Hold Me Like a Breath (Once Upon a Crime Family #1)
Publisher: Bloomsbury
Release Date: May 19th 2015
Penelope Landlow has grown up with the knowledge that almost anything can be bought or sold—including body parts. She’s the daughter of one of the three crime families that control the black market for organ transplants.
Penelope’s surrounded by all the suffocating privilege and protection her family can provide, but they can't protect her from the autoimmune disorder that causes her to bruise so easily.
And in her family's line of work no one can be safe forever.
All Penelope has ever wanted is freedom and independence. But when she’s caught in the crossfire as rival families scramble for prominence, she learns that her wishes come with casualties, that betrayal hurts worse than bruises, that love is a risk worth taking . . . and maybe she’s not as fragile as everyone thinks.
HOLD ME LIKE A BREATH
by Tiffany Schmidt
There was always a moment
as I rolled down the long driveway toward the high fence surrounding the estate
when my breath caught in my chest and I doubted my decision to leave. Anything
could happen to me outside the perimeter of our property.
Carter interrupted my
thoughts. “I told Mother we’re going to see a musical. You know what’s playing
and can pick one, right?”
Of course I did. I spent
hours on NYC websites, blogs, and forums. Someday I’d go into a long remission.
Someday I’d live there and walk the streets of promise, freedom, and
opportunity they sang about in Annie, a play I’d seen with Father on Broadway
right before my life turned purple and red.
“Really?” It made sense
that Mother would agree to a play. It would be safe, a seated activity. The
chairs would mark out defined personal space, and I’d be perfectly cocooned
between my brother and his best friend/guard, Garrett Ward. It made a whole lot
less sense that Carter would voluntarily attend the theater.
He lowered his window and
called a greeting to Ian, the guard on gate duty. Once his window was closed
and the gate was shutting behind us, he snorted. “No, not really. That’s just
what I said to buy you some extra time.”
“You should at least listen
to the score then,” I countered. “You know she’s going to want to discuss it.
Or, if she doesn’t, Father will. He’ll probably perform it if I ask.”
“Then don’t ask,” said
Carter. “Fine. Pick a show and Garrett can download the soundtrack. We’ll
listen to it once, then I get the radio for the rest of the drive—no
complaints.”
It was more than I’d
expected; he truly felt guilty about being so MIA. “There’s a revival of Once
Upon a Mattress that’s getting great reviews.”
They snickered.
“Once Upon a Mattress?
That sounds like—”
I cut my brother off. “Don’t
go there! It’s a fairy tale, gutterbrain.”
“Of course it is,” laughed
Garrett.
I’m pretty sure the subtext
of that laugh was you’re such a child. I swallowed a retort. Freedom was
too rare a thing to waste arguing. And I’d never had Korean barbecue.
I’d never even heard of it. There were so many things I’d never seen,
tasted, experienced . . . Tension melted into giddy anticipation, bubbling
in my stomach like giggles waiting to escape.
“So, how’d your super-secret
errand go?” I asked. “Was it something exciting? Something illegal?”
Garrett met my gaze in the
rearview mirror and shook his head.
But it was too late.
Carter’s expression darkened. “Everything we do is illegal. It’s not a
game where you get to pick and choose which crimes you’re okay with.”
“So it didn’t go well,” I
muttered under my breath.
I knew it wasn’t a game,
and I knew the Family Business was against the law. I’d known it for so long it
was easy to forget. Or remember only in a vague way, like knowing the sky is
blue without paying any attention to its blueness.
Only in those moments when
things went wrong—when lazy clouds were replaced by threats and storms, when
someone got hurt or killed—only then did I stare down the reality of the Business
through a haze of grief and funeral black. My fingers tensed on the edge of the
seat.
“Ignore him,” said Garrett.
“He’s just pissy because the people we were supposed to meet with stood us up.”
“Someone dared to
no-show for a meeting with the mighty Carter Landlow?” I teased, hoping to break
the gloom settling in the car like an unwelcome passenger. “I assumed it was a
Business errand, but if someone stood you up, it must be a girl.”
