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  ONE MORE BREATH

  Copyright © 2015 Delaney Williams

  Formatted by Max Effect

  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 publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fictions. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite eBook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Epilogue

  This book is dedicated to my husband, and son - for putting up with my crazy antics during writing.

  There once was a girl who had a friend who lived in the shadows.

  She would remind him how the sun felt on his skin and how the air felt to breathe,

  which reminded her she was still alive.

  Markus Zusak - The Book Thief

  LEIRE

  Sometimes, in the middle of the night or in the calm after a big storm, when the world seems new and fresh, when one can feel the rightness of the world falling into place, I forget. This is my favorite time…the point between old and new, fresh and used. It is that point when I can pretend I, too, am fresh and new. I can stand in the rain and shower off the old me, shedding it like the skin of a snake. With it goes the terror and pain, and I am left fresh. For a time anyway. Then I look down and see the scars, feel the terror, smell the fear. Yes, fear definitely has a smell. It’s very distinct and very real. I am sure it is a different smell for everyone. For me, it is coppery lemons. However, the fear I smell the most is one that brings the most peace. And the sounds that come screaming back into my head don’t leave. They never leave. They come screaming back, fast and furious, like a Japanese bullet train…always on course, always on time. They crush me with the weight of the fear they bring with them. I have to escape. I need release. It is why I run in these early hours, in the rain and storms other people try to avoid.

  I dress in my running gear and open myself up to the cathartic release I get from lacing up my shoes, then step out the door. I know I can’t run from my past. I know I cannot escape the fears and pain, or erase the scars, but I can forget for a time. I can find that release. With each pounding step, I feel calmer. I feel the terror of my dreams fade and I can see the new day rising. What is done, is done. I cannot change that, but I am a new person now. New face, new name, new life.

  The run clears my mind and as I reach the end, nearing the clearing of aspens with leaves now turning, looking golden in the early morning sun, I feel renewed. I love these mountains and their glorious, ever-changing beauty. The trees can be skeletal remains but still grow, not giving in to nature, to become the beautiful fireballs before me. An amazing creation of which I am currently standing in awe. It is proof that life goes on. The world turns, the sun rises and sets, and no one will remember what once was.

  Out of breath and energy, I lie down in the meadow and watch the sun continue to rise, preparing myself for another day. A day spent hiding myself yet, at the same time, being the most free I have ever been. Today, I start over.

  LEIRE

  I stand staring at the entrance to the shop for a long time. It isn’t that I’m unsure I want to do this. It is the overwhelming emotions coming to the surface which are keeping me from entering. This is it. After this, I will be starting over, claiming my body for myself for the first time in thirty-five years. Why did it take me that long to come to what seems like an easy conclusion, one I can control? I don’t know, but I do know that I am ready. Maybe I simply wasn’t ready before. There is nothing now…no family, no friends, nothing to stop me. I simply have no life, so to speak, so it truly does not matter what I do with it now. There is nothing holding me back from reclaiming myself and being who I want to be. I have a great job and a new life, and finally my own body.

  I love what I am doing now. Being an English professor is amazing. I love the students and the contact I have with other people. I may not like all of the professors, but I still love what I do. This step is purely for me. It is me taking control and moving on. I am unique and special, or so many therapists have told me. They have also mentioned that maybe removing visible evidence of my trauma might help. Hence, why I’m standing in front of The Briar Rose. It is a rundown-looking tattoo shop with a reputation for amazing work; yet another story of why one should never judge a book by its cover. It is just like me. It’s perfect.

  I know what you’re thinking. No, I wasn’t abused or beaten. I’ve never known hatred or loathing. However, this body was never mine. It was a science experiment. From a young age, I had belonged to science. The rare form of cancer I have led to years and years of chemotherapy, surgeries, and experimentations. I’ve been hairless, and have had no fingernails, eyebrows, or eyelashes. I’ve been unable to swallow my own saliva. The years and years of treatments, experiments, and surgeries worked. However, they’ve also left me a pitted, scarred shell, scared of every sneeze and sniffle. The Rose is my new beginning.

  With a steadying breath, I open the door and enter, effectively leaving one person behind and becoming another. The sharp antibacterial smell should have bothered me. Most cancer patients would agree that smell is a trigger. For me, it is a security. The smell of antibacterial soap means all is well, it means comfort. My heart rate immediately slows.

  A young woman with shockingly bright teal hair, cut haphazardly around her face, and more metal than skin on that beautiful face, cheerfully welcomes me. “What can I do for you today?”

  I reach into my bag and withdraw a battered and folded piece of paper. It has been folded and refolded so many times, it is now soft to the touch. It has taken me nearly a year to perfect the image. Drawing is definitely not my strong point. However, I took my time to finish it because it’s important to me. Besides, from what I’ve heard about the artist I had booked, he can easily clean up my drawing and turn it into the image of which I had dreamed.

