Breathe (His Command Book 5) Page 2

  It was a cosmic joke of the highest order that they’d met when they had. Now that Marshall had accepted his lot in life, he’d found someone who made him wish he had the strength of will to reconsider his chosen path.

  That pretty, glossy spot of cum on the front of Oliver’s boxer-briefs meant nothing compared to the individual who’d snapped the picture.

  Marshall sucked in a deep breath, slowly expanding his lungs with concentrated oxygen. He parted the fly of his slacks and snaked a hand beneath his briefs to fist his cock in slow, easy movements.

  If only he’d crossed paths with Oliver several years ago. How different things could have been.

  Marshall’s hand picked up the pace, but while the additional speed felt wonderful, it left him gasping. He had no choice but to slow his hand—torture—and tease his erection with predictable pumps that made him yearn to buck his hips and exhaust himself. The pleasure inside built, stacking itself higher and more precariously until Marshall stood no chance of building it any further. His stomach clenched and his balls tightened. He pumped again and let the tower fall, sending him crashing into orgasm.

  All the while, he thought of Oliver.

  A flash of pale skin in the shower. Eyes—would they be blue? Or maybe an amber-brown that would melt even the iciest heart—softened with lust, and still partially lidded from the orgasm Marshall had driven him to. Marshall imagined the body he knew so well wet and glistening in the water, freckled shoulders slumped as Oliver leaned against the wall and touched himself yet again, still too horny from their earlier conversation to dream of falling asleep. Marshall would kiss him if he were there, capturing his lips and stealing the breath from his lungs until Oliver was left gasping for more. He’d pull Oliver from the shower and drag him to the bedroom, and they’d collapse in bed, winded because of each other.

  Between slow, controlled breaths, Marshall cleaned up the mess from his orgasm. He glanced at his phone, wondering if Oliver might change his mind about going to bed, but no messages were waiting for him. More crestfallen than he cared to admit, he waited on the couch until the urge to pant lessened, then took the oxygen mask from his face and set it aside. He’d take it easy for the rest of the night. If he did, his cannula—the plastic tubing feeding oxygen directly to his nose—would do just fine on its own.

  Marshall stood slowly, stretched, then lifted the portable oxygen compressor from off the coffee table and carried it to the kitchen. He’d come home late—Oliver had been a welcome distraction through the end of the work day, but time had flown a little too fast in his presence, and Marshall hadn’t realized the office had emptied until the janitor had unlocked the door to his office to mop the floors and empty the wastebasket.

  Marshall was no stranger to late nights. He hadn’t achieved his position on the Fortune 500 by clocking out at five and tuning out from his business until nine the next morning, but since his diagnosis three years ago, life had taken an unexpected turn, and late nights were a thing of the past. Frankly, his late homecoming wouldn’t have been such an issue had he remembered to eat, but in the excitement of messaging Oliver, he’d forgotten to do that, too.

  The overhead light flicked on when he stepped into the kitchen. He made his way to the fridge and tugged it open. The light inside blinked and flickered a few times before it stayed lit, casting dancing shadows across the carefully portioned meals on the shelves below. Marshall had been meaning to fix the light in the fridge for months now, but its importance had fallen by the wayside. Entertaining Oliver always seemed like a better use of his time.

  “What to eat,” he mumbled. “What to eat...”

  Marshall’s empty stomach wasn’t only due to the way Oliver distracted him—food was never appealing anymore, and Marshall dodged eating whenever he could. There was enough food in the fridge, but to get himself to eat it was a struggle. Cedar plank salmon steaks from the night before served over rice and divided into individual portions would be easy to heat, but the thought of eating his way through an entire meal tied Marshall’s stomach into knots. Salad, rinsed and waiting for vinaigrette, wouldn’t have been so bad if he didn’t have to chew it for so long. There was even a container of strawberries—his weakness—nearing over-ripeness, but they didn’t tempt him. His tongue wanted as little to do with food as his stomach did.

  It was getting bad.

