Breathe for Me

breathe

for me

Rhonda Helms

 

S
PENCER
H
ILL
P
RESS

© 2014 Rhonda Helms

Sale of the paperback edition of this book without its cover is unauthorized.

Spencer Hill Press

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

Contact: Spence City, an imprint of Spencer Hill Press, PO Box 247, Contoocook, NH 03229, USA

Please visit our website at
www.spencerhillpress.com

First Edition: August 2014
Rhonda Helms
Breathe For Me/by Rhonda Helms–01 ed.
p. cm.
Summary:
Description: A young woman seeks to break a centuries old bargain that binds her to a demon while juggling a normal life and the boy she's fallen for.

Trademarks: Coke, Dr. Pepper, Dumpster, iPod, Tulane

Cover design by Arijana K., Cover It! Designs
Interior layout by Errick A. Nunnally

978-1-939392-06-0 (paperback)
978-1-937053-70-3 (e-book)

Printed in the United States of America

To my poor husband, who knows way more about publishing now than he ever wanted to know, hah. Thank you for bringing me chocolate and wine, listening to my woes at all hours of the day and night, giving me hugs and telling me to never give up on my dreams. I love you so very, very much
. ♥

To my kids, who have spent many, many years being patient about late dinners, snack dinners, leftover dinners, Mom's-in-her-zone-so-leave-her-alone nights, and so much more. You guys inspire me to keep doing my best
.

To my friends and family. You are my safe space. I appreciate you. XO

chapter one

“I'
M
TIRED
OF
CHEMISTRY
,” Samantha grumbles under her breath. She drops the beaker back into its hole, rolling her eyes dramatically. “I'm going to be an artist. So why do I need to know how to use a Bunsen burner?”

I suppress a laugh. “Art and science go hand in hand, you know. One can't exist without the other.”

“Maybe on Planet Isabel they do,” she retorts, pulling off the massive yellow gloves and slapping them on the black table. “But on Planet Samantha, it's all oil paints and sexy male models.”

“Ladies,” Mr. Watson says quietly as he strolls down the aisle past us, hands linked behind his back. “Focus on your experiment, please.”

I tug my gloves higher and reach for the glass dropper, putting the requisite plops of mysterious blue liquid into the beaker. Some part of me knows what's going to happen. I've probably done this experiment before.

“It stayed blue,” I say. My gut was right.

Samantha scrawls our answer on the bottom of the paper, adds our names at the top and runs it up to Mr. Watson's desk. She drops back into her seat, sighing in relief, then whips out a fresh piece of paper. “Thank God that's done. Now, hold still so I can work on my portraiture skills a little more.”

I wince. “I'm not sure…”

“I know it makes you uncomfortable,” she says gently, “but you're a good friend, so you're going to let me practice drawing.”

She's right. I flip through the chemistry book and try to keep myself occupied while Samantha's pencil scritches across her paper. The urge to squirm overwhelms me, but I push it aside, forcing myself to remain still.

She stops, raising a hand toward me. “Let me just fix this one strand of hair—”

I jerk away, a sudden flush rising to my cheeks. “I'll get it,” I tell her quickly as I smooth my hair down.

Samantha blinks, her cheeks flaming, and withdraws her hand. “Oh, right. Sorry, I forgot for a second.”

I offer her a chagrined smile, trying to swallow past the lump in my throat. “No, it's not your fault at all. It's me. I'm sorry.”

“You feeling okay? No sickness today or anything, right?” Concern deepens the lines between her eyebrows.

I bite my lower lip and nod. “Yup. I'm doing fine, thanks.”

The bell rings, saving me from the awkwardness of the moment. Of my lies.

“Hey, let's hit lunch,” Samantha says. She stands and gathers her stuff into her bag. “I'm starving.”

We make our way to the cafeteria and push through the double doors leading to the outdoor patio. The hot August sun beats down on my face. Sweat drips down my back and pools at the waistband of my jeans. My black gloves cling to my rapidly dampening fingers.

“Can we sit in the shade?” I ask. Thankfully, I recently discovered a breathable fabric that allows me to wear long sleeves but not suffer too much in the hot, New Orleans, summer sun. I'm determined to spend every possible moment enjoying the outdoors, the sunshine, the sights and smells and sensations of a warm afternoon.

Samantha and I tuck our backs against the brick wall, the shade slanting across the grass and sheltering us. I open my lunch bag and pull out a sandwich.

Three girls in skimpy clothes walk by, eyeing me as they pass. I hear one whisper, “Who wears gloves in August? What a freak.” The other two laugh.

Samantha shakes her head and shoots them a disdainful look. “Ignore them. They're just mad because they're dieting. Living on two grapes a day would make anyone grouchy.”

I give her a soothing smile. The names don't bother me, honestly. And most people here aren't hostile to me. It's a peaceful sort of life, which is just what I want.

I scan the courtyard, taking in the scene. Guys jostle into each other. Girls eye the guys. No one's doing much eating at all.

Then I connect with a pair of vaguely familiar, deep blue eyes across the way, framed by scruffy brown hair. It's Dominic, a guy in my English class. He rarely speaks but seems intelligent enough. His numbers are high, like most of the teens at school—the promise of a long life still to be experienced. He stretches out his long, jean-clad legs and leans back against the brick wall, not breaking eye contact with me.

