Ghostgirl ~ JB Salsbury

by J. B. Salsbury

  Something jerks the back of the truck firmly.

  “They’re looking in the back,” Milo says again, as if he knows when things scare me and does what he can to reassure me. “Stay quiet.”

  I nod, and in a minute, the door slams again, so I take a deep breath. After more stop and go, the grind of the engine finally sounds loudly in my ear. We’re back to moving.

  Milo takes a deep breath. “We did it. We’re here.” He exhales so loudly I feel his breath through the fabric of my hood.

  “How much longer until we can get out?”

  “Shouldn’t be too long.”

  After another six minutes that feels like six hours, the truck comes to a halt. Locks click open, and the door to our hiding spot is pushed aside. I blink rapidly, blinded by the sunlight as I greedily suck in the fresh air.

  We stumble out, gasping and drenched in sweat.

  The older man says, “Dios mío!”

  Milo snaps at the man in Spanish then readjusts my hood to cover my face. “Are you good?”

  I hold his hands against my cheeks, overwhelmed with gratitude for his saving my life. “Yes.” I close my eyes and press my face into his chest. He’s sweaty and smells a little like the dank hole we were transported in, but I don’t care. Right now, he smells like freedom.

  His arms wrap around me, and he speaks in Spanish to the man, who tosses my backpack at our feet and leaves us there. I look around from the shelter of Milo’s arms and see we’re in a barren dirt lot. A city is in the distance, but it’s too far for me to see much. I only hope it’s also too far for anyone to have seen us crawling out of the truck.

  “Now what?”

  Milo’s head swivels around, his eyebrows low as he looks for something. I pull back and do the same.

  “There.” He points at what looks like a single dirt road.

  He grabs my hand, and I watch as a car comes into view. It’s big and white, and as it pulls to a stop next to us, it’s shiny and clean, and all the metal parts are gold.

  The front door opens, and I instinctively drift closer to Milo. He tucks me in tightly to his side as a man taller and wider than Milo comes around the hood to meet us. I know right away I’ve never seen this man before, but I shudder with the power that seems to come along with his presence when he stops right in front of us.

  His black hair is slicked back, and his dark sunglasses hide what I assume would be cold and fearless eyes. He’s dressed in tan pants and a black shirt, and his skin is covered in tattoos, even up his neck to his face.

  Milo stiffens and holds me tighter. “El Jefe.”

  “Mijo.” He crosses his arms over his chest and turns to focus on me. “What the fuck did you do?”

  Milo

  MY JAW CLENCHES so hard that it aches as my dad glares through his Locs at Mercy. “Leave her alone.”

  His thick brows pop up over his shades. “Leave her alone? You ask for my help, and I’m not allowed to ask questions?”

  I don’t answer him but just hold his stare until he frowns.

  “Get in.”

  I open the back door and help Mercy inside, putting her bag at her feet and making sure she’s buckled in. The car smells of new leather and weed, which is exactly what I’d expect of El Jefe’s Escalade. I give Mercy what I hope is a calming smile, and she grins back, reminding me of Laura’s words from only months ago: Mercy is stronger than you think.

  How many girls who have survived what she has would be so calm while running from a man who wants to kill her and being smuggled across the border by a coyote?

  My dad throws the thing into drive and skids out of the dirt lot toward a paved road.

  “Sebastian called.”

  I turn toward him. His expression is as hard as steel even though his posture is laid back and casual.

  “And?”

  “Miguel and Julian are safe. The gringos too. They called the police to file a missing persons’ when they realized you two were gone.”

  I regret sitting in the front seat and not in the back because I can’t see Mercy’s face or feel the tension in her body. I don’t know if the news my dad just shared is making her feel better or worse.

  “Good.” We’ll give it a few months and lie low, then we can return and pick up where we left off. But you’ll be working for the LS, puto! Shit!

  After forty-five minutes on the highway, I turn around and find Mercy with her chin to her chest and her backpack held in her arms, asleep.

  “Heard Jules got hit by a car,” my dad mumbles in Spanish.

  I don’t answer, because although I’m stuck working for him for the rest of my life and yeah, being friendly would make all that a lot easier, he’s still the man who didn’t give a fuck about me and my brothers and murdered our mom.

  “You fuck the guy up?” He side-eyes me through his shades. “You get justice for your brother?”

  That’s what he cares about? Whether or not I made the guy pay? Forget the fact that his son almost died and he was nowhere to be found.

  “Answer me,” he says.

  “Yes.”

  “So you’re not totally worthless.”

  I turn my head, wishing I could crawl into the backseat and hold onto Mercy but not wanting to show my dad just how weak I am or how badly I need her. If he knew, he’d use her against me—I’m sure of it.

  Another forty-five minutes pass, and we finally pull up to a black iron gate that has to be ten feet high. When El Jefe gives a quick wave to the guard manning the gate, it slides open. Behind the wrought iron, nestled into a beachside hill just outside of Ensenada, is a property the size of East LA. Outside these walls, the land leading right up to the water is desert, but inside the compound is nothing but green manicured lawns and tropical trees.

  Dogs—pit bulls—come out from wherever they were hiding. Some bark, while others run alongside the vehicle as we drive up a long, winding path that leads to an underground parking garage. He punches in a code that swings open the entrance and leads us down to where at least a dozen cars are parked, including a Lexus, a Corvette, and a lifted F-150, but some everyday cars are there also—an old Honda, a minivan, an El Camino.

  El Jefe appears to have been doing a whole hell of a lot more than hiding out while he’s been here in Mexico. I don’t want to think of the laundry list of illegal shit he must have his hands in to afford this kind of lifestyle, so I don’t. I may not be happy about calling in this favor to keep Mercy safe, but it was clearly the right choice. No one will think to look for us here, nearly two hours into Mexico in some tiny beach town, and if they did get this far, they’d have to get through all the bars, gates, and guards to get to her.

