Breathe You In (Sweet Torment 1)

“I didn’t know how much she’d taken, Mom. If I had—”

“It doesn’t matter anymore, does it?”

Tears stung my eyes. The last thing I’d gotten to say to my sister was that I loved her, right after putting her into her own bed. She was warm, sleeping. But the next morning, her lips were blue and her skin was cold. While I was busy covering for my sister, she’d died in her sleep of an overdose.

“I’m sorry.” I had lost count how many times I had said it over the years, but it still wasn’t enough. Not for me, and certainly not for my mother.

Another bout of silence on the line was the only response. It was all I needed to know that my debt wasn’t even close to paid off. And probably never would be.

Walking up the steps to my building, I willed the burning behind my eyes to stop. Lauren had been their golden child. She had been special and kind, and you couldn’t help but love her. I knew this because every day I thought of her, and every day I mulled over my mother’s comments until I believed the same thing she did: I could have saved her.

Redemption was impossible, but this center was as close as I could get. My second chance to make it right. Since Lauren had died, my life had been spent with my mother’s sour words ringing in my ears. She’d made it more than clear how she felt—that the wrong child had died that night. And that it was my fault.

“I’ve got to head into work, Mom, but there are some really great things coming.” I thought of Roman’s offer. “Maybe sooner than I expected.”

“Good for you. Bye-bye.” Not an ounce of love could be squeezed from her voice. Yet I still tried.

“I love—” I began, but the line went dead before I could say more.

The burning spread from my face to my chest. Pushing that feeling aside, I opened the glass doors of the building, stuffed my phone into my coat pocket, and tried to focus on what I could control.

Roman’s face came to mind again, and something in my stomach tightened. Would an anti-drug campaign make a difference to the community? Yes. But would it make a difference to my parents? Maybe. Maybe not. My mother had spoken to me more since I’d taken on this project than at any time since Lauren’s funeral. Mostly because whoever headed up the project got to name it. My choice?

Lauren’s House.

That had made my mother’s ears perk. But with no results, the conversations were getting shorter and her tone, shriller.

I felt my phone buzz in my jacket. It was probably another text from Paige or Hazel asking what had happened last night. I’d made it a point to sneak in late and, thankfully, they had both been asleep. Paige and Hazel had early mornings. I was always an hour behind them, so I had successfully avoided the topic of Governor Reese for a good twelve hours now. But that wouldn’t last much longer.

“Heard you bombed with House Rep Miller,” Silas said, just as I hung my coat on the back of my chair and booted up my computer. “Shot you down hard, huh?”

He leaned against the opening of my cubical and smiled his wide, jackass smile, which matched his asshole glare.

“How do you even know about that?” I tried to sound unaffected, but it was a little late for that. It was creepy that he not only knew I’d been at the gala, but that I had “bombed” with Miller.

“You’re not the only one going for the job, Indiana.” He winked.

Ew. I had no idea how his gangly frame supported all that arrogance. Silas was my main competition at New Beginnings. He couldn’t have been more than five-foot-seven and one hundred and fifty pounds, most of which seemed to be attitude.

“I’m aware of that, Silas. But I do seem to be the only one trying to get a new center built for the people of New York, rather than stalking people on the weekend.”

He ran a hand through his light brown hair. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m trying to get funding for this center too. It’s such a worthy cause, after all.” Sarcasm dripped from every syllable and by God, I wanted to punch him.

Between the call with my mother and this guy encroaching on something that actually mattered to me, my bottled rage was enough to warm me up after my chilly walk.

I had spent my first month at New Beginnings taking calls on the crisis line. Listening to a teenage girl cry and threaten to kill herself because she couldn’t get a fix. Or a boy, who couldn’t be more than sixteen, asking for help, only to start gasping and gargling from the delayed effects of a lethal ingestion of meth he’d taken hours earlier. Just like Lauren. Addiction was heartbreaking. Lauren was gone, but there were kids still out there who needed help.

This new center could provide that. And getting funding for it was the one project I’d personally launched in my time here. It was also, apparently, the quickest way to get the bosses’ attention, which was why Silas had jumped on board the moment our boss, Marcy, had shown genuine enthusiasm.

He didn’t care about helping people; he just wanted the promotion, better pay, and benefits. Then he could be a project lead, sitting behind his desk and telling people what to do, while he did nothi

ng and took the credit—kind of like what he was doing now.

“Project meeting in ten minutes,” Marcy said, weaving through the cubicles, her short red hair bobbing around her face with each step in her sensible heels.

Every Thursday, Marcy gathered her employees to hear what we’d been working on and what progress we’d made. I knew that the other five Level Ones were working on operations and support for New Beginnings’ already-established rehab center, which was overflowing with people who needed help. The wait time for admission to our current center was more than nine months, which was why we needed this new center desperately. And we needed it in Arbor Hill.

Silas and I both had degrees and backgrounds in nonprofit work, and we were the only two taking on the task of acquiring funds and local support for this new center. Marcy had let it slip last month that the available Level Two position would, most likely, come down to either him or me.