Breath of Fire Read online

  I laughed. “That first semester I basically flunked out of every class at UC San Diego. Fucked around with friends. Drank too much probably. Missed you. And yeah. Was an asshole about it.”

  Her full lips curved. “Not hearing your voice every day was horrible. Not having someone who knew so much about me, who shared my same memories, who truly saw me. I kept drawing your face — so much so that my roommate would yell at me every time I started to draw a strand of curly hair.” Olivia reached forward, brushing a strand off my forehead. A tender touch, one she’d done a million times when we were younger.

  “Four years is a long time to be with someone, especially back then,” I said. “We had a lot of firsts.”

  She flushed. Olivia and I had shared every sexual milestone, and even as teenagers our chemistry burned red hot. Before we’d lost our virginity to each other, Olivia and I had perfected the art of dirty humping — on her basement floor. My bedroom floor. Against our lockers. Behind the bleachers after soccer practice. Once, before a movie, Olivia had dragged me into the backseat of my car. I’d laid her flat on her back, legs splayed open on the seat, and dry-fucked us both into gasping orgasms as the windows steamed over.

  “That’s true. Every person I’ve dated after you has, uh…not been up to par.” She tossed her hair, and let our knees graze each other beneath the table.

  “In what way?”

  Her eyes traveled down my chest, over my waist, and landed between my legs. “They’ve had terrible taste in music.”

  “How so?” I smirked.

  “Very…small taste. Tiny.”

  “Still such a fucking flirt,” I said, shaking my head, as our waiter slid a giant plate of chocolate peanut butter brownies onto the table.

  “For me?” Olivia clapped her hands together.

  “All for you, Liv,” I said. “But only if we stop talking about our dumb break-up and start talking about what you’re doing with your life as a bohemian New York artist.”

  Olivia stuffed a giant piece of brownie into her mouth and chewed. Her hair shone glossy black in the diner light.

  “You’re sure you don’t want to talk about how, I don’t know, you’re famous?” she asked.

  I shook my head, reaching over to steal a bite. She tried to slap my hand away, but I was too fast, as usual.

  “Nope,” I said, pointing a finger at her. “You can learn all you want about me on my very public Instagram account.”

  “Oh, please,” she sighed. “Maybe I already follow you.”

  “Why thank you,” I said, stealing another bite. It felt strange to talk about my celebrity with someone who knew me so intimately. “Now tell me everything.”

  Her face opened in a beautiful smile. “After I graduated from Pratt, I had two pieces selected to be in this gallery in Brooklyn. Which was the most phenomenal feeling I’d ever experienced. I went there at least once a day and stared at them through the window,” she laughed.

  “What were they?” I asked, in love with the idea of Olivia’s work hanging on a gallery wall.

  “Charcoal portraits of my parents, actually,” she said. “The gallery was celebrating expressions of interracial relationships. It was in honor of the anniversary of the Loving decision in 1967.”

  Olivia’s father was Vietnamese, her mother was white, and it made so much sense to me that her first gallery pieces would be portraits of two people who had supported her art career wholeheartedly.

  “That’s incredible, Liv. Did they come see it?”

  “They sure did,” she said. “They didn’t get Brooklyn, or why I was suddenly covered in tattoos and living in a loft with five other people, but they understood that I was fully embracing who I was. No hiding, no shame. I must have taken four hundred pictures of them posing in front of their portraits together with these huge smiles. That was a really great day.” She paused. “Kind of like today.”

  I held her gaze for a moment. “Happy to hear that. Although can I ask you an annoying question that I’m sure you get asked all the time?”

  “Is it how did you make money?”

  “Yeah,” I laughed. “All of our career counselors were so concerned about you. But you never seemed to be worried.”

  She shrugged. “The most important thing was that I got a job that gave me the mental freedom to still create. So I worked at an art supply store and got paid to basically fuck around with paints all day. At night, I picked up a few shifts as a bartender at this local bar near the loft. And then every other free minute of my day, I drew. In museums, at parks, at bus stations, at farmer’s markets. Some of my pieces ended up in galleries and sold, which was great. A lot didn’t.” Another shrug. “But I kept going.”