  “I have an appointment with Ander,” I state quietly, a little overcome by the charming, yet boisterous pixie at the counter.

  “Ander!” she shrieks, a smirk on her lips. Oh, I don’t like that look one bit. “Fresh meat!” I like the sound of that even less. Maybe I don’t need to reclaim my body after all. I mean, I’m technically cured, right? There’s no need for more pain.

  Just as I have about talked myself out of this whole idea, a man steps from the back of the shop. My breath leaves in one large whoosh. The fear is completely gone, replaced with something else. Something completely un
known to me. Suddenly, the floor looks awfully close. Are those stars? Trouble. That’s all I can think. I am in trouble again. It’s a new kind of trouble, but one just the same. This man is absolute perfection. It is as if the gods had become bored with their previous work and upped their game on him, realizing such perfection could not be repeated. He is tall, muscular, and dark, with a messy mohawk. He has dark eyes that seem to know too much. With every step towards me, his whole body flexes, the muscles working together to make his movements fluent, almost catlike. I have never seen someone so undeniably masculine, yet so beautiful at the same time. I’m in awe. Big breaths. In. Out. In. Out.

  Once I feel somewhat under control, I look back up. The man has a slight smile on his face. He knows the affect he has. He’s proud of it, too.

  “I’m Ander. What can I do you for?” he asks. Like that is original.

  I roll my eyes. He is supposed to be the best in town so I bite my tongue and continue, “I called the other day about starting a tattoo and you were recommended.” See, I can be bold. Eat that you smug douche. I smile.

  His brows shoot up. “I have some portfolios of my work if you want to look through them to see if anything catches your eye.”

  “I don’t need that. I’ve drawn something up,” I say, shyly handing my paper to him. “I was actually hoping to be able to do something with this.”

  He takes the fragile paper and carefully unfolds it. A look of reverence, quickly covered up, flashes over his face. But there is something else there, something unidentifiable.

  “Did you do this?”

  “I did. I know it’s not very good, but I was hoping you could clean it up and make it workable, all while keeping with the original idea.”

  “This is wonderful. Not many people come in with a plan. We can definitely do something with this. Tell me about the elements you want so I can refine it a bit, keeping to your original idea. Also, how big do you want it, and where are you thinking of placing it? Size and placement plays a large part in how much we can do.” He turns on his heel and walks to a light table, motioning me to follow him.

  Watching him walk, I can’t help but focus on the way his ass moves in his worn jeans. The denim has seen better days…but not a better butt. With each step, the jeans hug his muscles, as if to protect the assets, cupping each cheek, wrapping around his huge thighs. I can’t help the heat of my face and the tightening of my breasts. I am sure my face is beet red. Hopefully he just think it’s fear. This guy affects me like no other ever has. If he takes on this tattoo, I am going to need to create a new savings account for underwear, as I have a feeling I am going to need new ones after each session.

  He glances over his shoulder and smirks. I know I’m caught, but there is nothing I can do about it. I shrug and smile, pulling up a chair next to him. “Okay, where are we looking at placing this, and what size are you thinking?” he asks without looking up from the drawing.

  “Everywhere.”

  He blinks and falters a little. “Okay… Tell me about this. It obviously means something significant to you. Is it rebirth? Trial by fire? What are we going to be aiming for with it?”

  “It is. I am the phoenix. I want her on me, tight, hugging her wings around me. She needs to be surrounding me with her strength and warmth, her renewal. I want the tattoo to cover my entire torso, front and back, knees to neck.”

  He blinks, finally looking at me. “That is a huge piece of work.”

  I nod. “It is. I need her to be me. Beginning on my back, I want her wings wrapping around, spanning to my stomach.”

  He continues drawing, adding and sketching. “What else?”

  “I need a symbol for cancer at the tips of her wings, meeting on my lower belly. I want it to look very script-like. I want both thighs to be covered in cherry blossoms and trees with sparrows. It needs to somehow blend into the phoenix, though. Each side needs to match.”

  He is drawing extremely fast as we speak. His sketch is already so much better than what I imagined. I would be ashamed, if I wasn’t so in awe at the work itself…or the artist. I mean, damn. His forearms are like something the Greeks sculpted. The veins stand out amongst the solid muscle as he focuses on the drawing. I find myself balling my hands into fists to keep from reaching out to touch him. More than anything, I want to smooth the crease between his brows that he has from focusing so hard.

  “Anything else?” he questions.

  This is the most important part to me. Although I am the phoenix and the flowers are my new growth, the words are what got me through it all. Every panic attack caused by every sniffle and cough was tempered by these words. It is a lot of writing and I hope it can be done.

  “These words need to go on there,” I say, handing him the lyrics I want.

