Breathe (Hollow Ridge Book 2) Page 7

  They were real.

  We weren’t.

  And in the end, I was the one who suffered.

  Pulling up to the hotel in my Z51 Corvette, I practically cry when I hand the keys over to the valet. He’s eighteen, maybe. His eyes light up like mine used to when I got a new video game.

  “Scratch it, you die.”

  He chuckles as if I’m joking. I’m not. There are only twenty-five of the limited edition charcoal dust color to be ever made. That’s as limited as it gets for Corvettes. “Bro, I’d—”

  “Not your bro, dude. I’m serious. I’ll hunt you down if she’s even surface-dented. Buffable or not, this car is worth more than your entire existence,” I say harshly. The kid visibly swallows as his excitement drains from his face entirely. Good. No joyrides for him.

  “Got it,” he mutters, his hands shaking when he reaches the door to drive off. I smile at him and wave, not caring that he might have pissed himself. Better not get that shit on my seats. A bellhop waves me over, taking my bags and suit and carrying them to the front. Handing him a hundred, I shoo him away. As soon as I’m checked in, I’m practically running for the room. When I notice the minibar, the one I specifically asked to be empty, I choke down the dryness swelling my tongue.

  Is this what life of an addict will always be like?

  Craving a single drop like I’m stranded without sustenance, and when it’s placed in front of you, in all its taunting glory, you have to abstain from indulging? That’s what I’m experiencing as I stare at the little bottles of Jack, Jameson, Jimmy Beam, and Crown. It’s like they knew whiskey was my weakness and wanted to test me or force me to spend a shit-ton more money. Rehab. I did the twelve steps, though I skipped huge details on a few. Catherine Bobbie—goes by Bobbie—Nate’s and my sponsor, she saved me. Brought me from the cusp of drowning and dragged me out, drying each oversaturated inch.

  Closing my eyes with what little restraint I have, I change into my gym shorts and racer tank. Instead of sitting in a room that would more than likely push me over the edge, I head to the gym at the top floor, the one only suites have access to.

  Scanning my room card, I’m allowed entry. It’s empty. Not surprisingly. There are several events this weekend, and most people dread working out while on vacation. For one, it’s business. Two, it’s the only thing that keeps me from dousing myself in woodsy goodness. And three, it’s productive and healthy. It’s what I do to keep my mind off her and how happy she must be right now.

  Two years.

  Bet she’s radiant.

  Why did my happiness have to reflect solely on hers? When will I find the part of myself that deserves happiness and run with it?

  Will there ever be a day when I can smile and know that I’m worthy of love?

  Heading for the treadmill, I decide to sweat all the cravings away. It’ll take some time, but it’ll happen. That, I’m sure of.

  I stretch, wondering if the burn will be less with this much preparation. There are two ways to work out. The right way, which is painful if you do it right, and the wrong way, which hurts no matter how long you go. The only difference is that the wrong way can cause irreparable damage.

  After warming up, I start at a slow jog. Ten minutes in, my calves are feeling stretched and heated, so I pick up the pace to a run. Wanting the exertion, I need the blinding sweat to seep through and remind me why being sober is important.

  Forty minutes in, my body feels the burn. It feels the exhaustion and lack of stamina. During these past two years, I’ve let myself go. Not just with binge-eating, booze, and everything else bad, but with this.

  The one thing I made sure both Lo and I did was keep up our health, but then I let it go to trash. I couldn’t help it. She put me in the worst darkness I’ve ever been in. Where stars didn’t exist. No moon. No light. Just blackness. Nothingness as it consumed me along the way.

  She wrecked me. And like the fool I am, I let her.

  My heart pounds, my head following soon after. I check my watch and realize I’ve been busting ass for two hours. How am I still going? No water. No breaks or breathers. Sometimes, the mind consumes, and it’s not always in the best interest of the person, either.

  When I make it back to my room, a sticky note resides on my door. When I flip it open, I notice a short message. Be ready in forty, registration is two hours in advance. My stomach flips. How am I supposed to un-exhaust myself, all while looking dashing doing it?

  Ice bath?

  Ice. Bath.