“No offense, Pen, but you
don’t have a clue what’s going on in the Business.”
“No offense, Carter,
but you’re being a—”
“Who wants to hear some
songs about mattresses?” interrupted Garrett. He reached for the stereo, but
Carter swatted his hand away.
“I’m not an idiot,” I said.
And wishing for things that had been denied for so long was idiotic. No less so
than repeatedly bashing your head against a wall or touching a hot iron. I knew
the answer was no, was always going to be no, so asking to be included
in Family matters was like volunteering to be a punch line for one of the Ward
brothers’ jokes.
But I knew the basics. It
wouldn’t be possible to live on the estate, spend so much time in the clinic,
and not know. The first person to explain it to me had been my
grandfather; fitting, since he was the man who’d reacted to the formation of
FOTA—the Federal Organ and Tissue Association—by founding our Family.
The same day I’d demanded a
kidney for Kelly Forman, he’d sat me down and demonstrated using a plate of
crackers and cheese. “When donation regulation was moved from the FDA to FOTA,
they added more restrictions and testing.” He ate a few of the Ritz-brand
“organs” on his plate, shuffled the empty cheese slices that represented humans
who needed transplants. “This, combined with a population that’s living longer
than ever
before”—he plunked down several more
slices of cheese—“created a smaller, slower supply and greater demand.” He
built me an inside-out cheese-cracker-cheese sandwich. “It was a moment of opportunity,
and when you see those in life, you take them.”
This felt like a moment of opportunity. And not to prove that I
wasn’t an idiot by listing all the facts I knew—about how the Families provided
illegal transplants for the many, many people rejected from or buried at the bottom
of the government lists. How more than two-thirds of those who made it through
all the protocols to qualify for a spot on the official transplant list died before
receiving an organ. Or to recite the unofficial Family motto: Landlows help
people who can’t afford to wait, but can afford to pay.
“Fine, tell me what I don’t
know,” I said. “Tell me what’s going on, why you and Father are fighting, and
what’s keeping you so busy. Tell me everything.”
Garrett muttered something
that sounded suspiciously like “Don’t do this,” but since my brother ignored
him, I did too.
Carter’s eyes met mine in
the rearview mirror. “None of this leaves the car, Pen. I’m trusting you.”
“I understand.” I sat a
little straighter. “And I promise.”
A phone beeped with a text
alert, almost immediately followed by a ringtone that made them jump. Carter
picked up his cell, swore, showed the screen to Garrett, then swore again. All
the buoyancy of freedom seemed to evaporate from the car.
“Now? They blow us off
earlier and expect us to answer now?” said Garrett.
“Well, it’s not like these
things can be scheduled,” replied Carter, jabbing the screen of his cell.
“Hello?”
He muttered low and furious
into the phone, then hung up, still cursing. “We have to do the pickup.”
Garrett’s frowned. “No one
else can do it?”
He shook his head.
“Pick up what?” I
asked.
Carter opened his mouth,
but Garrett put a hand on his arm. “She’s seventeen. Let her be
seventeen. There’s plenty of time to get her involved later.”
“When we were
seventeen we were already sitting on council, visiting the clinics, meeting with
patients. She can’t even tell a kidney scar from a skin graft—she needs to
catch up.”
“She can make her
own decisions, she is sitting right here, and she is coming along
to what ever this mysterious pickup is, so she’s already involved,” I snapped.
“You are not coming,”
said Garrett.
“We don’t have a choice,
unless you want me to leave her on the side of the highway. This is our exit.”
Carter was clutching his cell phone, shaking it as if that could erase what
ever the text instructed him to do.
Garrett groaned. “You’re
staying in the car.”
I hid my smile by looking
out the window. It had gotten dark while we were driving, the dusky purple of
summer evenings. On the estate these nights buzzed with a soundtrack of cicadas
and crickets, but there was no nature outside the car. Nothing but concrete and
pavement and cinder-block industrial construction. We pulled into a parking
lot. A poorly lit, empty parking lot.
