Page 37 of Vapor

She’s slumped against the bathtub, her head tilted to the side, eyes closed as if in peaceful sleep. But there is nothing peaceful about the scene. Her skin is pale, almost translucent, a stark contrast to the dark bruises that mar her arms. An empty syringe lies on the tile beside her, a damning testament to her final moments.

“No… no, no, no…” I drop to my knees beside her, my hands trembling as I reach out to touch her face. Her skin is cold, devoid of the warmth that once radiated from her.

“Wake up. Please, wake up.” My voice cracks, the words choking me as tears blur my vision. I shake her gently, then harder, desperately trying to rouse her.

But she doesn’t wake up. She will never wake up.

A sob tears from my throat, raw and guttural, as I cradle her lifeless body in my arms. The world outside the bathroom fades away. The noise from the party is nothing but a distant echo lost to time. All that remains is the crushing weight of loss, the unbearable reality that my little sister is gone.

The flickering light above the mirror casts a sickly glow on the scene. Shadows close in around me like a shroud. I hold her tighter as my heart breaks into a thousand pieces, each one a shard of pain that will never heal.

And in this moment, in the silence of the bathroom, I feel the darkness consume me, an inescapable void that swallows me whole.

I wake up in a cold sweat. It takes a moment to realize I’m not back in the sorority house where I found her. I’m in the clubhouse, alone. And she’s gone.

Wiping the perspiration off my face, I stumble out of bed and over to the connected bathroom. Splashing cold water on my skin, I try to shake off the horror of what happened the day I found my sister dead from a drug overdose.

I’ll never be able to hug my sister again. Never walk her down the aisle or help her buy her first home. I’ll never get to vet her husband or see her kids. She’ll never be older than she was the day she died. Eighteen years old.

And for what?

Profit.

The night I found her, I knew something was terribly wrong. I had no idea she was using. She was too smart to do something like that. But I couldn’t deny what was right in front of me. I’m still not sure why I did it, but I slipped the syringe into my pocket.

Fang sent it to a friend at a lab who tested a trace amount of fluid. Heroin and fentanyl. Based on his findings, he told Fang the heroin was laced with so much fentanyl that no one could have survived it.

That began my crusade to find out who killed her. I went a little crazy, interrogating the sorority bitches until one of them cracked and gave me the name of her dealer. I hunted that fucker down and had a party torturing him until he gave up his employer: Los Serpientes de Cristal.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I already knew. But getting confirmation gave me a target. I’m going to avenge my sister’s death no matter what it takes. Getting close to Broussard is just one avenue I’m taking to try to find out how to bring down the cartel. I’ve got other irons in the fire, but so far, nothing’s panned out.

It’s been two years since her death, and I can still smell the scent of death. The nightmares still come, but they’re not as bad as they were the first few months. In a strange way, I welcome them because they remind me of why I’m taking such huge risks with my men. I don’t want anyone else to suffer the way I have. No one else’s sisters should die at the hands of the cartel.

And they’re not just into drugs. Human trafficking is becoming a huge part of their business. It’s one more reason why I must find a way to destroy them.

An image of Blue in that red dress she was wearing the first night I met her pops into my head. She might be the key to getting what I need to bring down the cartel. I don’t even know what I’m looking for, but I’ll know it when I see it.

Thinking about that kiss we shared in the gazebo calms the fury inside me. Getting close to her is stupid, but it’s all I can think about. If I’m not careful, I might get her killed, and then I’ll have two deaths on my conscience.

I blame myself for Demi’s death. If I’d paid closer attention after our parents died, I would have seen the signs of drug use. Demi couldn’t handle their sudden deaths. A drunk driver going the wrong way ran head-on into them on the highway. The coroner told me they died on impact, but it didn’t matter. They were still gone.

After that, I tried to help Demi, but I was caught up in club business more often than not. I should have been there for her. Checked in more.

I failed her.

I won’t fail Blue the same way.

The need to make sure Blue’s okay overcomes me. I pull on my jeans, a Henley, and my cut then grab my boots.

Silently slipping downstairs, I walk past the club sluts and patched guys passed out on the couch. It’s a little after one a.m., and everyone’s asleep.

When I get to the back door near the kitchen, I hear a creak coming from upstairs. I stop and listen. It’s nothing. Maybe just the wind. We’ve got enough money to buy a much better house, but I like this one. It doesn’t draw as much attention, and it makes us seem like we’re broke instead of drowning in cash.

I roll my bike down the alleyway behind the house. As soon as I reach the main road, I pull in the clutch and hit the starter button. My hog roars to life. I take off down the road toward the highway. When I reach my destination, I park far enough away that anyone awake inside the mansion won’t notice me. I close the rest of the distance on foot, stopping underneath a weeping willow.

The moon hangs high in the velvet sky, casting a ghostly glow over the antebellum plantation house that looms before me. Crescent Oaks Mansion was named for the ancient oaks that line the driveway like silent sentinels. Their twisted branches reach out, skeletal and foreboding, creating a canopy that only intensifies the darkness.

The mansion itself is a testament to a bygone era, its white columns gleaming unnaturally in the moonlight, like bones rising from the earth.

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