  Closing the plug to the tub, I find the wine cooler besides the fridge and head to the ice machine near the gym. I fill it up and go back and forth between my room and the machine until half the tub is full. Turning the water on the coldest setting, I let it run. As soon as it’s ready, I remove my shirt, shoes, and socks, and lower myself into the bitter cold. My nipples are hard before the water touches me, and my balls are drawn up in preparation, knowing the drill.

  I settle inside, my entire body shivering from the initial cold. You’d think I’d be used to it; I’ve been taking ice baths since high school. Since he started beating the shit out of me. My mind travels to dear ole Dad, and I shiver for an entirely different reason.

  “You’d think being half of me, you’d be less worthless than that prick you call brother,” he hisses, spittle leaving his lips with each word as he shouts inches from my face. People wonder how parents get so angry, why they’re upset, or even vicious.

  Mine, tonight, has everything to do with the bowl I dropped in the sink.

  Not even six inches above the bottom of it, as I washed it, it slipped, crashing into the stainless steel sink. It shattered. Never before has a bowl smashed without force, yet it did. Immediately, he howls. “What the fuck have you done now, boy?”

  My body stiffens, readying for attack, knowing he’s going to lay it on me, hurt me until I can’t breathe...

  Breathe.

  How was one supposed to with a punctured lung?

  My dad beat me that night with his fist wrapped around a pillowcase. He forgot one thing, though—ribs break easily. Not that easily, but easily enough that a grown man only needs to punch once in the right spot. Mom rushed me to the hospital as Dad claimed it was a varsity accident. And so, my beatings began.

  As did my ice baths.

  I shake my head, noticing the moisture leaking from my eyes. The memories never fade, even if the man is buried six feet under.

  My skin hurts from the blistering cold, and I empty the tub, stepping out. It takes too much time to get my body back up to temp, so I jump into the shower, cleaning off the remaining grime. By the time I’m suited up and ready to walk out the door, a knock sounds out.

  Jacob, one of the co-hosts of Culinary Con, stands at my door, looking smug as fuck. “Hayes,” he mutters as though we haven’t spoken in ages, which is not wrong. We haven’t been in the same room for at least five years.

  “Jake, my man,” I greet, pulling him into a side hug. He slaps my back, then smiles, his face one of happiness.

  “Toby, man. It’s been too long. And you’re looking younger than ever,” he muses, staring at me in awe. “There’s no way you’re in your late thirties.” I give him a wry smile in return, not realizing how old I’m getting day after day.

  “Thirty-seven in October,” I remind him, wondering how time has flown by so quickly.

  “Damn, son. We’re getting old.”

  “Speak for yourself, old man. I’m young as hell.” But I’m sure the amusement doesn’t reach my face since he changes the subject.

  “Ready for this?”

  “What? Giving you money for something I see no return on?” A chuckle leaves him, his face alight with humor. “Wouldn’t change it for the world,” I lie.

  We make it down to the conference room’s foyer. There, in the front, is a table set up with three women. They’re wearing shiny sequined dresses that only make them look old and trying too hard to appear young. They stare at me with wonder and it
has me smirking. I’ve still got it. Even when my life’s a fucked-up mess, I’ve still got it.

  “Ladies,” I coo, acting all grandiose when I feel anything but.

  They all giggle in unison as if they’ve practiced this time and time again to get it right. “Sir,” the far right says. “Name?”

  “Tobias Hayes,” I pronounce, and her eyes bulge out.

  “The Tobias? Our golden sponsor every year?”

  “That’s the one,” Jake booms from beside me, clapping my shoulder again. By the end of tonight, it’s going to be sore from his bear paws. “He’s been more than generous for years. I’m honestly proud to call him friend.”

  Friend, my ass.

  Moneybags is more like it.

  “Here’s your ID badge and envelope of chefs,” the middle one explains. The one on the left stares at me in admiration, like she wants to flirt but won’t. I notice the ring on her finger and decide to tease her.

  “And your name, gorgeous?”

  “P-Penny,” she stutters.

  “Ah, Penny. Such a pretty name. What is it that you have for me?” The other ladies glower as I give all my attention to the respectful woman at the end.

