Space For Breathing Read online

  "Whoa. Jake, you okay, man?" Chris asked.

  "Why does everyone keep asking that? I'm obviously not."

  "Jake's fucking hungover again," Riley snapped.

  "Fuck off, Riley. Just leave me in my misery, okay?"

  "No, Jake. I won't," he said, his voice rising. "I'm sick and tired of this shit you're pulling on us. Can't you fucking stay sober on the one night that we have to perform?"

  I didn't answer him. He didn't deserve an answer.

  "Whoa…Riley, calm down," Chris said. Lately, the role of ringmaster had been added to his responsibilities as band manager. "Look, the show's over, and you played great, like always. The band was tight. It won't kill them not to have an encore."

  I looked up at Chris, doing my best to show him some gratitude. It was unusual that he'd take my side. He met my gaze, but despite his defense, I saw something there that was much, much worse than anything Riley could have ever said to me. Pity.

  "You know that's not the point, Chris. This isn't the first time this has happened. He should be…"

  "Okay, fine!" I shouted, throwing my hands up. I stood up, wobbling a little, but trying hard to keep whatever dignity I had left. "I'm not going to sit here listening to you two talk about me like I'm not in the room. I fucked up, okay? It's over. I'm leaving."

  I could feel their gazes on me, eyes widening. I grabbed my jacket hanging on the coat rack and slipped it on. The leather felt sticky and disgusting against my sweat-drenched back, but it was too much effort to care. I flung the door open and left.

  I managed to avoid everyone backstage and found the back door. My hand hesitated at the knob. I said a silent prayer, hoping that the fans hadn't found the back entrance yet. Before I opened it, I pressed my ear to the thick wood, listening for the familiar sound of heightened chatter. Hearing nothing above the backstage din, I slowly opened the door. I heaved a deep sigh when all I saw before me was the darkened alley.

  I turned left down the walkway, stepping over cardboard boxes and darting the giant dumpster. When I turned the corner, I almost plowed right into an unsuspecting young lady. I took a step back, blinking hard. "Sorry…" I mumbled.

  Her eyes widened into bright green pools, the flicker of recognition sweeping across her features. Her mouth curled playfully. "Well, hello."

  "Hi," I replied, narrowing my eyes.

  I pressed against the building, trying to slide past her. She blocked my path. "Um…excuse me, please."

  She sidled up against my body. I stepped back. "Ah…you're Jacob Slone, aren't you." she stated plainly, her tone hissing with dangerous confidence.

  "Yes, I am." I tried to go past her again, but she shuffled right along with me. I frowned. "Is there something I can do for you?"

  "I think the question is…" She took another step towards me, pinning me against the wall. Half lidded and completely seductive, her eyes darkened, from emerald to muddy hazel. "What can I do for you?"

  I swallowed thickly. I opened my mouth to answer and found her lips pressed against mine.

  Los Angeles—Hilton Hotel 1:00 am

  "Oh, yeah, fuck me, baby. Oh, my, god. You feel so good."

  The room was hot and stifling, our bodies soaked in sweat. I pumped in and out of her, falling into the familiar rhythm. The headboard hit the wall repeatedly, in time with our thrusting. She writhed beneath me, her body clenching.

  "Your prick is so hot, Jacob.”

  I wanted her to stop talking. I didn't need nor want the verbal stimulation. Another reminder that this was wrong—that I was taking advantage of this feeling woman. In my mind, I tried to justify it, pretending that this was her doing. She had seduced me. But I had allowed that to happen. No one said my answer should have been yes to her advances. It didn't matter, though. I didn't stop. Just kept pumping her full, hoping that maybe if I could fill her, I could fill some of the void inside me.

  I grabbed her rounded hips to anchor myself deeper into her pussy. Another sultry moan escaped her lips. She reached down to stimulate the taut little bud between her slick sex lips, touching the base of my cock. She came hard, the soft wet walls contracting. I pumped her faster and harder, following right behind, fast and sick.

  I collapsed on top of her, willing the panting to calm. I breathed deeply, inhaling the sickening scent of fruity shampoo. I wrinkled my nose and rolled over onto my back. I couldn't touch her anymore.

  When did it happen? When did it change from an expression of love to an act of desperation? The melding of flesh, the slap of slick bodies beneath scratchy cotton sheets. It had happened so many times before in countless hotel rooms, carpet littered with mini-bar liquor bottles, the carnal scent of sweat and alcohol mingling into a dizzying fog so thick I couldn't find my way.

  After a moment, she reached over to place a hand on my chest. "Baby, you are so good," she whispered hoarsely, running her fingertips across the sparse hair around my nipple.

  I resisted the urge to cringe. I rose from the bed, knocking her hand off me in the process. My distaste did not go unnoticed. I headed to the bathroom, confused accusation piercing my back the entire way. I didn't have to look to see the hurt on her face.

  I didn't bother closing the door. I turned on the tap and splashed water on my face. The cold liquid felt good, running off my heated skin.

  This act is supposed to be fulfilling—the ultimate connection. Instead, I had never felt more alone.

