touch my iced skin as I began to flee. There were only two vehicles in the parking lot—his and mine. Had he asked me years ago when
we went to high school together to hop in his truck, my best friend June would have needed to tranquilize me to stop me from jumping right in, like a dog ready for a joyride.

  As my feet put needed distance between us, I heard him calling after me, swiftly covering ground until he stood in front of me again, hands pleading and blocking the path to my Bronco. “Wait! Please. I feel horrible.”

  I skidded to a stop, ignoring the puddle of slush that flooded into my Mary Jane heels; it wasn’t like they weren’t already soaked.

  “Let me—” He reached out, but my body flinched like a battered woman quickly dodging his touch. “If you’ll let me take your things,” he tried again, reaching cautiously, “I have something in my truck you can dry off with.”

  His tall frame wilted forward begging for a truce between us. The blue in his eyes darkened as they looked into mine, like a drop of black paint bleeding into the clear blue. I realized at that moment he was looking at me for the first time.

  “No thanks,” I said sharply, breaking the spell. I dodged him and kept walking, clinging to my belongings like a life raft.

  Sometimes the truth isn’t always the answer you want. I’d always wondered what it would feel like when he saw me for the first time. When he truly looked at me. The truth was it felt just like I’d imagined: heartbreaking, desperate, exhilarating, lustful, and frightening all at the same time. I wished it’d felt empty.

  “This is all my fault. Let me help you.” His voice held a persistent and desperate tone as he continued to follow me. I was screaming loudly in my head with each step. Go away! Go away! Go away!

  All I wanted was to escape. I realized the faster I got into the building, the faster I could get away from him, so I decided to surrender.

  “Fine,” I said as I reached my Bronco, turning around and dumping my dripping belongings into his arms. I hoped it ruined his fancy suit that might as well be designed with tiny dollar signs instead of pinstripes.

  “I truly am sorry. I’ll pay for any dry cleaning and replace your things,” he said, looking down at the items in his hands as I tried to find my keys. Nothing I owned was worth sending to the dry cleaner; I was pretty sure fifteen bucks would cover everything.

  “It’s fine. Quit apologizing Lan—” I’d almost slipped and said his name.

  A split second later, almost like I wished him out of thin air, Max pulled up next to us in his geek gadget Toyota Prius, saving me from biting off my own tongue.

  “Larkin, sweetheart, what in the hell happened to you?” he wailed, rolling down his window to take in my appearance. My face looked as pretty as a smudged Picasso painting.

  “Oh, you know, I decided to go for a morning swim,” I said, sarcastically shrugging, trying to hold back a smile as Max gave the stranger standing next to me a who-the-hell-are-you stare-down. I just shook my head, telling him to not waste his time.

  “Well, your lips are turning blue and I can see your nipples.” He laughed, staring at my chest.

  “Max!” I screamed, covering myself, completely mortified.

  “I’m kidding! I’m kidding! Let’s get you inside before you catch laryngitis and sound like Gilbert Gottfried on the radio.”

  Max was one of my co-hosts and the producer of our local morning radio show. My roommate June and I met him at our favorite bar, Charlie’s, while we were having our monthly “Bitch Fit.” I’d never seen a guy drink so many sour apple martinis.

  Bitch Fit

  A scheduled night in which all parties vent, bitch, complain, and share any drama and/or angst which has presented emotional and/or physical problems or irritation. Must be done while getting intoxicated.

  Max told us he had gone there that night to drown his sorrows due to a recent breakup with his boyfriend Jonathan. I’d noticed him watching us, sitting at a table in the back corner anxiously biting his nails and shredding his napkin to pieces. He finally walked over and bought us a round of shots, explaining his desperate need for a distraction. I guess we won Max over that night because he’s been in regular attendance to our bitch fits, and pretty much everything else ever since. Plus, June and I were suckers for strays with Mommy and Daddy issues. Max had a sketchy past and trust issues, and we didn’t trust anyone, so he seemed to be the perfect first addition to our misfit family. The four-eyed geek wormed his way into our ice-cold hearts. Oddly, because of Max, I switched my degree and ended up graduating with a communications major and started working for him at the radio station.

  I could still hear Max laughing at me as he pulled forward and parked his car. I stood next to my Bronco, yanking open the door and flipping up the front seat, thanking the universe that I still had my yoga bag in the back. I didn’t know what was in there, or if it smelled clean, but anything would beat the state I was in right now.

  “Is this your Bronco?” Landon asked, sounding surprised as he leaned around me to take a look inside. I bit my lip at his sudden closeness. He was practically cornering me between his body and the door. I became irritated sighing loudly as I trampled down the butterflies in my stomach.