  “You never doubted it though?” I asked, Rita’s offer was ringing in my ears: I want to make you a fuckton of money. I’d managed to suppress the thoughts of my looming decision in Olivia’s all-consuming presence, but I only had forty-eight hours left. “You never wanted to just, I don’t know, make a lot of money and be financially secure?”

  Olivia tilted her head, pressing her knee more firmly against mine. On pure instinct, I reached down and squeezed her knee with my fingers — an affectionate gesture she’d used to love.

  “A few years ago I went through a rough time, artistically,” she said. “I was so blocked, feeling bad about myself. Like I’d lost it. Some friends and I pooled our resources and rented a gallery space for the weekend. A pop-up art show, we called it. We had music and tons of rad art by mostly women artists — sculptures and light pieces and performances. And then my charcoal portraits. A minor art reviewer came out and wrote up a pretty critical review in one of the papers. Called it ‘juvenile.’”

  “He sounds like a huge dick to me,” I said.

  Olivia laughed. “Thank you. He was. He wrote like one sentence about my pieces. Called them pedestrian. Boring.” She looked out the window.

  I tightened my fingers on her knee. “Well…fuck that guy, right?”

  “That’s how I feel now,” she said. “And I guess it showed me that the art community still had this large segment of people who view art, in any form, within this rigid, serious, usually male-dominated context. Sure, our opening was juvenile in that it was fucking fun. It was a weekend of art with friends, and those pieces were an expression of our lives and our experiences. The fact that he didn’t like it is his prerogative, but I let it get in my head. Like deep in my head.” She tapped her fingers against her temple. “Day and night, I’d hear the words pedestrian and boring. And I stopped creating completely.”

  “Oh Liv,” I said. “I can’t imagine. I wish you had called me. I would have come to you. And probably punched that guy.”

  Her eyes softened. “It was years after we’d broken up. I think I remember checking your Instagram at the time, and you were teaching a celebrity yoga retreat in Bali.”

  “Right,” I said, coughing awkwardly. “Well, that was just a side job to…”

  “What?”

  “Make a fuck-ton of money.”

  “Interesting,” she said, which was always what she said when she knew I was bullshitting.

  “So what happened?” I asked.

  “I took a job as an executive assistant for a pretty high-powered CEO. It was only a year, and I made great money, but it basically crushed my soul and destroyed my will,” she laughed. “It was terrible. I worked ten, eleven-hour days, six days a week. My life was nothing but this horrible stress that would sit on my chest. I always felt like I was choking. It’s actually why I started doing yoga, something to soothe my anxiety.”

  “And it helped?” I asked.

  “Of course,” she said. “Like a lot of people, my yoga practice changed my life.”

  I leaned forward, excited. “It’s so simple, but it’s so necessary in this culture we currently live in. Your body craves this combination of rhythmic breathing and rhythmic movement. I wish everyone had access to it, like people who are struggling much more than…” I trailed off
.

  “Much more than celebrities?” she said gently.

  “A topic for another day,” I said, circling my thumb on her knee. She sucked in a breath, so I did it again, sliding my fingers just an inch higher. “Tell me you quit this job in some spectacular Olivia fashion. Like painted go fuck yourselves on the reception wall.”

  “How did you know?” she said.

  I winked at her. “Because I know you.”

  “Well, I did quit in a very adult manner. And then I slept for a full week, only going out for yoga classes. And then—” her voice cracked “—it was like this flood, Sage. A year’s worth of artistic energy moved through me like a, like a wave. It was one of the most amazing experiences of my life. Overwhelming too, but it just showed me that I was probably always going to be a pretty broke artist. But a happy one.”

  “I’m really proud of you, Olivia,” I said. “You’re still my favorite artist.”