  Marshall closed his eyes and forced a sigh out through his nose, then selected one of the portions of cedar plank salmon over rice. He popped the lid and placed it in the microwave, then keyed in a reheat time and pushed the start button. The microwave hummed, and Marshall distracted himself by watching the container spin slowly through the microwave’s window. Eating was a necessary evil. He’d tried to take his medication on an empty stomach before, and it had knocked him on his ass and forced him to take a day off work.

  Dr. Wesford hadn’t been pleased by that.

  There’s no reason a man your age should have to live in conditions like these, Mr. Alcrest. Take your pirfenidone with every meal as recommended. Unless you agree to put yourself on the wait list for transplant surgery, we can only hope to manage your symptoms. Establish routines and you’ll feel the difference. If you take the time to care for yourself, your health will follow.

  Only routine hadn’t seemed so appealing when there was limited time left to form it—hadn’t, because a certain someone was dangerously close to making Marshall change his mind about everything.

  Marshall leaned against the counter. He set his oxygen compressor down beside him and listened to its hum compete against the microwave. In an apartment much smaller than his high-rise condo in the prestigious Oracle Point Towers, nestled in a shadier part of the city, the young man who’d made him doubt his choices was likely settling down to sleep. Marshall’s fingers itched to send Oliver another message, but he knew better than to come across as desperate. Oliver was looking for fun, and maybe for someone to talk to about his day. The last thing he needed on top of all the other stress in his life was to deal with an internet stranger who’d started to develop feelings.

  The microwave beeped. Marshall lifted his chin and pulled the door open. The side of the container was hot, and he lifted it awkwardly by the top before leaving it to cool on the burner of the stove. With a hum, he opened the cutlery drawer and selected a fork, then tossed the lid of the container in the sink and poked at the rice a few times. Steam coiled upward, then thinned and disappeared. Marshall pressed his lips together. The sight of his meal didn’t appeal to him any more than the smell.

  He forced himself to take a bite.

  The taste wasn’t bad. Once upon a time, he’d liked salmon, and rice had been a staple in his diet since childhood. It was a comfort. Now, each grain had a texture he couldn’t tolerate, like he was trying to eat wood pulp instead of food. Marshall swallowed it down and repeated the process.

  Soon enough, the salmon and rice were gone.

  He tossed the empty container in the sink for the cleaning service to take care of tomorrow, then grabbed his oxygen compressor and left the kitchen to head to the bathroom. On the medicine cabinet mirror was a neon-yellow post-it note, a single word inscribed on it in Marshall’s meticulous handwriting.

  Remember.

  Marshall barely saw it anymore. He set his oxygen compressor on the sink counter and opened the medicine cabinet. A familiar pill bottle waited inside. Hands working from muscle memory, Marshall plucked it from the shelf and twisted off the cap. With a shake of the bottle, three capsules landed on his palm, and he swallowed them one by one without water. The pill bottle, capped, found its way back to where it belonged. Then Marshall collected his oxygen compressor and left the bathroom to head for bed.

  From the living room, he heard his phone buzz.

  One corner of Marshall’s lips twitched upward. He looked toward the door and momentarily considered leaving the conversation until the morning—just to prove that he had self-control—but temptation won out. He carried his oxygen compre
ssor back to the living room, snagged his phone from the couch, and returned to the bedroom. Oliver had to have come out of the shower hotter than he’d gone in, and Marshall would be more than happy to help him work off some steam.

  He settled down in bed, made sure his cannula was properly secured in case he fell asleep, then woke the screen of his phone, ready to tease Oliver all over again. But the message waiting for him wasn’t from Oliver—it was from an old friend and longtime business associate, Crawford Daniels.

  Tell me you’re not doing anything on the 15th.

  Marshall snorted. That’s a month away. I couldn’t tell you what I’m doing tomorrow.

  Then make sure you’re not doing anything on the 15th. I’m booking you.

  What, pray tell, is so exciting about the 15th that it’s prying you from your boys? I was convinced that I’d never see Crawford Daniels, family man, parted from his sons in my lifetime.