My heart thuds in painful surprise at his assertive gaze, and I look away.

“God, he's so hot,” Samantha says with a sigh.

“Who?” I ask, though I know exactly who she means.

She raises one eyebrow. “Don't play dumb with me. I see you checking him out, too. Do you know him?”

“He's in one of my classes. Hey, let's go back in,” I say, suddenly afraid to glance back over at him. Afraid that he's looking at me, too. Or even worse, that he's not. “I'm sweating way too much.”

“I'm gonna chill out here, if it's okay,” she says. She tucks a purple-highlighted strand behind her ear, shooting me a crooked grin. “I'd like to admire the scenery just a little bit more.”

I grin and shake my head. “Go ahead. See you later.”

I head back inside, wishing there was a strong blast of cool to relieve the stickiness in the air, and make my way down the hall to the library, my place of solace. Most high-school students wouldn't be caught dead spending free time in here. Which is just fine with me.

I brush through the door. “Hi, Mrs. Merchant,” I say to our librarian.

She looks up from her magazine and grins. “Isabel. Haven't seen you in a couple of days.”

“Sorry,” I say with a smile. “I've been busy with schoolwork.” Not completely true, but I don't want to admit that, lately, I've been spending my lunches with Samantha as she scopes out guys.

Mrs. Merchant chuckles under her breath. “Oh, yes—I remember being busy with ‘work,'” she says in a sly voice, using air quotes. “I seem to remember my favorite subject was anatomy. Or was it chemistry?”

Busted.

I shrug, giving her an embarrassed glance, and make my way to my favorite section—world history. I tug a British history book out, then settle down into my chair at the table right beside the massive windows. The scent of fresh book hits me in the nose, and I breathe it in as I crack the cover. The pictures of illuminated manuscripts from the Middle Ages, of lush rolling fields and warm summer days, evoke an instant pang of bittersweet homesickness.

A sudden swell of nostalgia overtakes me and, for a moment, I'm back there. My sister Jane's small, sweaty hand clings to mine as she tugs me toward a creek just outside Lord Walstony's manor. “Isabel, look—I found the prettiest fish.” Her giggles echoing when she skips through patches of brilliant green grass, her dark brown curls bouncing with every step. “Hurry, before they go away!”

A fresh surge of guilt floods my chest. I bite my lip, blinking back the sudden rush of tears, and push the emotions away.
Not now
. This isn't the time to get swept away by those thoughts. The past can't be changed, but the future is still within my grasp. I have to focus on right now.

I flip to the section on religious mythology. Maybe this text has the key to my escape. The answers have to be somewhere. It's just a matter of being persistent and ignoring that ever-present knowledge that this could all end at any time. I can't let the pressure overwhelm me.

There's a section that discusses Hell and its demons—the fall, their mission to gather as many souls as possible, and their hatred of humans, who were so loved by God that they were granted free will. I reread the passage several times, hoping to see a glimpse of some sort of insight into their minds. Especially
his
. I become so engrossed in the text that it takes me a minute to notice a shadow falling across the table.

I glance up, blinking in shock. Dominic. What's he doing here? With shaky hands, I close the book with a heavy
thud
and stare at the table.

He slips into the chair across from me as he places a small book on the table's surface. “You're Isabel, right?”

I peek at him, willing my heart to slow down and stop thudding so hard. “Yeah. Why?” My words come out more gruffly than I intend, but I'm a little uncomfortable with small talk, except with Samantha.

“I'm Dominic.” His tone is low and slightly gravelly as he speaks.

I fix my gaze on the picture of some rock band on the front of his well-worn white T-shirt, trying to keep my voice even. “I know who you are. We're in English together.” The tension in my shoulders starts to hurt, so I force myself to relax.

A quick peek at his face shows me a small smile. He rests his arms on the table, unfazed by my rejection. “I came in to check something out and saw you sitting over here.” He nods at my book, one eyebrow raised. “Not your usual teen read.”

I'm not your usual teen
, I want to say. But of course, it's already obvious by my outfit and gloves. Most girls in school are eager to show off every possible inch of skin, especially in the latter part of summer. I strive to keep everything covered.

“Yeah, I know,” I finally say. “Um, so what did you check out?”

He twists the book around so I can see the cover. It's an anthology of short stories.

I flip through the table of contents, recognizing several stories I've read. I point at the entry for “The Story of an Hour” by Kate Chopin. “This one's great. The twist at the end completely shocked me.”

“Really?” He gives me a crooked grin. “I'll read that one first then.”

My heart races from a swell of nervousness. I glance away, momentarily surprised at myself for breaking out of my shell and talking to him.

We sit in silence for several long moments after that, looking, but not looking, at each other. My back is ramrod straight and my leg muscles begin to ache from being clenched. I can't stop my brain from whirring. The logical side of my mind tells me he's just being friendly, but the cautious side warns me about the dangers of friendliness with someone I find attractive.

Caution wins.

I swallow, standing. “I'm sorry. I…need to go.” Unsteady feet lead me back to the history section, and I slip the book in its rightful place. Without a backward glance, I dart out of the library, just in time for the bell to ring.