  “Raffles,” she says breathily. “For the chef contest.”

  “I see,” I muse, touching her hand and the ring on her finger. She doesn’t pull away, but she should. I’ve been known to ruin marriages. “How much?”

  “Fifty dollars a ticket,” she explains, her face red and flamed from the skin-to-skin attention. “The money goes toward the foundation. It’s basically a donation.”

  “Have a piece of paper to charge my account? I’ll write down a number, and you put me in for that much, okay?” Her eyes widen as if she’s not used to this kind of situation. She hands me a piece of paper, and I write down a one and five zeroes. Her mouth hangs open, and she types into the spreadsheet on the computer. “Jake here has my information. Feel free to charge my account.”

  “This is huge, sir,” Penny finally replies. “You’re such a philanthropist.”

  I chuckle. What’s ten thousand to a man like me?

  She hands me a receipt, and I pocket it without looking at it. By the time I’m seated at a table, I’m beyond ready to drink I can’t see straight. These events are boring and so are the people involved. A waitress hands me a bottle of sparkling water, which tastes like ass, and not the good kind. Ten minutes pass by before Jake stops to see how I’ve settled. I take a big drink, hoping he decides not to stay.

  “I can’t believe you bought a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of tickets,” is the first thing he says to me. And that drink I just took comes spewing out with a fit of coughs.

  “What?”

  “That’s what you wrote down. Penny showed me.”

  “Fuck,” I curse, pulling the receipt out of my pocket. Sure as the day I was born, it says one hundred thousand. I’m not sure how I’ll explain this to Raul. And fuckity fuck. If I don’t get a chef with this amount of money, I’ll be pissed.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks, his eyebrow raised in amusement.

  “I thought I wrote ten thousand,” I mutter, clearing my throat. “Raul is going to kill me.”

  He laughs. “Too late now, Toby. At least you’ll be a shoo-in to win.”

  “Fuck off,” I growl. He continues his chuckling all while heading to the podium and grabbing the mic.

  “Tonight, is a special night. Usually, we have only three chefs, but this year, we have four. One is especially important. She’s a prodigy, and I’ve heard nothing but praise about her. And she’s a spitfire.”

  I try not to roll my eyes in exasperation at his poor etiquette and wait for the stage to fill with the four contestants. They’re getting paid good money to simply exist. By being selected, you get a five-year contract with the company that wins and a salary that’s way more than fair for the first three years. After the money I’ve spent on this stupid event, I better get the best one.

  He starts inviting them up to the stage, talking about their work and qualifications. When he gets to the last one—the auburn-haired spitfire, as he called her—I try not to grunt. What is she, fifteen? She stares directly at me as if hearing my thoughts. Her eyes connect with mine on a different level. They’re wise and angry. A kind of anger I understand and feel. The event proceeds, and her gaze stays locked on me.

  It’s unnerving and uncomfortable.

  “Our Golden Sponsor, Tobias Hayes!” Jake’s voice booms, and I’m unsure of what has happened since this chick has siphoned my every thought since arriving on stage. My attention is stuck on the girl who’s angrier than anyone ought to be, and it’s only gotten worse. The thundering disappointment flashing in her eyes has me confused.

  “Toby,” Jake announces again like I’m an unintelligible imp.

  My gaze meets his.

  And I know.

  She’s mine now.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Night Before

  Joey

  The drive to Vegas feels longer than it truly is. By the time I arrive, I’ve only got thirty minutes before the raffle. Luckily, I decided to get my dress on before leaving. Francis and his lips were way too distracting. And wrong, Joey. Don’t forget wrong.

  Putting on my way-too-tall pumps before giving the valet my keys, I head inside to sign in with the registrar.

  A man named Jake takes me to the back of a stage, telling me I’ll be called out when they’re ready.

  “Where can I put my bag?” I ask before he runs off. He’s too energetic, moving from place to place too fast. He gives me a curious look, wondering why I’m not checked into the hotel, I’m sure.

  “I’ll take it,” he offers.

