I’d be lying if I claimed I’d forgotten about Emilia LeBlanc. But I hadn’t expected to see her again. Sure, I knew she was in New York. New fucking York, the home of over eight million people who weren’t Emilia LeBlanc.
I’d come to the city a week ago with the intention of doing one thing and one thing only—to make the jerk I’d met at McCoy’s drop his fucking lawsuit against my company. He had.
Did I enjoy intimidating him? Yes.
Did it make me a bad person? Probably.
Did I care? Not even one bit.
Sergio had caved, but not because I metaphorically squeezed his balls so tight his future children screamed in agony. He’d done it because I pulled out a detailed draft of a counter lawsuit, one I’d written myself the night before, on my flight from LA to New York. And I’d aced this motherfucker.
Lawyers had the potential to make the best criminals. That was a fact. The only thing that separated me from being an outlaw was opportunity. I had plenty of those within the law.
But Help wasn’t far off. I was a bad person, a good lawyer, and to some extent, yes, still the same ass*ole who made her senior year miserable.
Sergio was going to drop the lawsuit, let us keep the client we allegedly “stole” from his firm, and all was going to be well. I was a partner in a company specializing in high-risk investments and mergers. The four of us—Trent, Jaime, Dean and I—had founded Fiscal Heights Holdings three years ago. They worked the money side while I was the company’s lead attorney.
Sure, I liked numbers. They were safe. They didn’t fucking speak. What wasn’t to like? But I liked arguing and pissing people off even more.
And now I’d found Help.
She wasn’t part of the plan, which made the surprise so much sweeter. She was the missing piece. Insurance in case things went south back in Todos Santos. I came here for a merger deal, but I also needed someone to do my dirty work. Originally, I wanted my ex-psychiatrist to help me reach my goal. He knew the whole story and could testify against my stepmother. But fuck, dealing with Help was going to be so much sweeter.
It would probably shatter her innocent little soul. She didn’t do revenge. Was never cruel or selfish or any of the things that were the essence of my being. She was kind. Polite and agreeable. She smiled at strangers on the street—I would bet she still did, even in New York—and still had that faint Southern drawl, welcoming and soft, just like her.
I hoped she didn’t have a boyfriend. Not for my sake, for his. Whether he existed or not didn’t matter. I’d figuratively shoved him out of the picture the minute I set foot in McCoy’s and looked up to find her peacock-blue eyes staring right back at me.
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.”