Page 41 of Saxon

I fell for Travis in exactly twenty seconds—I was doing jumping lunges on a Tabata protocol, and he absolutely smoked me. But he didn't make me feel bad about it, just challenged me to hit the next set even harder…

Fucking Travis Goddamned Asshole Larimer, who irreparably shattered my heart and soul.

Fucking Travis. The vile bastard had the gall to get himself killed before I could Lorena Bobbitt him my-own-goddamn-self.

I look down at the speedometer and realize I'm going nearly a hundred miles per hour. I back off until I'm only going eighty-five and set the cruise control—which, it turns out, is one of those fancy cruise controls that's like a baby version of autopilot. Freaky, but cool.

I try not to think about Travis. No point, usually. He did what he did, and I survived it. He's dead, and I’m alive.

I'm fucked up because of what he did to me…well, more fucked up than I already was. He was just the last in a long line of asshole men who deserve to have their dicks chopped off and fed to them. But what makes what Trav did to me worse than the others is that I loved him, I trusted him—I fucking told him what I'd been through and he still did it to me.

If anything, knowing what I'd already been through seemed to make him enjoy what he did all the more. He was a clinically diagnosed sadistic psychopath, you see. But, true to form, he hid his diagnosis, lied about it, and lured me in with his glib charm and All-American Boy Next Door good looks.

He lured me in—what a great analogy. He had a juicy worm, too. Complete with a hidden hook, barbed and vicious.

Fucking Travis.

My skull feels two sizes too small, suddenly. My chest hurts, squeezed by red-hot iron bands which constrict and crush. I can't breathe.

The powerful engine roars, and the road flashes by. My vision blurs, so I can't see the road or make out the speedometer. All I can do is grip the steering wheel and try to hold it straight and tell myself I'm not dying, I'm not having a heart attack, it's just panic. Just panic. It'll pass.

It's not passing.

My foot is mashed to the floor, and the wheel is shaking in my hands.

"Hey, hey now." A low, deep, rough, soothing sound—gentle words in my ear. "Breathe in."

Hands on my hands. Hot breath in my ear.

I can't breathe in. Can't breathe out. Lungs burn and ache. I can't let go of the wheel. Can't move my foot.

"Just a little sip of air. Pull it in through your lips. Just a little bit."

All I manage is a shrill keening whimper. His hands on mine are strong and gentle.

"Let's try again, Terra. Remind yourself where you are. You're here, in this car with me. Feel my hands on yours? They're real. I'm real. Look out the window. What do you see?"

"D-dark. It's dark." My voice is harsh and tight.

"Yeah, honey, it's dark." Lips on my earlobe. Breath on the side of my neck—in and out, in and out, slow, even, regular. "Feel my breath?"

"F-feel. Feel it."

"Good. Try to match me." In, and out. In, and out. "One breath, just one."

I fight for it. Everything I am is fighting me, tight, constricted, coiled, tense, resisting me. But I'm no quitter. I'm a survivor, and I never, ever give up.

I manage a sip of oxygen. It burns my throat, but it loosens my lungs the tiniest bit.

"Good, Terra, very good. Try again. Another one. Just a little breath in."

The wheel shakes and shudders in my hands. The engine screams and roars.

I fight for a breath. Manage a gasp of sweet, blessedly cool air, loosening the vise around my chest a little more.

"Good, very good. Do it again, Terra. Another little breath in."

I exert my will, force my lungs to inflate—it's like sucking a thick milkshake through a cocktail straw. But, slowly, through a concentrated effort, I manage a full breath.