  “I’m really proud of you, Sage McAllister,” she said with a cheeky grin. “You’re still my favorite subject.”

  We stared at each other, my fingers dancing carefully up her leg, the feel of her skin beneath my fingers so goddamn decadent I couldn’t stop myself.

  “Liv—” I started, and then our waiter swung by with the check, shattering the moment.

  “Can I walk you to your car?” I said, throwing a wad of cash on the table.

  “I’d like that,” she said.

  We stepped outside the Paradise Cafe and stood on the edge of the boardwalk, staring at the ocean bathed in moonlight. I’d always loved Playa Vieja at night — for locals, it was our private escape, free from the tourists, a time to sink into the cold sand and let the waves wash over you.

  “I, uh, have some big news to share with you,” I said, as the two of us watched the reflection of the moon on the water.

  “Oh, yeah?” she asked.

  “I got offered a deal for a TV show yesterday. Like a lifestyle show, where I’d teach yoga and interview guests.”

  I turned to Olivia, who was staring at me with wide eyes.

  “Sage,” she said, “that’s…I mean, that’s incredible. You’d be a TV star?”

  “I guess,” I said, laughing softly. I toed the sand, hands in my pocket. “They’re waiting on my signature as we speak. The producer told me it’d be a metric fuck-ton of money.”

  “Well, of course,” Olivia said. “Money and even more fame. That’s what you want, right?”

  No, my brain whispered.

  “I do,” I said. “It’s a way to reach even more people. And there’d be, you know, like silly merchandise and stuff. Tee-shirts, coffee mugs.”

  I swallowed, nerves rushing into my throat.

  “Interesting,” she said again, and I knew what I was saying was bullshit.

  “You don’t think I should do it?” I asked with an edge of defensiveness.

  “I didn’t say that,” she said lightly. “I’m just not sure Sage McAllister, Yoga Celebrity, is who you are.”

  “Well, I’m probably going to sign the contract. I mean, I will,” I said, stampeding through the nerves.

  “If it makes you feel good, then do it,” she said. “I’ll watch your show every day, I promise.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Oh, yeah,” she laughed. “Watch and drool over your abs like every other fan you have.”

  “They are pretty great,” I said drily.

  “Oh, shut up,” she said, as we walked toward the parking lot. “Hey, maybe you could talk about some of my drawings on your show, make me famous too? But don’t tell them I’m your ex-girlfriend or I’ll get death threats.”

  “The moment I talk about you on TV, Olivia, the entire country will realize I have a huge crush on you.”

  “Me?” she teased. “No way.”

  The night was coming to an end, and as I inhaled the sea-salt air, I felt desperately torn between these two distinct desires: Olivia or fame.

  But the answer seemed easy when she was standing right in front of me, looking gorgeous in the moonlight.

  “Always, Olivia,” I promised. “I had a crush on you ever since our freshman year. Still have a crush on you now.”

  4

  OLIVIA

  It was a good day.

  I sold two more pieces from my installation — this time, to a young couple that loved art and were happy to chat with me for an hour about their favorite artists. And then I’d gone looking for apartments in Playa Vieja, stumbling upon one close to my parents’ house. It was the bright, light-filled third floor of an old Victorian near the beach, filled with built-in book-cases and stained-glass windows. It had a very, very small second bedroom I could turn into an art studio if I wanted. And the moment I’d stepped inside, my heart gave this happy little shimmy.

  It felt like my new home.

  I’d still need to get the rest of my things from Brooklyn, tie up some loose ends. But it all felt right and real and possible.

  And now I was back for Sage’s last yoga class, laying flat on my back, feet together and hips open in a butterfly stretch. Eyes closed, breathing rhythmically, attempting to sift through the hundreds of emotions brought up by my quasi-date with Sage last night. It was so wonderfully unexpected, and even though I knew he’d be leaving for Los Angeles tomorrow — and probably becoming a famous TV star after that — I was desperate to see him again.

  I still have a crush on you now.