“Where are we? What are we
picking up?” I examined Garrett’s stiff posture and the bright gleam in my
brother’s eyes. “Does Father know about this Business errand?”
“No, and you’re not going
to tell him,” Carter answered.
“Oh, really? So what am I
going to do?”
“Stay in the car. Lock the
doors. Keep the windows up.” Carter turned around to look me in the eye. “This
isn’t a joke, Pen. If I’d known this was going to come up, I would’ve left you at
home.”
“Please, princess,” added
Garrett in a soft voice, but his eyes didn’t leave the windshield, didn’t stop
their scan of the parking lot.
“Fine, but when you’re
done, you’re filling me in. Then I can decide if I want to be part of it
or not.” It was all false bravado. Each one of Carter’s statements tied another
knot in my stomach; Garrett’s plea pulled them tighter.
Carter dumped a half dozen
mints from the plastic container in his cup holder into his mouth—like his
breath mattered, like this was a date not a disaster. He waved the container at
us, but we shook our heads. He crunched the candies and said, “Gare,
you’re hot, right?”
I blurted out, “You can
turn on the A/C, I’m not cold,” before I caught on: Garrett pulled a gun from a
holster below the back of his shirt.
They laughed, but it wasn’t
funny to me. I’d been to too many funerals—they’d been to more. I wanted to ask
how long he’d been “hot.” If he always had a gun on him. Had he when we went
mini golfing at Easter? Or the time last summer when I slipped on the pool deck
and he’d carried me to the clinic? No. He couldn’t have then. He’d been wearing
a swimsuit too—there’s no way he could’ve hidden a gun.
So what had happened in the
past year, and why was he carrying one now?
Garrett was Family, he was
a Ward, but he wasn’t supposed to follow his brothers’ footsteps. Or his
father’s. They were enforcers, but he didn’t belong in their grim-faced, split
knuckles ranks. That was why he was in college with Carter—Garrett was going to
be his right-hand man when my brother took over the Business.
Not a thug with a gun.
“Stay here, Pen,” Carter
said again, then slipped out into the night. His keys still dangled from the
ignition, the engine still hummed.
Garrett lingered an extra
moment. “This shouldn’t take long. And everything’s okay. I don’t want you to
worry.”
“I’m not.” I would’ve
sounded believable if my voice wasn’t quivering. If I weren’t clutching fistfuls
of my dress.
“You’re cute when you’re
worried.” Garrett winked, and then he too was out in the darkness and humidity
and I was alone.
I tried to lower my window—just
a crack, enough to let in voices but not even mosquitoes—except Carter must’ve
engaged some sort of child lock. I stared out the tinted glass, watched as their
shadows grew gigantic on the wall as they approached the
ware house, then disappeared around its
corner.
No matter how hard I
concentrated, my eyes couldn’t adjust enough to make sense of the dark. Maybe
it was the placement of the parking lot lights—how I had to peer through them
to see the warehouse beyond.
After they’d left this
afternoon, I’d rushed to the clinic to model different outfits for Caroline.
She’d teased. We’d laughed. I’d blushed and daydreamed about the lovely combination
of me, Garrett, and NYC.
But in my daydreams,
Garrett hadn’t been wearing a gun.
And now we were parked
somewhere made of shadows and secrets and fear that sat on my tongue like a
bitter hard candy that wouldn’t dissolve.
The car still smelled like
them. Their seats were still warm when I leaned forward and pressed my hands
against the leather. But I couldn’t see them. What if the dark decided never to
spit them back out again?
This wasn’t the Business as
I knew it: secret transplant surgeries that took place at our six “Bed and
Breakfasts” and “Spas” in Connecticut, Vermont, Maryland, Maine, Massachusetts,
and South Carolina, where we saved people like Kelly Forman. She’d been ten
when she needed a kidney transplant, but her chromosomal mutation—unrelated to
her renal impairment—earned her a rejection from the Federal Organ and Tissue
Agency’s lists. According to them, Down syndrome made her a “poor medical investment.”
