Vicious (Sinners of Saint 1)

She was perfect.

Perfect for my plans and perfect to pass the time with until they materialized.

A ghost from my past who was going to help me haunt the demons of my present. She had the ability to help, and it was obvious she was in a financial pit. A black hole I could fish her out of, healthy and in one piece, except for her scruples.

I was prepared to throw in a lot of resources to get her to agree to my plan. She was mine again the minute I saw her in her next-to-nothing outfit.

She just didn’t know it yet.

My heart was my enemy. I’d known that since I was seventeen. That’s why I couldn’t stop thinking about him—despite my recent unemployment—when thunder cracked and rumbled above my head.

It had been twenty-four hours since I’d seen him, three hours since I’d thought about him and an hour and fifteen minutes since I’d debated, for the hundredth time, whether or not to tell Rosie about it.

At home, I wormed out of my soaked clothes, changed into dry ones, and ran back down to Duane Reade because I’d forgotten to pick up Rosie’s meds. By the time I got back, I was soaked again.

I opened the plastic bag and placed everything on the counter in our tiny studio apartment. Mucus thinners. Vitamins. Antibiotics. I unscrewed all the tops because Rosie was too weak to do it herself.

My sister had cystic fibrosis. Some diseases are silent. But cystic fibrosis? It was also invisible. Little Rose didn’t look sick. If anything, she was prettier than I was. We had the same eyes. Blue with turquoise and green dots swirling around the edges. Our lips were soft and plump, and our hair the same shade of toffee. But while my face was round and heart-shaped, she had the sculpted cheekbones of a supermodel.

To be a supermodel, though, Rosie would have to stride down the catwalk, and lately, she couldn’t even make it from our third-floor apartment down to our street.

She wasn’t always sick. Normally, she could function like almost any other person. But when she was sick, she was really sick. Fatigued, weak, and fragile. Three weeks ago she’d caught pneumonia.

It was the second time in six months. We were lucky she’d taken the semester off college to try and make some money because, otherwise, she would’ve flunked out.

“I bought you clear broth.” I took out the carton from the bag when I heard her rustling in our bed. I set the soup next to her medicine and turned on the stove top. “How are you feeling, you little devil?”

“Like a leech who sucks all your money. I’m so sorry, Millie.” Her voice croaked with sleep.

Friends was playing on our ancient television set. The canned laughter bounced between the scant furniture and thin walls, making our Sunnyside apartment a little more bearable. I wondered how many times Rosie could watch without losing her mind. She already knew all the episodes by heart.

She rolled off of the mattress and stood up, moving toward me. “How’d the job hunting go?” She rubbed my back in circles and started massaging my shoulders.

I sighed, dropping my head back and squeezing my eyes shut. So good. I couldn’t wait to jump into our double futon and watch TV under the blankets with my sister.

“Temp agencies are swamped, and no one is hiring for retail this close to Christmas. Those jobs are already gone. On the bright side, heroin chic is making a comeback, so at least we’ll have that going for us.” I blew out air. “I guess what I’m trying to say is, money’s gonna be extra tight this month.”

Everything went quiet, and all I heard were her labored breaths. She slapped a hand over her mouth and winced. “Oh, fuck.”

Yup. Rosie was no Southern belle.

“Can we survive December? I’m sure I’ll get back on my feet soon. By January, we’ll both be working.”

“By January, we’ll most likely be homeless,” I muttered, placing a pot on the stovetop and stirring the broth. I wished I had something to add to it. Vegetables, chicken, anything to make her feel better. To make her feel home.

“We’ll take everything you just bought back and get a refund. I don’t need my meds. I feel so much better.”

My heart shattered in my chest. Because she did need them. She needed them bad. Her antibiotics prevented lung and sinus infections, and her inhalers opened her airway. Not only did my sister need her medications, she literally couldn’t breathe without them.

“I threw away the receipt,” I lied. “Besides, I can always get them to raise the limit on my credit card.” Another lie. No one in their right mind was going to give me more credit. I was already neck-deep in debt.

“No,” she interrupted again, spinning me around to face her. She gripped my hands. Hers were so cold I wanted to cry. I must’ve flinched, because Rosie withdrew them quickly. “It’s bad circulation. I’m feeling really well, I swear. Listen to me, Millie. You’ve done enough for me. Made too many sacrifices along the way. Maybe it’s time for me to go live with Mama and Daddy.”