Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 103402 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 517(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103402 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 517(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
“The rest of the poor pig’s body,” I was able to finish. “I’m so… this is crazy, Beck. So, so crazy. I thought I was going to be getting closure from this. But it’s the opposite. I feel like I’m constantly back in that fucking alleyway. And it’s getting worse. If it was Juan, how the hell did—”
My breathing turned ragged. I tried sucking in a breath but didn’t feel like it was enough. I sucked in another. Not enough.
Another.
No, still not enough.
More.
No. It wasn’t working. I couldn’t breathe.
One more time. Deep breath. So simple.
Why wouldn’t it work? Why couldn’t I breathe?
I could barely fill my lungs. It felt like scraping at the air.
“I can’t, I can’t.” I was holding on to Beckham. The world was spinning. This had become so fucking real, so fucking fast.
“Olly, Olly, listen to me. Listen.” Beckham held on to my hands. I still couldn’t breathe.
I couldn’t breathe.
“I can’t breathe. Beck.”
“You can. Yes you can. Listen to me. Follow me. Take one deep breath in through your nose. That’s it. There you go. Now let it out. Perfect. Let’s do it again. Just keep looking into my eyes, Olly. I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere. Just like that.”
It was working. My lungs were working again. The panic was being pushed away. Not far, but far enough to allow oxygen back into my body. I didn’t break my gaze from Beckham’s, letting his eyes serve as a lighthouse.
Another deep breath, my lungs filling up with fresh air. “Thank you,” I said, my voice low.
“Nothing to thank me for.”
In the same way I was able to find my breath, I found the questions I had been meaning to ask, the words rattling around in my brain, adding to the chaos. “How did they… How did they get in? Juan? Nothing’s broken. Nothing. And none of the neighbors noticed anything either, so there was no break-in. And I vividly remember unlocking my door when I got home. Jesus.” The anxiety attack had sapped me of any strength I had left. I broke down like a car sputtering to the side of the road. Thankfully, Beckham was there to wrap his strong arms around me. I buried my face in his chest and let it out. The years of fear, the years of trauma.
Everything felt so fresh. Like it had happened yesterday. Not the six years that separated me from Derrick’s murder. It felt like I was holding him only a few hours ago, watching him take his last breath.
I let it all out. Beckham held on to me through the storm.
After what felt like years of me trying to get it together, I separated from Beckham. He looked up at my apartment, and I knew he wanted to go in there and take a look before the cops messed around with it too much.
“Go,” I said. “I’ll be fine down here.” I took in a deep breath, grateful for the air.
“I’ll go up and take some pictures, and then I’ll be right back down. You’re staying at my place tonight.”
“Mind if these two bums come along?” I pointed at Mason and Jar. Thank all my pop-star gods that they were both underneath my bed when I had come home, no doubt scared off by whoever had come into my apartment. When I called them, they had come running from out under my bed, purring as they bumped into me.
Holding them and stuffing my face into their fur, allergies be damned, was one of the happiest moments of my life.
Beckham smiled and looked down at the hot-pink carriers. “I’ve got some cans of tuna waiting just for them.”
I wasn’t about to break his heart and tell him they preferred salmon. “Go up,” I said, nodding toward my apartment, feeling like an entire football field separated me from it, even though the scene that was going to add to my nightmares was up the stairs and to the right.
Beckham held both my hands and kissed me soft on the forehead. It wasn’t a kind of kiss I’d ever had before. It felt like I could trace the exact outline of his lips on my skin, even as he turned and walked up the steps, pulling out his identification from his shorts pocket. I just now noticed Beck had come here straight from the bar, still wearing his kickball uniform, with his nickname printed in bold white letters on the back of his shirt:
SHERCOCK HOLMES.
That one got a genuine belly laugh out of me. A sound that felt so out of place, I’m pretty sure it scared even Mason and Jar.
* * *
We got to Beckham’s place without any more panic attacks striking. Jesus. I hadn’t had many of those since the months after Derrick’s death. They’d struck hard and fast back then, seemingly out of nowhere.