Ghostgirl ~ JB Salsbury

by Salsbury, JB

  She seems insulted, which tells me she’s used to men offering their lives to her, promising her the world for a few blissful minutes in her bed. That ain’t me.

  “All right, fine.” She opens the lid of her water and takes a sip. “Let’s talk about something else, like . . .” She takes another sip then scrunches up her nose as though she just smelled something nasty. “What’s up with that Mercy chick?”

  I grab a bottle of water for myself, and rather than sitting down on the couch again, I take the desk chair, whirl it around, and straddle it. “She’s a foster like me and my brothers.”

  “Yeah, but why does she look like that?” She chuckles. “I mean, it’s weird.”

  “She looks different, but she’s cool.”

  “Cool?” Her eyes narrow. “So what, you’re like, friends with her?”

  I tilt my head, wondering why Carrie’s pulling the jealous girlfriend thing when we are far from committed. “Yeah, I’m friends with her. Why do you care?”

  “I don’t. I’m just curious.” She sets her water down on the coffee table and drops back to the couch with a grin. “She’s totally in love with you, ya know.”

  “Don’t be stupid—”

  “Not that I blame her.” She shrugs one shoulder and frowns a little. “Most of the girls at school are.”

  I take a swig of my water. “Highly doubt girls dream about hooking up with the high school janitor.”

  I don’t know when it happened, but somewhere along the way, Carrie has managed to elevate me to some ridiculous status. I was a shadow on the ground to most high school girls until Carrie started following me around like a puppy. Chicks see me with her, and they suddenly forget I’m the school’s charity case, the twenty-year-old senior, the gang member—only fit to wipe the floor beneath the feet of every Washington High School kid, literally. I don’t like it. It makes me feel weak, controlled, fucking paranoid.

  “You’d be surprised,” she says.

  I check the clock on the wall, which reads barely seven forty-five, yet I’m ready for Carrie to leave. “It’s getting late.”

  “What—”

  “You should probably get going.” I set down my water, and she makes no move to pack up her stuff.

  “We only studied for an hour.”

  “Cut the shit, Carrie. We both know why you’re really here. You’ve aced every quiz and assignment we’ve had. You don’t need help on this test.”

  “Okay.” She picks at the label on the water bottle. “Maybe you’re right, but we never get to hang out much at school and . . .” She tilts her head. “I like spending time with you.”

  Why? I don’t ask because I’m not sure I want the answer. Carrie’s a nice enough girl, but we have nothing in common outside of a physical attraction we can’t do anything about. “Tonight’s a bad night. I have other homework, and I should go check on my brothers.”

  “And Mercy.” She lifts a brow.

  I ignore the immediate instinct to defend myself. Getting in an argument with her will only keep her here longer. Knowing Carrie, that’s probably the point.

  “Come on,” I say. “I’ll walk you out.”

  She huffs and shoves her stuff into her backpack.

  Once she has her things together, I walk her out, and rather than risking another face to face with Mercy, I lead Carrie around the house to her Jeep, which is parked in the street.

  “All right, so . . . I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.” She turns and steps close, almost daring me to kiss her.

  I lean down and press a kiss to her lips. When she tilts her head and tries to deepen it, I grip her by the biceps and hold her back. “See you tomorrow.”

  She frowns before stomping to the driver’s side to climb behind the wheel. I wait on the sidewalk for her car to disappear around the corner then breathe in the cool night air and hope it’ll do something to wash away the lingering effects of Carrie’s seduction attempt.

  As beautiful as she is—she looks like Regina whatshername from that Mean Girls movie—I can resist her a few more weeks until she’s legal. I tell myself this over and over as I head back around the house to the back door.

  Dinner has been cleaned up, and the lights are off. Miguel and Julian are watching TV, but I see no sign of Mercy.

  “You guys cool?”

  They don’t take their eyes off Suicide Squad as they both nod.

  I go down the hallway and find Mercy’s bedroom door closed. I raise my fist to knock and then wonder if I should leave her alone and walk away, but something pushes me to check on her.