  “Yes, it’s mine,” I replied with sarcasm. “Why is it so hard for guys to believe that a girl owns something like this?” I flipped the seat back in its place, hoping he wouldn’t mistake my cynicism for an invitation for conversation.

  “Um, well I suppose most girls would rather drive—”

  “I’m NOT most girls,” I said, cutting him off. He took a few steps back while I slammed the door.

  “Yeah, I’m getting the impression you’re not.” He grinned, ignoring my rudeness.

  I wanted him to just leave me alone. I couldn’t handle my past colliding with my present. I regretted throwing a snowball at his face; I even regretted waking up this morning and coming into work. Most girls would probably laugh the situation off and take his welcoming offers of apologetic kindness with a giddy smile, fluttering lashes, and the chance to try and straddle him in his front seat. I hated those girls.

  “So is it reliable? What year is it?”

  What’s with the questions? “Yes it’s reliable, and it’s a ’73. But if you don’t mind, I’ll take my stuff, I’m supposed to be on-air in a few minutes.”

  “So you’re a radio host?” he asked, smiling as he handed me my stuff.

  I internally smiled back for two reasons: his suit coat was covered in dirty, wet snow and the minute my freezing hands brushed his, the warmth of his skin spread up my entire arm like wildfire. I ignored his question, or I might have forgotten what he’d asked, as I stood there staring at him. It’d been so long since I’d seen him, I almost forgot he had such white teeth—a Colgate smile that promised me a good time if only I’d let him.

  “I need to make this up to you. I would love to take you to dinner and then we can go and replace your belongings.”

  “No.” I said, and then I walked away.

  I didn’t mean to be so rude to him. Okay, yes I did. But for shit’s sake look at me. What the hell is he doing here, and in my work parking lot for that matter? My bipolar reactions frustrated me. Especially since my heart was still beating like hummingbird wings, just like the first time, or should I say every time, I was near him.

  I didn’t think he recognized me. Ha! Why would he recognize me? I laughed out loud at the ridiculous thought. He was oblivious to who I was. Always had been and always will be, if I could help it. Hopefully this was just one in a million chance of us running into each other, and that Landon Black still lives in Aspen and not Salt Lake.

  That day on the radio Max and Austin, my other on-air co-host, had a field day with what happened. “Picture this …” Austin said, sliding his chair up to the microphone like he had something funny to say, “Larkin walks into the station wearing sexy heels, lime green yoga pants, and Max’s crusty button-down that he found for her crumpled in the backseat of his car.” Austin laughed, adding to the dramatics by waving his tattooed arms in front of his stink face even though no one could see him. “Which, by the way, smells
like sour apple martinis, pine tree cologne, the bar bathroom, and regret.”

  “You should’ve seen the feisty little thing in the parking lot,” Max chimed in, ignoring the fact that Austin just publicly outed him for exhibitionism. “She looked like a shivering and yippy Pomeranian that’d just been dipped in bath water.”

  Austin pinched his chin between his fingers, nodding and pretending to visually picture what Max was describing. “You dirty bitch.” He laughed humorously at his own pun, holding onto his headset, rolling his chair toward me so he could pretend to pick things out of my hair like a monkey. “Hold still. You still have a little bit of asphalt in your hair.”

  I laughed and slapped his hands away. “Get off!” I squealed.

  The comedians were on a roll now. I obviously had to hold my own when it came to those two. Austin was the second addition to our dysfunctional family, but I’m not quite sure how it happened. In fact, I’m not quite sure how any of it happened. But now there are four of us and I wouldn’t change a thing.

  Austin put me into the friend zone the first day we met; he said he couldn’t date a girl who was a bigger smart-ass than him. I was grateful because he quickly fit into some weird brother role that I never had, with the occasional gross sexual commentary. Plus, I never had guys that were just my friends before and it had been on my to-do list.

  I mean, don’t get me wrong, Austin was definitely attractive; he had the whole tattooed mysterious jerk thing going on. In an argument—or with us I should just call it a normal conversation—he towered over me with his inky hair, lean muscles, and the uncontrolled tendency to stare at my cleavage. I’d always wondered how he remained so lean because he ate an unhealthy amount of beer and pasta. But besides all that he was an amazing drummer and had this quirky quality of relating everything back to a lyric or a song, which I found helpful when I wrote down stories about my friendships in my journal. It was like my new life had a soundtrack. For example, today’s song would be “Time is Running Out” by Muse. On repeat. Annoying as hell.