Breathing Lies: (The Breathing Undead Series, Book 1) Read online

  I inch closer to get a better look. Sure enough, in the middle of the collage is a picture of me. I’m sitting on my front porch, reading a book. From the way the sun glistens across my face and with how bloomed the flowers are that line the grass around the porch, it’s clearly summertime. My hair is a mess, and I’m wearing an old pair of shorts and a tank top, but I look content.

  Content? Have I felt like that since the accident?

  “What’re you doing in here?” Kingsley’s voice suddenly sails over the music.

  I feel as though I should be tense—in the past I would’ve—but for some reason I’m not.

  In fact, I’m strangely calm at the moment.

  Biting on my bottom lip, I twist around to face him.

  He’s standing in the doorway, dressed in dark jeans, a black T-shirt, and a chain dangles from his belt loop. His normal array of leather bands covers his wrists and bruises cover his knuckles.

  Beautiful. He is so beautiful.

  I blink the overpowering thoughts from my mind, my gaze dropping to the bruises on his knuckles. “How did you bruise your hand?”

  He eyes me over. “Why are you in my room?”

  “I was …” You were what, Harlynn? You know you don’t have an excuse, so you might as well just tell the truth. “I heard the music. I was listening to this exact song right before I came over here, and I … Well, honestly I wandered in here for no reason. And then I saw your photos and …” I offer him an apologetic look. “I’m sorry. I had no right to come in here. I think I’m just tired or something.” Or something is right.

  Kingsley’s intense gaze dissects me. “Are you okay? I mean, with the whole accident thing?” His gaze descends to the bandage on my wrist.

  I rotate my arm over and stare at the blood-stained bandage, the fresh blood a reminder of what I did in the bathroom.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. My wrist is the only thing that still hurts.” And only because I made it hurt. “Everything else is healed. Well, except for my head. Or my memory anyway.”

  Healed.

  I am healed.

  Which means I’m not broken.

  Which means I’m going to feel like this forever.

  “I heard you couldn’t remember much about what happened,” he says, his expression guarded. “Do the doctors know why?”

  I absentmindedly pick up a book from off his desk to keep from fidgeting. “Yeah, she said she thinks it’s because of the emotional stress of what happened.”

  “That makes sense, I guess.” He pauses. “How much can you remember?”

  “Not much … I can’t even remember going off the cliff or being hit.” I pause. “I do remember someone giving me mouth-to-mouth. That’s it, though. Just lips and air and …” Warmth.

  He elevates his brows. “You mean you can remember Foster giving you mouth-to-mouth?”

  I smash my lips together, rotating the book around in my hand. I’m unsure why, but I don’t want to lie to him.

  “You took a photo of me,” I say instead of answering him, pointing at the photo on the wall.

  He doesn’t glance at it. “Yeah. I also took a photo of a random stranger in the park. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  I nervously open and close the book in my hand. “I never said it did.”

  We stare each other down, and I’m highly aware of how he curls his fingers into fists at his sides.

  He’s frustrated with me and his frustration grows as he glances down at the book I’m holding.

  I look down just in time to see a collage of photos—

  He snatches it from me, tosses it onto his bed, and crosses his arms. “That’s Porter’s.”

  Just what exactly is in that book?

  “Does it bother you that I’m in here?” I ask, watching his reaction closely.

  “Why are you in here?” he questions, shifting his weight uneasily. “We’re not friends. You made that pretty damn clear a long time ago.”

  A protest works up my throat, but I bite it back. He’s right. I have made it pretty damn clear, ever since that day on the dock. But for the last few years, he’s acted as if he’s despised me, so …

  “So have you.” The truth falls from my tongue and crashes on the floor between our feet. Shatters. It’s something I’ve wanted to say for years—to ask him why he started loathing me. And it only took me dying and coming back to life to be able to do so. “I know you don’t like me.”

  “I don’t…” His fingers twitch at his sides. “You should probably go now.”

  I shake my head, pretending to be more confident than I really am. “Not until you tell me why.”

  His brows dip. “Why what?”

  “Why you hate me.”

  “I don’t hate you.”

  “You don’t?” I question with doubt. “Really?”

  He lifts a shoulder, appearing casual as can be. Or well, he would except his fingers are trembling. “Why would I hate you?”

  I remain silent, studying him. The longer I stare, the more I feel drawn to him, like an invisible rope is woven between us, tethering me to him.

  Before I know what I’m doing, I step toward him.

  He quickly steps back.

  I halt. “Are you afraid of me?”

  He swallows shakily. “Yes.”

  The truth hurts. But not the same kind of pain as when I stuck my finger in my wound. This pain radiates from deep inside my chest, torturous rejection ripping at my recently healed lungs and reminding them of what it felt like to wither. I’m not even sure why it hurts so badly, to hear him say he’s afraid of me.

  “I didn’t mean that,” he quickly says when he notes my expression. “I just…” He swallows hard.

  I stare at him for so long he starts to squirm. “No, you are afraid of me.” My chest constricts even more. “Why?”