  Between our casual flirting and his fingers on my knee, every nerve in my body was fizzing, effervescent. I was aroused, nervous, happy and freaked out, all at the exact same time. In fact, in my hotel room last night, I’d stayed up for hours after, drawing, attempting to capture that image Sage had invoked in me yesterday — a woman with the body of a warrior and a breath of fire.

  Sage had been back in my life for all of two days, and I was overflowing with creativity.

  “Do you remember the night of our senior prom?”

  I fluttered my eyes open to find Sage, crouched next to my prone form. He smelled like sandalwood and looked like sex: shirtless, tan, barefoot, just the right amount of scruff on his jaw.

  “Of course I remember our senior prom. Your parents took pictures for an hour, and we were almost late because of it,” I said, remembering eighteen-year-old Sage in a black tux.

  “My mom kept saying you’re going to want these to show your grandchildren someday,” Sage said, flashing me that crooked grin.

  “Ah, that’s right,” I said. “Wouldn’t those future grandchildren love to know that later that night we both got drunk at Julia Markham’s after-prom party and had sloppy sex in her guest bedroom?”

  Sage laughed, a hearty, full-throated sound. “I’m sorry I was pretty bad at sex then.”

  “You, uh…you weren’t bad,” I admitted. I’d meant what I said to Sage last night — not only had he spoiled me for other sexual partners with his impressively-sized cock, but Sage always had a single-minded obsession with bringing me pleasure.

  “Good to hear,” he winked, and I wondered what sex with Sage would be like now. Both of us older, and more experienced, and hungry for each other after six years apart.

  “You know,” I whispered, and he ducked his head lower, “if you keep coming back here to talk to me, your fans are going to get suspicious.” I’d already felt a few glaring eyes on us.

  “Ah,” he said. “I’ll let you in on a little secret.” He crooked his finger at me so I half-sat up, raising my head. Sage lowered his lips to my ear. “The only person I care about in this room is you, Liv.”

  My heart slammed against my rib cage. Our eyes locked, and a piercing recognition hung between us.

  “I’ll see you after class?” he asked, as if it was even a question. And then he stood, and I watched his god-like body move through a swarm of students to the front of the room.

  “Welcome everyone,” he said. “I’m sad to say that tonight is my last night here in Playa Vieja, my hometown. And I’m devastated to leave you a
ll.” The class laughed, shifting on their mats. “So I want your focus tonight to be one thing.” Sage looked right at me. “I want you to focus on love.”

  He settled onto his mat. Closed his eyes. “Let’s begin.”

  ⁂

  After ninety minutes of glorious movement, Sage finally instructed us into our final resting pose. He turned the lights off, silenced the music. Invited us to lay back fully on our mats and let everything go.

  “You’ve earned this rest,” he said quietly. “If it feels right, flutter your eyes closed. Feel the earth beneath you.” I exhaled, body humming with soft energy, and listened to the sound of Sage traveling to the back row of students. Throughout the class, he’d been adjusting students with his skilled hands, giving massages and assessing alignment. I could hear his feet now, quietly moving toward me. My eyes were closed, and I couldn’t help but send up a silent plea he was coming my way.

  Closer. And then closer still. A steady heat was already pulsing between my legs at the anticipation of being touched.

  “May I touch you, Olivia?” he asked, lips against my ear again. I nodded, keeping my eyes closed, hyper-aware of his big body so close to mine.

  Sage inhaled with me, then his strong fingers landed on my bare shoulders. Pressing down, opening the tight muscles. They moved lower, past my elbow, back up again. Almost grazing the sides of my breasts, but not quite.

  His thumbs landed on my forehead, stroked down to my temples, soothing.

  And then those same fingers dove into my hair, scratching against my scalp in the most delicious way. I bit my lip, purring before I could stop myself.

  Sage stilled at the sound, and my eyes flew open.

  His sea-green eyes were rapacious, hungry. Jaw clenched. We were breathing rapidly together.