Breathe [mature romance] - PREVIEW ONLY

Chapter 1.1

A dark form huddled on the snowy bench overlooking the lake, underneath sweeping pine boughs. Ray Waller. Fifties, with a graying patch of stubble and shabby clothes. All the guys at the station, including Simon, took turns picking Ray up for public intoxication and letting him sleep it off in the holding cell overnight.

Simon stopped beside the bench, ankle-deep in snow, and frowned at the thin sleeves of Ray's sweatshirt. "What're you doing out here, Ray?"

"Old lady kicked me out again."

"Where's your coat?"

"Forgot it."

With a sigh, Simon sat down beside him, ignoring the way Ray's bloodshot eyes widened in surprise. "You can't stay out here," Simon said. "You're gonna get hypothermia."

Ray shrugged. He looked worse than usual, like he didn't care if he got hypothermia or not. Slouching forward, Simon rested his forearms on his knees and gazed out at the frozen lake, its vast expanse as white as the sky.

At the sound of crinkling paper, Simon glanced over to see Ray uncapping a bottle half-hidden inside a paper bag.

"You can't drink that out here, buddy," Simon said, suddenly very tired.

"You gonna book me again, Labelle?"

He was off-duty today, if only because the Chief had insisted. Though being off-duty didn't necessarily make much of a difference. "No."

Ray nodded, his face pinched. "When're you gonna solve that case? The bombing?"

"Dunno." Never, since the State's Attorney had decided there wasn't enough evidence to pursue it. God damn it.

"Here." Ray offered Simon the paper bag. The just-opened bottle of cheap whiskey smelled utterly benevolent. The bag trembled slightly in Ray's hands. His gloveless fingers were pale with cold.

"I'll trade you." Simon stood, unzipped his coat, and tossed it onto Ray's lap. "Go see the pastor. He'll let you sleep in the church basement. Promise me you'll get out of the weather."

Ray gazed down at Simon's coat. "You're giving me this? Why?"

"Merry Christmas," Simon said, sitting back down on the bench. "Get yourself cleaned up. I'll take that." He took the booze from Ray and stuffed the bottle into the bank of snow at his feet.

Ray slid Simon's coat on over his thin frame. "Thanks, Labelle."

He wandered away, back toward the town. For once, Ray hadn't argued with Simon about confiscating his booze. Simon should've been glad. Instead, he stared at the frost glistening on the bottle's mouth and thought about the bombing case: the same endless rounds of thoughts he'd had for months. The Chief kept telling him the case was cold, that Simon had done his best and now he needed to take some time off and decompress. But when Simon went home, he lay on his couch or in bed and stared at the darkness, and peace felt further away than ever. At least when he was working, he could keep up the pretense of doing good.

  Simon's gaze drifted away from the bottle and back toward it again. He rubbed his knuckles over his jawline, his heart racing. No one was around. No one had to know. That wasn't why he'd taken it, but...

He pulled his phone free from his jeans pocket and dialed the station. Keene's direct line.

"Bryan Keene." The man shouted every damn word he said.

"Keene, do me a favor."

"God damn it, Simon, what the hell is your problem? You're supposed to be taking the day off, for fuck's—"