  After spending years of convincing myself I’m afraid of Kingsley, maybe I deserve this. Deserve for him to be afraid of me when I’m no longer afraid of him. Not that I’m convinced I ever was truly afraid of him. Looking back now, when I made that vow to keep my distance from him that day, I think the basis of my decision stemmed from Foster and those words he uttered to me while we were on the shore.

  “Don’t tell anyone I said this, but sometimes it scares me how much he watches you.”

  If he had never said it, I wonder if I would’ve spent the last six years avoiding Kingsley. Then again, being friends with Foster has always meant being enemies with Kingsley. It used to not bother me. But it does now. Why?

  Why?

  Why?

  Why?

  He rubs his lips together. “Look, I really think you should go find my brother. I know he’s been wanting to see you.” When I scrunch my nose, his brows dip. “What’s that look for?”

  Crap. I didn’t mean to do that. “I…” I shrug. “I don’t know.”

  He chews on his bottom lip, assessing me. “Are you two fighting or something?”

  “Or something,” I mumble then sigh. “Sorry, I don’t know what my problem is. I just feel so… different since the accident.”

  His gaze searches mine and then his expression softens. “I’m sure that’s probably normal, considering what you’ve been through.”

  I appreciate him trying to make me feel better, but nothing about how I’ve been acting is normal.

  “Yeah, maybe.” As I stare into his eyes, I have the strangest compulsion to touch him, to run my fingers along his jawline, through his hair, across his piercings. I wonder what he’d do if I tried. Probably run the hell away. “I just feel weird. Like I didn’t come back right.”

  They’re the most truthful words I’ve uttered since the accident, and I can’t figure out why I decided to say them to him, other than because of this strange pull I suddenly feel toward him.

  Safe. I feel safe right now.

  “Come back right from where?” he asks with his brows dipped.

  “You heard I died for a second, right?”

  He gives
a cautious nod. “I assumed you did since Foster had to give you mouth-to-mouth.”

  I struggle not to pull a face at the mention of Foster saving me, but I’m not sure if I succeed. “Well, ever since I woke up in the hospital, I feel… I don’t know… Distant. Confused. Detached.” I wrap my arms around myself. “I don’t feel like myself, and I’ve been reading these articles online about near-death experiences and I…” I blow out a breath. “I’m starting to wonder if I didn’t come back the same person.”

  He briefly hesitates before saying, “You probably didn’t.”

  While I pretty much said the same thing, hearing him say it is like a slap across the face.

  I am not the same.

  I am different.

  “I didn’t mean it in a bad way. I just… I think anyone who went through what you did would probably be affected by it. I’m sure eventually you’ll start feeling like yourself again, but maybe not completely. I mean, what happened… It had to be…” His voice starts to crack and he quickly clears it. “Shit like that changes you, you know. But it can be in a positive way, if you want it to be.”

  My head angles to the side. “How so?”

  He lifts a shoulder. “You could see it as a second chance to do all the things you wanted to do but were too afraid to do. Or do something good.” He shrugs again. “But what the hell do I know?”

  I stare at him, realizing I feel a bit better than I have since I woke up in the hospital. Who would’ve thought that Kingsley, the twin everyone considers the bad one, would be the one to make that happen.

  “I think you might know a lot more than you give yourself credit for,” I tell him with a small smile.

  He smiles back at me and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. It makes me feel warm inside, makes me want to keep this conversation going so I can latch onto that warmth.

  “I—”

  “Well, well, well, if it isn’t dead girl, alive and in the flesh.” Porter strolls into the room with a grin on his face.

  The smile quickly vanishes from Kingsley’s face.

  No, don’t go back to being sad. I want to see your smile again. I don’t want to sink back into the cold numbness again.

  Kingsley steps away from me, his frown deepening.

  Dammit, Porter.

  “So, you heard I died, huh?” I say flatly to Porter.

  Porter’s brow quirks upward. “For someone who’s speaking about their own death, you sure seem uninterested.”

  “Am I supposed to be interested in my death?” I question with my brows raised.

  “No, but you sound like a zombie right now… Wait? Are you one?” he teases. When I narrow my eyes at him, he smirks. “You know, I found your reply to my message insulting. I put the effort in to check up on you and all you can say is, you’re okay?”

  I give a half shrug. “I’m not sure what else you wanted me to say. It’s not like we text each other all the time. In fact, usually I try to avoid you.”

  He presses his hand to his chest. “How you wound me so, dead girl.”

  I narrow my eyes at him, but I’m not as offended as I’m pretending to be. His bluntness is kind of like a breath of fresh air after everyone has been so careful around me.

  Careful liars.

  “Stop calling me that,” I tell Porter, struggling not to smile.

  He shakes his head. “Nah, it’s too fitting of a name.”

  Kingsley scowls at Porter. “Dude, stop being an asshole.”

  “What?” Porter shrugs innocently, his gaze wavering from me. “I’m just teasing her.”

  Kingsley’s glare deepens. “Well, you need to stop.”

  Porter studies him, a slow smile curling at his lips. “Look at you, defending her. It’s about damn time.”

  “You say that like I need defending all the time,” I intervene. “But I don’t.”