  I knock twice. “Mercy, it’s Milo.”

  Rather than calling me in, she opens the door. She looks the same as she did when I saw her earlier except now she has multiple Band-Aids on each hand. She looks up at me, most likely waiting for me to explain why I’m here.

  “Can I come in?”

  She studies my face as if searching for something—my intentions, maybe? Whatever she finds makes her smile. “Yes.”

  I follow her into the room. She kneels down on the floor by her bed and a black notebook. I’m surprised she doesn’t wince or whine about her bruised knees. Her room looks no different than it did when she first moved in: barren—bed, dresser, two lights, and the one picture on the wall. At first, I thought it was a bird, but I can now see it’s an angel with a wingspan more than double the size of its body.

  Keeping my distance, I lean against a bare wall next to the sketch. Something tells me she’s not totally comfortable having me in her space. “How are your hands?”

  She looks at them, flips them over, then nods. “Fine.”

  “Did you draw this?” I point at the single page hanging on the wall.

  She doesn’t even look. “Yes.”

  “It’s good.”

  She simply nods.

  “Not much for talking, huh?”

  She shrugs.

  Yeah, I don’t blame her. “Mercy, listen . . . I’m sorry about Carrie. I don’t think she meant to be a bitch back there. It’s just how she is.”

  “A bitch?” She looks confused.

  “Yeah, you know, mean, rude, ah . . . a bruja.”

  “Oh.” She studies her lap.

  “You know, I missed a few years of school, and when I came to live with Laura and Chris, they put me into high school. Me, the kid with an attitude, all tatted up with gang signs.” Those were some fun times. I cringe, remembering how out of place I felt, how it took me forever to pick up on new concepts and thinking. I would rather have sliced through my carotid artery than ask for help because I didn’t want to look stupid. “I had a hard time fitting in. Everyone hated me.”

  Her crystal eyes come to mine. “They did?”

  “Yeah, most of them still do.”

  “Not Carrie.”

  No, not Carrie. But I don’t agree aloud. “You don’t need to get them to like you. All you need is for them to respect you.”

  She looks away from me for a moment. “I don’t know how to do that.”

  “I’ll show you. Here, stand up.”

  I hold a hand out to her, and she grabs it. Mindful of her Band-Aids, I pull her to her feet, but I don’t miss the opportunity to indulge in a couple swipes of my thumb along the silky-smooth skin of her knuckles.

  “Now, first things first—no more covering up.” I gently push all her hair behind her shoulders, and she curls in on herself. “Nope, none of that either. Stand tall.” I want to reach over and touch her upper arms to straighten her out, but I don’t want to spook her, so I pull my own shoulders back, chest out. “Like this. Proud.”

  She mimics me as I’ve seen her do before, and I force my eyes to stay on hers rather than peeking at her chest.

  “Good. Now, the key is you don’t have to believe it. You just have to pretend you do. Does that make sense?”

  “I think so.” Her eyes dart around, looking everywhere but at me.

  “Oh, and make eye contact.” I dip my head to snag her gaze. “Practice
on me.”

  She blinks but doesn’t hesitate to keep her eyes on mine. They widen a little, almost as if she’s seen something that makes her excited, and the force of them nearly knocks me backward.

  “Think of something that makes you feel powerful. Untouchable. Think of the last time you felt in control.”

  I lose her eyes for a moment as she draws from her past, and when she looks back, I suck in a breath at the intensity behind her stare. I’m held captive by the inky black pupils expanding within all that pale blue. Whatever she’s remembering that’s giving her confidence is making her look practically supernatural.

  “Good.” Why did that come out like a whisper?

  She tilts her head so slightly that I am pulled deeper into her gaze, as though she’s trying to tell me something or maybe trying to pull something out of me, and in doing so, she’s drawing me in. Her glare probes deep, and I’m incapable of looking away. Her pale eyes search mine and hold me hostage.

  Not until she changes her focus to my neck do I blow out a breath from the freedom of her release. “Holy shit,” I whisper, and although I know she hears me, she ignores it. She seems to have expected it, orchestrated it, but that makes no sense.