  There was a pause. Marshall was set to apologize for his poor attempt at morbid humor when Crawford sent a reply. The Shepherd is having its annual open house. Owen and I have already arranged for a babysitter. It would be good for you to get out again. Sterling will be there. I’m working on Marcus.

  Marshall smoothed a hand down his face, careful not to disturb his tubing. On open house night? The crowds will be insane. You know how it is. It’s the same every year.

  Your membership has lapsed. Mine has, too. Marcus hasn’t been back since he ran off with Lucian. Sterling’s partially retired. Open house is the only time we could meet, unless you’re interested in paying your dues and making a comeback to the scene.

  Marshall choked back a laugh. No.

  Then on the fifteenth, you’ll come. One night. One last time. Meet us there. You won’t regret it.

  Regret was a waste Marshall didn’t have time for. One last time.

  I’ll be back in touch closer to the date, Crawford said. Maybe you’ll find someone whose company you’ll wish to entertain.

  Marshall didn’t need to visit The Shepherd to do that. There was a boy he already wanted to meet on the other end of his Kik conversation.

  Talk to you soon, Crawford.

  Goodnight, Marshall.

  One last hurrah at The Shepherd with the friends he knew he’d never see again. Marshall set his phone down and closed his eyes. There’d never been a more fitting goodbye.

  3

  Oli

  The sharp rapping at Oli’s front door startled him so much he almost fell out of bed. A frisson of fear shot down his spine and spread through his lungs like roots, but he plucked the feeling from his soul as best he could as he picked himself up and snagged a t-shirt on the way to the door.

  No one ever came knocking. The neighborhood he lived in didn’t exactly attract solicitors, and Oli wasn’t expecting guests. At nine in the morning, everyone he knew had either planted their asses in their seat at work, or were sleeping off a long night shift. So who was at his door, and what did they want? He didn’t open the door for people he didn’t know—especially not where he was living.

  He crept to the front door and gazed through the peephole. A postal worker stood there.

  Oli smoothed out the wrinkles in his shirt and made sure he was as presentable as someone wearing sheep-print pajama pants could be, then opened the door. “Hello.”

  “Hi. Name, please?”

  Oli blinked. There was an envelope in the postal worker’s hand—one of the stiff cardboard ones he’d have to tear open to get inside. He looked from the envelope to the postal worker’s face. “Oli McKellar… but I’m pretty sure you must have the wrong address. I’m not expecting any mail. I always get apartment 204’s mail, for some reason. They’re one floor below me. Their door is the one that looks like it’s been gnawed at by overgrown hamsters.”

  The postal worker stared at him and said nothing, but her expression flattened in a way that told Oliver she’d only just started her work day and she was in no way prepared to deal with his bullshit. Between his sheep-print pajamas, the fact that his hair likely looked like a cracked-out bird with spatial sense issues had nested in it, and the exhaustion-fueled rambling he’d just done, it didn’t surprise him. Without a word said, the postal worker passed him her handheld device. A stylus dangled from its side on a spiral cord. Unwilling to make a further fool of himself, Oli accepted it, picked up the stylus, and signed his name. She took the device back and handed him the envelope.

  “Thank you,” Oli said, although he still wasn’t sure what was going on. “Have a nice day.”

  “You as well.”

  Oli closed the door, pinched the bridge of his nose, and squeezed his eyes shut in frustration over his own awkwardness. The same scathing negativity as always overtook his thoughts. Really working your social skills there, bud. Way to wow her. If you bring that same can-do attitude to your interviews, you’ll have a job in no time. It’s a wonder no one’s hired you so far!

  “You know what?” Oli muttered out loud. He rubbed his face, his eyes still squeezed closed in frustration. “Go fuck yourself, negativity. I don’t have time for your bullshit today.”

  The negativity didn’t listen—it never did—but Oli felt a little better knowing that he’d made an effort.

  Without anyone else to greet, and with a mystery on his hands, he brought the envelope to the kitchen and tore the perforated strip to access its contents. A simple push at the edges caused its mouth to yawn open. There was a paper inside.