  "Why won't you let me know you?" I heard her say above the flowing water.

  I couldn't answer her. I couldn't look at her anymore. I pointed to the door. "Please…go," I said, willing my voice to sound cold.

  I heard her heave a sigh. I knew that she was going to cry. I couldn't even make myself care.

  She shuffled around the room to gather the rest of her belongings. The door slammed closed. I breathed in shallow pants, hoping to relax. But she had left behind the dirty, heavy guilt.

  I looked at my reflection in the mirror. My eyes looked empty—as hollow as a bamboo reed whistling in the wind.

  Two

  Ninoy Aquino International Airport

  Manila, Philippines 11pm

  Jacob

  The hustle and bustle of the airport was intimidating. Hundreds of people milling around—waiting in lines, gathered near conveyor belts, standing guard over boxes and luggage. Looking around at the sea of Asian-brown faces and black hair, I realized that I must have stuck out like a sore thumb.

  I should've been used to it by now. The life of a musician means wandering through strange airports, in a strange country, where almost everyone is a stranger.

  But it was different this time. I was completely alone. No manager and entourage gathered around. No bodyguards to make me feel secure. No Riley. There wasn't even a friendly face to meet me. Only some driver to take me to an unfamiliar place where I was supposed to find myself.

  I briefly considered finding a flight home. Home.

  Two weeks earlier

  Santa Monica—Slone townhouse 4:00 am

  My mother always taught me that home was wherever family was. That lesson began to comfort two homesick teenagers who traveled ten months out of the year, pursuing a musical dream. It was also the reason why I never left, choosing to stay at my mother's house despite coming of age and having the money. I needed that one constant. Regardless,

  the echo of those comforting words did not ease the

  insecurity. I felt like an invader as I crept through the

  Santa Monica townhouse that my mother had owned since before I was born. Despite the familiar pictures on the walls, the path down that hall that I knew with my eyes closed, the soft music that Riley always played when he was trying to sleep, I didn't feel the comfort that comes with home.

  I entered my bedroom as quietly as I could. Through the Venetian blinds, the paling sky began to illuminate the room with pink light. I sat down on the bed, still neatly made. I hadn't slept there in a few weeks. I knew that I wouldn't be able to sleep now.
It wasn't even worth trying. I closed my eyes against the dizzy, foggy feeling – I was still drunk.

  My eyes fell on the guitar in a stand in the corner of the room.

  I picked it up, running my fingers over the taut strings. I strummed a few chords, thinking back to a time when emotion would create some semblance of a melody.

  Two hours later, I heard the stirrings of the house waking for the day. Amidst the peaceful sound, my door suddenly flew open, the knob slamming violently against the wall behind it.

  "Where were you last night?" Riley barged into my bedroom, destroying the sliver of peace I thought I had found.

  I considered my brother's youthful face. His usually serene features were twisted in anger, his bright blue eyes flashing. I was taken aback at first, surprised at his outburst. Our eyes locked in a frighteningly intense gaze.

  I found my voice. "Since when did I have to report to you?" I really had no energy or desire to fight with him, but I couldn't help returning the spite in his words.

  "I'm talking about Owen's shindig for Worldwide. The event that's supposed to clinch us a new record deal?"

  "Oh, that." His eyes narrowed into slits, mouth twitching in a satisfied smirk. He knew that I had avoided it on purpose, and I knew I was in the wrong, but my pride wouldn't let me admit it. I clamored for an excuse. "I, um, had a date I couldn't get out of."

  "God, Jacob. You can fuck a groupie any other night. Why did you have to pick last night? The deal was done. All you had to do was show up!" He threw his hands up into the air. He paced the room, tugging on his blonde locks. His frustration hovered over me, pressing into my chest, making my head pound.

  "Geez, Riley. You don't have to get your panties all in a knot. I know for a fact that you charmed the pants off whoever needed charming last night. You didn't need me."

  "That isn't the point, Jake," he continued, his tone laced with venom. "You said you were going to be there and instead you left Chris and me to do all the dirty work. Again. How the hell are we supposed to sign with another record company if you keep ditching out on commitments? You know how important this is to our career. We're…" I had stopped counting the number of times this argument had taken place. I couldn't remember when I stopped caring. It was too much. Riley's words began to blur together in an inaudible milieu of noise. I stopped listening, willing the pounding in my head to stop.

  "Just fucking shut up!" I didn't recognize the growl escaping my lips. The words felt like lava, spewing anger from my mouth. The guitar was shattering on the floor, shards of wood splintering in every direction, mirroring the feeling in my gut. "You don't have any right to tell me what to do. God, damn it, Riley. You sound exactly like mom. How old do I to have to be before this family stops getting on my case?"

  I had interrupted him in mid-sentence. He stood in the middle of the room, his eyes growing wider--blue worlds so full of hate and mistrust. The tension in his shoulders left suddenly, as if he realized or saw something he hadn't seen before. "When you show us that you've grown up, Jake," he said, quietly.