  “When did they appear?” she asks.

  I blink, needing a moment to figure out what she’s talking about. “My tattoos? Um . . .” I clear my throat. “I got my chest piece done at fourteen. Ribs at fifteen and my neck at seventeen.”

  Her hand reaches up but pauses just before me. “Can I touch it?”

  My pulse jumps at the thought of her fingers on me—what they would feel like, how my body will respond. “Uh, yeah . . . Sure.”

  She gets close, so close I can feel the heat of her breath on my chin. She brushes her fingers across my skin with a feather-light touch. Goose bumps race down my arms, and I tilt my neck, opening myself to her attentions.

  “Mother most sorrowful,” she whispers.

  Her scent—fresh and clean like the bed sheets abuelita would hang to dry in the sun—is so subtle I lean closer to breathe her in.

  “She’s crying.” She doesn’t let up as her fingers continue to explore. My skin prickles in the wake of her touch. “For the burden of love she is destined to bear.”

  I hum low in my throat, and she steps closer, so much that her chest brushes against mine with every deep inhalation.

  I need more. I don’t want her to stop. My hand inches forward and grasps at her shirt, my fist closing tightly over the fabric in hopes of keeping her right where she is.

  “Only love is powerful enough,” she whispers again, her voice wrapping around us like a warm blanket, “to break the heart of the divine.”

  “Please . . .” Don’t stop.

  As if she can read my thoughts, she presses her body to mine, willfully handing over the single thing I need most in this moment. I wrap both my arms around her slender waist as she places her palms on either side of my neck. I become her servant, her slave. Without even trying, she has me under a spell I can’t explain. Our bodies fit together, her breasts pressed to my ribs, my forearms fitting perfectly above the flare of her hips. Her soft form is the perfect complement to my tense muscles. Laura said Mercy’s stronger than I think, and I see what she means. I can’t explain why I feel helpless under her touch.

  “What do you want?” Her question comes with genuine concern, and she pushes up on her toes, so close her lips brush against my ear as she whispers, “Help me read you.” Her words make no sense. She’s warm pressed against me, not cold like the porcelain doll she resembles.

  “What is this? What’s happening?”

  “You have to tell me what you want.” Though she speaks softly, her words carry an undeniable command, an air of authority.

  “I want . . .” My breath hitches, and I squeeze her more tightly against myself. “You.”

  Her body stiffens, and she backs away. The tether that once sealed us together shatters, and my pulse throbs in my ears. Her white eyebrows drop low as her lips part.

  “I’m sorry, Mercy . . . I . . .” I reach for her, only to have her scramble away from me. Dammit! “It’s okay. I’ll go.” I move to the door. “I’m really sorry.”

  Walking away, I shake myself from a fog while at the same time trying to catch my breath. My heart feels as if it’s going to explode from my chest, and I can’t figure out why. I run the moment through my head again in a thousand different ways but still can’t answer the one burning question that’s sure to keep me up all night.

  What the hell just happened?

  Eight years ago

  “TELL ME HOW you’re feeling, Angel.” Papa’s big hands hold my face so that I can’t look away. His eyes come into focus when he’s this close, and they pull the truth from my soul.

  Not that I’m capable of lying. Not anymore. I learned my lesson, and I’d rather not be taught it again.

  “I don’t like the way they look at me.” The ceremonial robe feels itchy against my skin. Señora rolled my hair into a tight ball at the back of my neck, and it makes my head throb. “I don’t like the way some of them touch me.”

  He makes a grumbling noise then releases my face to put his hands on his hips. “I’d never let them hurt you. You know that.”

  That’s what he says, but I’m not so sure. Some of the men who wait for me in the sanctuary look at me with impure intentions. I can see it in the way their eyes shift along my body, the way they grab at me with covetous hands. “Some of the men have evil inside them.”

  “As do all men. We are merely flesh and bone, not divine like you.”

  I nod, for these are the words I’ve heard my entire life, and I have no grounds to refute them.