  “That’s not what I was talking about.” Porter is speaking to me, but staring at Kingsley, who’s glaring daggers at him in return. “I’m referring to my dumbass friend finally doing what he should’ve done a long time ago.”

  “Knock it off,” Kingsley snaps in a low tone.

  Porter’s grin broadens. “I will for now. But now that you’ve cracked open that door, I’m going to keep pushing on it until it opens all the way.”

  I glance between the two of them as they stare each other down. What on earth is he talking about?

  “This coded conversation you guys are having is kind of annoying,” I announce, but none of them so much as glance in my direction.

  Great. Have I become invisible?

  Finally, Kingsley rakes his fingers through his blond hair. “I’m done talking about this right now. We have shit to do.”

  Porter gives Kingsley a pressing look. “That’s fine, but we’re gonna circle back to it.”

  “No,” Kingsley says in a firm, sharp tone. “We’re not doing this. Not now.” He snatches his car keys off the dresser. “I’m out of here. If you want to ride with me, you better drop this or I’m leaving your ass here.”

  Porter rolls his eyes. “Whatever. You’re just avoiding the truth, like always.”

  The truth …

  Truth.

  Truth.

  Truth.

  Kingsley stuffs his keys into his pocket and starts for the door without so much as a glance in my direction. And the moment we shared together before Porter interrupted us evaporates into air and blows away.

  I could just let it.

  It might be for the better.

  But is it?

  I haven’t felt this calm since the accident and I want to hold onto it.

  “Where are you going?” I ask Kingsley right before he walks out.

  “Out,” he replies without meeting my gaze.

  Then he practically runs out of the room.

  I give a questioning glance at Porter, but all he does is shrug then stroll after Kingsley, calling over his shoulder, “Take care of yourself, dead girl. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you soon.”

  Then he walks out, leaving me standing alone in the bedroom.

  Alone.

  I feel so alone lately.

  That dull ache pierces against my skull again, and I rub the heel of my hand against my forehead as I move to leave the room. But as I pass Kingsley’s bed, I pause, my gaze dropping to the book I was holding earlier. He acted nervous when I started to open it, which makes me want to see what’s inside it.

  Chewing on my bottom lip, I try to talk myself out of doing it. It’s so out of character for me. Or, well, the old me.

  But I find myself opening the book anyway and fanning through the pages.

  Pages and pages covered in photos, some of landscapes, some of random people, and some of me. In a few, I’m by myself. Some I’m with Foster or my family. In some of them I look content, but in some, especially the ones I’m in with Foster, I look a bit tense. Is that how I am around him? Tense? And why are there so many photos in here of me? Kingsley said this book was Porter’s, but why would he keep it in his room if the book belonged to Porter?

  Whether the book is Kingsley’s or Porter’s, I should be a bit concerned, right? After all, it seems kind of stalker-ish. Although, none of the photos are creepy, just of me doing things I love, like reading, hanging out with my family and friends. Honestly, it’s kind of like a map that makes up my life. Still, I have to wonder why Kingsley has this.

  I think about those words Foster said to me on the shore that day, how Kingsley watches me a lot, how it’s scary how much he watches me.

  I agreed with him at the time, but now… I’m unsure how I feel.

  I’m not really sure what I feel about anything anymore.

  Fifteen

  Harlynn

  After I leave Kingsley’s room, I feel tired and even more confused than when I showed up here. I debate whether or not to just go home. I could text Foster and tell him I changed my mind about coming over. I may have done just that except when I walk past Foster’
s bedroom, the door swings open and he steps out.

  His eyes widen when he sees me then a smile graces his lips. “Hey, I was just wondering where you were. You never texted me, so I wasn’t sure if you’d left your house yet or not.”

  “Sorry. I forgot to send a message when I left.”

  Frowning, he searches my face for something. Perhaps my lies? I wonder how easy I am to read? Am I like a book with the title written on the front of me? What does the title say?

  “Are you okay?” he asks. “You seem a bit off?”

  “I’m fine.” I put on my best fake smile. “Are you okay?”

  He nods, confusion written all over his face, but he quickly shakes it off. “I’m glad you’re here. I missed you.” He reaches out, slips his fingers through mine, and pulls me toward him.

  Pulls me right toward his lying lips.

  His mouth burns against mine, scalds my tongue, and brands me with more lies.

  When he draws back, a ghost of a smile is on his lips. “We really need to do that more. You seriously have the softest lips, even with the lip ring. Although, they’d be a hell of a lot softer if you’d just take that thing out.”

  I don’t answer him, my insides twisting into thorny knots that stab beneath my flesh. The wound underneath the bandage begins to pulsate, throbbing, reminding me of that night and the days afterward. How I’m almost certain Foster lied to me.

  “So, what have you got packed so far?” I change the subject, leaning to the side and peering into his room.

  Scratching his forehead, he steps back into his room, gesturing for me to follow. When I step inside, he shuts the door behind me.

  “I have most of my books and stuff from my shelves packed up.” He points at a stack of boxes, and then at his closet. “I still need to pack my clothes and take my bed apart.”

  “You want me to help you with that?”

  “Yeah … sure …” He massages the back of his neck. “Are you sure you’re okay? I feel like you’re mad at me or something.”