  “No, no,” I argue too quickly. My entire life is in that bag. If he takes it and loses it—which I’m sure he will—I’ll be screwed.

  “Miss,” he starts. Someone from beside us calls his name, and he’s shaking his head. “Here, get a room.” He hands me a card, and I wonder what the hell I’m supposed to do in the meantime. I have less than thirty minutes at this point, and if I’m late, it’ll make me look tacky.

  Don’t dwell, I remind myself before rushing toward the lobby. It’s not easy in trashy heels, that’s for sure. I’d be much more comfortable in my Vans.

  “I need a room,” I rush out as soon as I get to the man standing behind the counter.

  “ID?” he questions like I’m a fucking child. I’m not old enough to rent a room, but he doesn’t need to know that.

  “My dad asked me to do it while he holds his event,” I lie, watching him stare at me in disbelief.

  “I can’t—”

  “She’s with me,” a man says briskly from behind me. I turn to him with a grateful expression. He looks familiar, but I’m not entirely sure from where. The service clerk doesn’t appear to want to deal with the man standing behind me. Instead, he takes the card Jake gave me and types in some info.

  “There’s only the honeymoon suite left,” he mutters absently, clicking more keys.

  “That’ll just have to do,” I urge. It’s not my money anyway. He nods, his fingers tapping away.

  “Here you are,” he confirms, handing me a receipt to sign. Scribbling some unintelligible name, I get the room card and find a bellhop.

  “Please take this to my room.” He nods at me with a smile and takes my bag. Checking my cell, I notice it’s been fifteen minutes. I have only six to get back to the stage. Stopping at the nearest wall, I use it as leverage to take off my heels, then book it to the event center.

  By the time I make it back, putting my death traps back on my feet, they’re calling us out on the stage. My face must be sweaty since I’ve run in this stuffy building back and forth on a time constraint. Oh, well. It’s not a beauty contest.

  “Zachariah Billings,” Jake reads the name of the winner for the first chef. “Raise your hand so this fine young woman can meet you.” He raises his hand, a man in a stiff suit and an even stiffer looking
expression waits for the first chef to make her way over.

  The other two beside me get their business owners while I stand awkwardly. As I’m debating how much I hate the life choices I’ve made to get to this point, I find a man staring at me.

  His hair is sloppy and purposely so. His suit—perfectly committed to his body as sure as he’s not committed to any woman in his life—fits him effortlessly. The look in his eyes as he watches me makes me nervous. It’s how Francis looks at me, but this man differs. His expression is one of a man who’ll eat me alive and spit me out. Francis’s was more of a take my time kind of hunger. As I’m busy wondering what this guy’s story is, a name is called.

  “Our Golden Sponsor, Tobias Hayes!”

  No one stands to greet me, making me hopeful they didn’t show up, and I won’t be stuck with some dick who doesn’t know the difference between a spoon and a ladle.

  “Toby,” Jake repeats from beside me. Fuck. That means the dude is here, and Jake knows him. So much for not getting paired. Holding in the groan of disappointment, the man who was analyzing every breath I took stands and saunters toward me. No fucking way.

  He’s not only too young to be a stuffy businessman, but he’s too hot to be into something so mundane. Right?

  As Toby makes his way over to me, each step is another nail in my coffin. If I thought Francis was hard to handle, this man—with his sexy come-hither eyes—is impossible. A smirk tilts at his lips, and for some reason, that makes me want to smack it off his face.

  Smugness isn’t attractive.

  He better not be a douchebag.

  Jake hands my new warden an envelope. One I’m sure that lists my good and bad traits, my name, age, and everything else my father decided was pertinent to know. Like how much men controlling me isn’t something I allow.

  The man doesn’t say a word as he leads me back to his table. Awkward silence fills the small expanse between us, reminding me how uneasy this entire shindig makes me feel. Sitting down in the chair, since he still hasn’t said a word, he eyes me skeptically.

  “Toby,” he practically growls to me as he sits, offering his hand. I stare at it, knowing how disrespectful I’m being by not offering mine to him in return. He opens the folder and begins reading to himself. Stiff air swims around us, more potent than the booze we both desperately need.