  “That’s it?” Oli asked. He tapped the envelope on the kitchen counter to free the paper. “What a waste.”

  The paper parted from the envelope and slid across the counter. It bumped the raised edge of Oli’s oven, and Oli slapped a hand over it before it decided to slip down the crevice between the stove and the counter—a land where wayward pasta noodles went to die. Whatever the paper was, it looked official as fuck. Oli squinted at it, then slid it across the counter and set it the right way.

  His heart fell into his stomach.

  Notice to Quit, read the header. Oli read on, even though his head was screaming at him to stop. Pursuant to 13-40-702, you are hereby notified by the undersigned owner that your tenancy of the premises described below is terminated as of...

  “No.” Oli’s lips spoke the words without meaning to, and he slapped a hand over his mouth. The words on the paper lost their meaning. He didn’t need them, anyway—he already knew what the rest of the legal jargon was meant to tell him.

  He was being evicted.

  Bile rose up his throat, and he left the paper on the kitchen counter, wishing that it had fallen into the spaghetti graveyard. How could this have happened? There was no reason for it. He’d never received a complaint before, he’d never caused damage to the property or modified anything in the apartment, and rent—

  Oli snatched his phone from his pocket and jabbed wildly at the screen. He had to retry three times to unlock his phone, and by the third time, his fearful rage had grown so strong that he was ready to throw the phone across the room if it denied him access one more time. When his main screen appeared, he jabbed at his bank app and waited while the program loaded.

  It was the longest ten seconds of his life.

  Rent was drawn every month from his account like clockwork through ACH. He knew to anticipate the charge, and he always made sure to have enough money available. There was no reason why—

  There, one day before rent was due, was a charge for five hundred dollars from his mobile carrier. There was all of thirty-seven cents in his account.

  “What the fuck?” Oli stared at the charge. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He simultaneously wanted to sink through the floor to become one with the grimy kitchen tile and punch a hole in the nearest cardboard-thin wall. “Five hundred dollars? How the hell is my phone bill five hundred dollars? What the actual fuck?”

  He scrolled back through his payment history, observing the charges. Rent, utilities, groceries, and all the little day-to-day things
he just so happened to buy were all clearly listed, but there was no phone bill. No matter how far back he scrolled, he couldn’t find a single payment.

  The fuckers had charged him half a year’s worth of payments—with interest—all at once.

  A sensation crawled through his stomach—one he’d never felt before. It dragged itself low, like a diseased, feral cat on the prowl whose belly was so bloated that its matted, flea-ridden fur scraped the pavement. Its claws dug themselves into Oli’s stomach and tore him to pieces, like they weren’t only sharp, but barbed. The pain rode secondary to fear, and beneath it all, propping it all up like it was a helium balloon being stretched more thinly by the second, was anger.

  None of this should have happened. He’d worked his ass off jumping through hoops to land temp jobs that paid next to nothing, and he’d been applying to every permanent position he could in the meantime. It wasn’t like he was a high school dropout—he had a college degree. A degree in goddamn marketing. So why was it that nowhere was hiring?

  Why was no one taking him seriously?

  And why the hell was his landlord being such a raging asshole about late rent? He’d never missed a payment before.

  Before he did anything else, Oli called the apartment’s administration. If they didn’t pick up, he’d march down to the office and demand that someone see him. The date they’d listed on the notice to quit was five days from now—five days to find a moving van, pack up his shit, and sign a lease somewhere new, all while his account was hovering at the zero mark.

  No biggie. No fucking biggie, right?

  He paced his apartment as the phone rang, wandering from the kitchen into the living room, then back again. The place wasn’t exactly huge. If it hadn’t been for the wall dividing the tiny bedroom from the shoebox that was the living room and kitchen, it would have been a studio apartment. Calling it a one-bedroom was a marketing ploy.

  “Pick up the goddamn phone,” Oli muttered. If he didn’t get in touch with someone soon, he’d lose it. He couldn’t afford to move out. Where was he supposed to go? “I will find you if you don’t, and I will—”