I hit the sidewalk hard. My knees crack at the impact, but right now, I don’t even feel the pain. I can’t breathe, not a single breath. Not. One. My throat is completely closed up, and all I can do is sputter and rasp. I put a hand over my face to shield it. I haven’t had much experience with the tabloids, but yeah, Owner of Multi-Billion Dollar Company Spazzing Out on Public Sidewalk isn’t a headline I want to read about tomorrow.
“Philippe?” There’s doubt in Sutton’s voice. I rasp out something horrible and garbled like a butchered fish flopping about on the sand in the sun. “Shit.”
She bends down, and I feel cool hands. Her hands. On my back. I’m soaked, my forehead dripping cold sweat onto the sidewalk. Can’t. Breathe. Closing. In. Everything seems like it’s ending. Black spots and white lights burst behind my eyes. I feel like they could pop out from my head. It hurts. Everything hurts. It feels like something just steamrolled over my chest. I think I can even feel my backbone in my ribs.
“He’s okay,” I hear Sutton saying. Probably to someone on the sidewalk. “Just feeling a little sick. We’ll be fine. Thank you.”
Whoever was there must have moved on because Sutton’s hand starts stroking down my back. It feels like heaven. Soothing. Amazing. “It’s okay, Philippe. I’m here. Breathe. You can do it. You know what this is. It’s a panic attack. You know what’s happening. You’ve always been okay. You just need to take a breath. Just one. In. Out. Come on.”
Her hand. Feels. So. Good. It makes me realize I can. Breathe. Suddenly, there’s air. A burst of air rushing down my throat and flooding through my nose. God, it feels so good. My lungs unclench. My backbone returns to where it belongs as my body starts to relax. I’m still sweating, though, soaking through my shirt. But it can’t be helped.
I’m a mess. Not a good, attractive mess, either. A nasty, gross, sweaty, and snotty mess.
And we’re in the middle of the sidewalk.
Before I can be totally humiliated, Sutton surprises me. She wraps her arms around my shoulders, which is a struggle for her because I’m at least three times as broad as she is, and pulls me into her chest—hiding me, letting me recover. So I won’t be embarrassed. Mortified. Humiliated.
“These have to stop,” she whispers in my ear, but there’s no judgment in her voice—just concern, and maybe a tinge of fear. Well, yeah, so I wouldn’t want to watch someone have one of these either. “Please, let me call someone. Just talk to someone.”
“And what?” I wheeze. “Go on medication and become a zombie? I can’t do that. I have a company to run.” My father’s company. I can’t fuck it up.
“No. Just talk. Sometimes, it helps. Have you always had these?”
“No.” It kills me to admit it, but I don’t think I’m capable of pulling off a spectacular lie at the moment.
“Okay. So maybe if you talk to someone, they can help you. Maybe give you some things to do to stop whatever is triggering it or try and help you deal with it when you feel it coming on. There are natural things like tea or something. I don’t know. It doesn’t always have to be drugs, though. But even if it is medication, what’s worse? That, or constantly dealing with this?”
She might have a point there. The point is, I’m scared. I don’t know what these are. I can’t control them. I can’t stop them. And I can’t. Fucking. Sleep. Properly.
“Are you okay?” She pulls away from me a little and looks down into my face. Her eyes look huge from this angle, and her lips are parted. They’re a lovely rosy pink. Beautiful.
Great. Now not only am I a gross mess, but my dick is also trying to break through my pants because she’s looking at me like she really sees me, and I’m finally seeing her, and she’s gorgeous. I also know she’s smart, capable—no, very capable—witty, funny, and decent enough to look after my ass for years with just about no thanks at all.
“I’m sorry,” I croak. God. I haven’t said that and actually meant it in a long time.
Sutton’s face changes. She goes from worried and still a little pissed off to something else. She bites down hard on her lip, drawing my attention there. I want to do that. I want to sink my teeth there, and I want to hear her groan. Preferably my name. Christ. There really is something wrong with me. I do need professional help.
“You know, I’m hungry. I didn’t eat because I was seriously looking forward to something I didn’t have to cook myself.”
“You should have known I’d ruin it.”
She rolls her eyes, digs in her purse, and hands me a few tissues. A not so subtle reminder that I’m still leaking snot and tears and maybe even drool. I mop up my face. I’m sure I’m red after, but at least I could blame it on my own body trying to kill me.