  "What the hell happened to you? You used to be so different. I could count on you."

  His words cut through me like daggers tipped with truth poison.

  I got up and stood in front of the dresser, turning my back on my brother. I couldn't even look at him. "I don't know, Riley," I whispered. I wasn't sure if he heard me. "Just leave, okay?"

  He turned on his heel and walked out of the room, leaving me to wallow in the most powerful poison of all—guilt.

  * * *

  Pangasinan, Philippines—Owen Estate 8:45 am

  Maeva

  I washed my faced and found some loose pants and a cotton shirt. I hurried outside, hoping to catch the last bit of cool morning air. On my way out, I managed to avoid Rosalita's hands, thrusting toast and juice in my path. I've never been a breakfast eater.

  Across the manicured lawn and past my rose garden, I spotted Tito polishing Mr. Owen's favorite Cadillac. The sun glinted off the car's cherry red paint, making it glow under the cloth in Tito's hand. I watched him for a moment, noticing the effort shining on his wrinkled face.

  "Good morning, Tito." I called out.

  He looked up from his work and smiled widely. His grin warmed my heart, a certainty that waited for me without fail. Straightening, he stretched for a second, wiping at the sheen of sweat off his graying temple. "Hello, Lady Maeva. How are you this beautiful morning?"

  "Just fine," I replied, with a little frown. "Why must you call me Lady? It's makes me feel old." I scoffed at him, jokingly.

  "Because you are as elegant as a Lady," he replied with a wink. I shook my head, feigning contempt.

  "You just missed your gentleman caller, Lady Maeva," he continued, turning back to continue polishing the car.

  I rolled my eyes, unable to control the indignant little noise that came from my throat. "William? He is definitely no gentleman."

  "You are too hard on him. I think he is a nice boy. You should give him a chance," Tito said, amusement lacing his tone.

  "Over my dead body," I vexed. "William is crass, rude and the biggest male chauvinist on the planet. He isn't worth giving the time of day."

  Tito shook his head, laughing. "If not him, there are dozens of men yearning for your attention. One of them must be worth giving the time of day," he replied.

  I laughed. "You and Rosalita have been talking again, haven't you? Why are you two always trying to set me up? I'm perfectly content on my own, thankyouverymuch."

  He looked up at me, seriously. I was a bit taken aback by his sudden change in demeanor. "Everyone needs a little tenderness, Lady Maeva. And you deserve it most of all. "

  I smiled. I knew that he meant well, but I couldn't give my heart away. Not yet. Not to the wrong man.

  I reached my arms up to give Tito a hug and a kiss on the cheek. "Thank you for thinking of me, Tito. But I really am okay." He grinned at me, his ebony eyes shining with his usual mirth.

  "Oh! Before I forget," I said. "I talked to Mr. Owen this morning. We have a guest coming next week. He arrives on Monday. Mr. Jacob Slone. Would you please pick him up at the airport?"

  "Of course," he replied. "Oh, perhaps this Mr. Slone will be worthy of your attention. He is a famous rock star, is he not? That must mean that he is very handsome." He raised one eyebrow, trying to entice me to consider his words.

  I laughed. "Just go back to work, Tito. You are much more skilled at taking care of Mr. Owen's cars then at matchmaking."

  Three

  Ninoy Aquino International Airport

  Manila, Philippines 11:45 pm

  Jacob

  After 45 minutes and mistaking six different bags as my own, I found my suitcase. I wheeled my luggage through the busy terminal, unsure what was going to happen next. One look at the airport's busy, unorganized entrance, filled with people speaking in a foreign tongue and I suddenly felt panicked. On one side was the voice of reason, on the other was a million dreadful images of unsuspecting tourists getting mugged, kidnapped and/or murdered flew through my mind.

  Then I spotted it - a magical white card with the name 'Jacob Slone' carefully printed on it in black felt marker. I approached the man holding it.

  "Hi, um…I'm Jacob Slone," I said.

  He smiled warmly, tipping his hat. I released an audible sigh of relief. I realized that the man was wearing the complete chauffeur's get up – black jacket and pants, crisp white shirt. I couldn't help but find the situation incredibly amusing.

  "Hello, Mr. Slone. My name is Tito. I'm Mr. Owen's driver. I'm to take you to the Estate."

  He reached for my bag, and I flinched. His smile grew wider, "It's my job, Mr. Slone," he said, matter-a-of-factly.

  "Of course," I replied and handed over the bag.

  I followed him through the whooshing automatic doors. Outside, a wave of warm tropical air hit my face, a sharp contrast to the airport's artificial, air-conditioned atmosphere. A white stretch limo awaited my arrival. T
ito opened the door for me, and I slipped inside, feeling completely exposed and conspicuous. I always thought that limousines were too self-indulgent and pretentious and here I was climbing into one. I tried not to think about signing autographs or screaming fans or press junkets or interviews. I wanted away from that contrived existence. I wanted to feel real. I silently willed Tito to hurry with my luggage so we could be on our way. I felt more at ease when the limo pulled away from the airport and onto the highway.