  He smiles. “You must trust me to take care of you, Angel. Your kind is very rare and extremely powerful. There is no end to your abilities. You know this.”

  I do. He’s told me for as long as I can remember. I’ve been stuck behind the four walls of my room. The only view of the outside world has been through Señora’s books and the view from the windows—blocked by a brick wall that reaches to the heavens. Only here am I safe because my kind is desired by many but, when caught, seldom kept alive.

  The rough but welcome brush of his fingertip on my cheek calls my eyes to his. “Your humble parish awaits.”

  I push up from my kneeling position but keep my gaze on the floor. “Very well, Papa.”

  He shifts, and his shiny shoes click against the tile. “I hate to see you distressed.” After a tinkling of china, he’s back with a teacup. “Drink your serum to drop your defenses, open you up to your power, and in doing so, help you to channel it.”

  I take the cup from his hands as I do every time he offers it to me. I wish I could use my powers without it, because it messes with my ability to fully remember what happens during the ceremonies. When it wears off, I’m left with only flashes of hands reaching and eyes probing—I shiver and bring the cup to my lips.

  “You have the power to heal.”

  I take a sip of the bitter brew.

  “To bring success.”

  I swallow it back.

  “To bring fertility.”

  I gulp more.

  “To cure incurable disease. These people pay a lot of money to be here.”

  I squint my eyes to get down the last drops and hand him the empty cup.

  “Don’t let them down, Angel. They are your responsibility.”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “I’ll give that some time to kick in, and I want you to meditate on your power. I’ll be back to bring you to the sanctuary.”

  I nod and cross to a padded mat, where I kneel to wait.

  He unlocks the door and walks out and locks it again behind himself. He says that’s not just to keep me in but to keep them out.

  No timepiece is in my room, no sounds at all except for the occasional murmured voices or door slamming somewhere in the space around my room. Time crawls, and soon, a warm hum begins in my chest. I wrap my thoughts
around the feeling and pull it to expand until my arms tingle. I don’t know when it changed, but my clothes no longer irritate me, and my fears from earlier dissolve, energizing my blood.

  My skin vibrates and crawls with an ache to touch and be touched.

  I run a hand up my arm, and the combination of the soft gown and oiled skin is a feast for my senses. The room that I used to see as confining welcomes me with its walls. The rough brick texture pops to life and begs for my caress. I don’t dare move but imagine running my hand along every surface and glorying in the sensations.

  Papa was right. With the removal of my emotional walls, my power is electrified. The bare skin on my back exposed to showcase my wings is caressed by the air it encounters. I imagine the feathered appendages expanding, stretching, and shaking off the dust of my human form.

  My lips mumble words I don’t understand. Papa says it’s a heavenly language that isn’t meant to be understood by those unlike me. More alert than ever, I flex my tingling fingers, pulsating with power.

  The lock on the door clicks, and Papa comes in with Señora on his heels. I can’t see the details of his face until he’s up close, but when I do, he’s smiling.

  He cups my jaw and runs the pad of his thumb along my cheek. A groan falls from his lips. “Mmm, yes. I can feel the energy gathering beneath your skin. It’s desperate to be released.” His thumb passes over me again.

  I lean into his touch and will him to touch me more. My gift works, and he reaches for my hands. “These hands contain more influence than you could ever imagine.”

  He flips them gently and studies my palms, tracing each delicate line. A river of warmth follows the trail of his fingertips, and I gasp as my gift surges forward.

  “There it is. You’re ready.”

  Milo

  MY HEAD IS pounding as though I have a hangover, but I didn’t drink last night. I grab books from my locker and snag a couple Advil while I’m there. Thank God it’s Friday and I have the weekend off.

  I swallow the pills dry and curse the battle in my brain. I still feel like shit about the way I left Mercy. She got close, and I pulled her closer. I should’ve known better. Laura won’t tell me what kind of situation the girl came out of, so I don’t know what her triggers are. Lying in my bed all night coming up with every possible reason why our closeness spooked her only made it harder for me to sleep.