  As Ander reads, something changes on his face. It relaxes and softens. Well, as much as a face that looks to be made of marble can soften. “Is there a specific part of the song you want, or can we wrap the entire song around your body, encasing it like a ribbon or banner? I get the feeling these words mean the most to you. Am I right?”

  I nod. “I need them all. Each one means so much.” I blink back the tears threatening to fall.

  His pinched face shares so much emotion. “Words can be tricky. Over time, letters bleed together and are lost. To do something like this, we will have to make the letters big enough and clear enough to last a while, and be easily repairable over time. But it can be done.

  “Here’s my thought. I see a ribbon wrapping from your shoulder, around your arm and hand, and down one thigh. It would offset the cherries and sparrows, but if it is that important, we will find a way to make this work. This is going to be an amazing piece. A real showstopper when it is done.”

  I am near tears. “I was prepared for you to tell me the wording couldn’t be done, that it was just too much to do.”

  “Give me a couple days to draw up a finalized image for you to review, then we can start. Will two days work?”

  I nod. “Two days is great.”

  Turning back to me, he tells me he will make it beautiful. In my heart, I know I came to the right man and the right place. This tattoo is going to be perfect. I thank him and make my way to the front desk to get it scheduled with the pixie at the front desk. I turn around and notice he is already off, presumably in his own artist’s world. She schedules me for an entire day. What I will do with that, I have no clue. What if I wimp out after an hour? She says it takes time to place the piece before they even begin, which calms me some. After seeing my face, she stops her babbling. “It’s not as bad as it seems.”

  I look at her with a smirk. “There is no pain in this world that I cannot, and have not, handled, Cora. This will be just fine. Thank you.”

  She blinks. “You’re serious, aren’t you? I think you and I are going to be great friends.”

  “Wait!” Ander yells, coming back out to look at me. “What is your name, neska palita?”

  Wondering what that means, I reply, “Leire,” then turn to walk out the door. I will see him again in two days, but I am also sure he will be all I’ll be thinking about during that time.

  ANDER

  Lee-ree… I roll her name around for a while. My life has been peaceful, ordinary, and easy. I am loved and supported by my family and friends. I apprenticed for tattooing right out of high school, earning enough money and a reputation to open my own shop by the time I was thirty-two. Now, at thirty-seven, life is still good. A little monotonous, but it is all mine. I am a sought after artist who owns his own shop, makes a damn good living, and has fun. I’m not a male slut, but I do enjoy the female persuasion on a frequent basis.

  I still have yet to truly have a girlfriend. I prefer short-term, no strings attached fucks. Seeing how my mom and dad behave in front of nearly everyone, you would think I would have grown up craving that kind of all-consuming love. Even after all these years, mom and dad are still crazy for each other. I don’t want that. In my experience, girls want what I c
an offer. They like the pretty face and cut body that I spend hours a day working hard to maintain. They like the tats covering my body. They love all my piercings and, most importantly, they love my money. I tattoo them for free, buy them pretty things, look like a god, and get them off. Up until now, I have never had a second thought about this setup. Up until now, it has never really bothered me. It is agreed upon. I use them, and they use me. There are never any feelings involved…at least on my part.

  Until a set of enormous cerulean eyes and long, blond hair walked into my fucking front door and, in a quiet way, asked for one of the most beautifully delicate tattoos I have ever been asked to design. With each word, I found myself having to chastise my overeager cock, trying to convince it that this woman was not for fun. If I got any harder, I was sure my battered old jeans were going to split up the seam.

  As we discussed her tattoo, I began to realize there was a lot more to this tiny package than met the eye. She completely beguiled me and I didn’t even know her name. I just knew I wanted to do this angel justice. Besides, focusing on the tattoo took my mind off her creamy skin and the sweet scent she was putting off. If the blush on her cheeks wasn’t a sign she was just as affected by me, her scent gave it away.

  She smelled like heaven, and I was the devil for even thinking about wanting to defile her. When I finally worked up the courage to ask her name, it was beautiful, so fitting for such an ethereal creature. She seemed to move effortlessly between heaven and earth. It was profound. What was it about this woman? This tiny sprite, whose eyes held so much pain and frailty but still shown with strength I’d never seen on a woman her age, had entranced me. I was struck with the need to know her, to hear of her pain. I had the supremely odd urge to ease that pain and cure it, to care for her in ways that used to scare the crap out of me.

  When I see her leave the shop, I speak to my receptionist about the tattoo date. I am going to close the shop to focus solely on this tattoo. For some reason, I need to be certain it will be my best work to date. I stop and take another look at my sketch. Who the fuck is this pussy I am becoming? One fucking look and I am a goner. I better buy tampons because, apparently, I am growing a vagina. Shit. Shaking the girl and her tattoo out of my mind, I call out to Wyatt to see if he is up for drinks at our local dive bar, aptly named “The Cock”, after his last client. Per usual, he is.