FOTA wrote her a death warrant. We saved her life.
She graduated from high
school a few weeks ago. The past nine years since we’d met—she wouldn’t have
had those without the Family Business.
That was enough. That was
all I needed to know. Illegal or not, that was good.
I heard something. A crack
so sharp it echoed and seemed to fill the spaces between my bones, making me
shiver. I prayed it was a car backfiring.
Then it happened again.
Plotting or Pantsing – I’m a bit of a hybrid. I generally have a pretty coherent vision of a book’s arc before I begin, but I don’t outline or writing it down. And if I know TOO MUCH and all the surprises are gone, I lose all motivation to write that book. For me, the greatest writing pleasures come from the scenes that surprise me.
Coffee or Tea - Coffee! I drink it
about half-coffee, half-unsweetened almond milk. I also usually drink
it half-caf. This way I can have as many cups as I want without feeling
guilty (or being up all night).
Bronte or Austen –This is a TOUGH one. In college I wrote my senior honors paper on the Brontes and my honors thesis on Austen. But if I had to choose one family over the other... Sorry, Emily, Charlotte, and Anne —I’m a Janeite to the core.
Tolkien
or C.S. Lewis – C.S. Lewis. My dad read The Hobbit to my sister and I
when we were little. I’ve spent the decades since then having
reoccurring nightmares about Smeagol. (Which my sister encouraged by
leaning down from her top bunk in the middle of the night and snarling
“My precious!”). I think the worst damage C.S. Lewis caused me was a
lasting curiosity about Turkish Delight (which I still haven’t tried!)
Captain Wentworth or Mr. Darcy -- From most swoony to yawn, my Austen heroes ranking is: Fitzwilliam Darcy, Henry Tilney, George Knightley, Frederick Wentworth, Colonel Brandon, Edward Ferrars, Edmund Bertram
Superman
or Batman – Batman. Of the Christian Bale variety, please. (Though, I
might really want him so he can recreate Newsies and reprise the role of
Laurie in Little Women...)
Running: Road or Trail - Trail running is one of my true joys. (Much to the dismay of all my loved ones because I’m forever getting distracted and tripping over tree roots or wiping out on wet leaves. But what’s a split knee, or sprained ankle (or, um, six), when there’s so much beauty and interesting things to see on the trails?
Sand or Snow – Sand, please. I like it even better if it comes with sunblock, a beach chair, an icy drink, and a good book to read.
Music: 80s or 90s - 80’s! I still remember wearing one piece jammies and dancing in my kitchen to the stylings of Wham!, Airsupply, Madonna, and Cyndi Lauper. Or, my childhood favorite – Michael Jackson’s “Beat It” and Deniece Williams “Let’s Hear it for the Boy.”
Running: Road or Trail - Trail running is one of my true joys. (Much to the dismay of all my loved ones because I’m forever getting distracted and tripping over tree roots or wiping out on wet leaves. But what’s a split knee, or sprained ankle (or, um, six), when there’s so much beauty and interesting things to see on the trails?
Sand or Snow – Sand, please. I like it even better if it comes with sunblock, a beach chair, an icy drink, and a good book to read.
Music: 80s or 90s - 80’s! I still remember wearing one piece jammies and dancing in my kitchen to the stylings of Wham!, Airsupply, Madonna, and Cyndi Lauper. Or, my childhood favorite – Michael Jackson’s “Beat It” and Deniece Williams “Let’s Hear it for the Boy.”
And...Cupcakes or Pie. Cupcakes! Always! Especially if they’re made by YOU! <3
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Tiffany
Schmidt is the author of Send Me a Sign, Bright Before Sunrise, and
Hold Me Like a Breath. She’s found her happily ever after in
Pennsylvania with her saintly husband, impish twin boys, and a pair of
mischievous puggles.You can find out more about her and her books at: TiffanySchmidt.com, TiffanySchmidtWrites.Tumblr.com or by following her on Twitter @TiffanySchmidt.
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