  We park at the end of a row of luxury vehicles, and once the car is off, I hurry around to get Mercy and her things.

  Even in this underground garage, the air smells like the ocean—briny and sweet. I push Mercy’s hood back and kiss her cheek. “Mi alma. We’re here.”

  She jerks as though I might be waking her from a bad dream, or maybe she was having a good dream she hoped to never wake up from. Her light eyes settle on mine. “How long did I sleep?”

  “Almost an hour.” I grab her backpack, and she scoots out, making sure her hood is in place. “Let’s get you settled in so you can go back to sleep.”

  When I look over to where I expect my dad to be waiting, he’s not there. One thing the man is not known for is his stellar hospitality.

  I tug Mercy with me toward a set of doors. Through those doors is a staircase, so we use it and climb up three levels to a service entry to the kitchen.

  The scents of braised beef, onions, and Mexican spices make my mouth water, and a Hispanic woman wearing a pink bandana turns around and yelps. “Estás Emilio?”

  I answer her in Spanish that yes, I am Emilio, and I introduce Mercy and ask if the woman knows where we can put our stuff.

  She tells us in Spanish to follow her. She takes us through the massive kitchen, which looks big enough that several peo
ple can cook at the same time. The living room and dining room are bigger than Laura’s house, and the staircase leading up to the second level is wide enough that I could drive my car up it.

  Mercy remains silent at my side, but I can tell by the way she takes everything in, absorbing every detail, she’s not in shock or scared, just curious.

  On the second level, the woman opens the double doors to a huge master suite. I thank her, and she scurries off back down the stairs. Mercy watches me close the door, and once it’s locked, she finally slips off her hood. She turns toward the room, and I follow behind her as she takes in the elegant space.

  The suite has a bed big enough to fit four people, a full-sized couch, fireplace, and even a table by a large glass door that looks out onto a patio and—

  “The ocean?” Mercy drags me to the window, her eyes squinting hard to focus.

  “Yep, that’s the ocean.” I hit the lock on the glass door and open it up.

  She steps out onto the terrace, her eyes straining to see the ocean in the distance. “Is it as beautiful as I think it is? It’s like what we always talked about.” Her head turns to me, a brilliant smile on her face.

  “Not exactly what we’d talked about.” I’m a full-fledged LS member, the group’s prince, who has taken his position at the right hand of El Jefe—everything I’ve worked so hard to avoid.

  I stare at Mercy as she closes her eyes in the cool breeze. The wind tosses her hair around her face, and her lips part as though she’s attempting to taste the ocean on the air. I take a deep breath and remind myself that she’s safe, that it’s over.

  In this moment, the reality of what I’ve done hits me so gently that it’s like a kiss to my chest.

  I sold my soul to the devil to save an angel.

  Three weeks later

  Mercy

  PAIN AND BLOOD.

  I wake from the screams, soaked in my own sweat. My hands rip at the silken fabric of my sleeping gown as my eyes mistake the darkened fabric for blood. I kick at the heavy blankets as they seem to grow fingers and latch to my calves and ankles.

  A heavy hand settles on my stomach, and reality washes away the darkness.

  Milo.

  With shaky fingers, I hold his hand against my belly.

  “Estas bien?” He speaks mostly in Spanish when he’s tired, which is becoming more and more frequent since he started working for his father. He’s called out at all hours of the day, even in the middle of the night. When I ask him what he does, he says mostly delivery. When I ask him what he delivers, he just smiles and kisses me until I’m dizzy and asks me if I trust him. I do. Of course I do.

  “Pesadilla.” Nightmare, I answer in Spanish. No one here speaks English except for me, Milo, and occasionally his father, not that I’ve spent much time with him. Milo insists on keeping me separated from El Jefe. My only friends are the people who cook and clean, and they speak only Spanish. My life is a lonely but a protected one. This is why I’m never permitted to leave the compound—to keep me safe, Milo always says. The only excitement I see is when we get sharp-dressed visitors, but I’m always ushered out of the room shortly after they show up.

  Milo hums and mumbles a sleepy “I’m sorry, mi alma.” He pulls me to his chest, and his hand cups my head to bring my face to his neck. To his tattoo. The single safest place I’ve ever known. I lie there and let his pulse soothe me until the gentle vibration of his snoring once again fills the room.

  I hold his hand to my chest, nuzzle his throat, and wonder when the horrific nightmares of the muti will end.

  Since the night I learned of the black-magic medicine that was meant to be my fate, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it—the violence, the pain, the children who suffer my fate while I’m wrapped in silk and protected.

  I squeeze my eyes closed and will myself not to care. But I can’t turn my back on the injustice, on the future I was destined for, were it not for the man I fell in love with.

  Realizing sleep won’t come, I slip out from under Milo’s arm and tiptoe to the bathroom. I close the door and flip on the light. The tile is cold under my feet until I reach the plush bath mat sitting at the base of a bathtub big enough for two, and I think about the last time Milo and I curled up in it together.

  He’s changed a lot since we got here. His love for me is the same—if anything, it’s even more intense. I suppose life and death will do that. He’s bigger now, as he’s been working out with a few of the guys who live here on the estate, his arms becoming more swollen and his chest growing so much he was forced to buy bigger shirts.

  I stare at myself in the mirror, realizing I have also changed.

  My eyes are ringed in red from lack of sleep, my expression hardened by the truth of what humanity is capable of.

  I think back to the girl who woke up strapped to a strange bed. I think back to Angel, the innocence in her eyes, the way she viewed the world through the purest of lenses. And I miss her.

  This might be freedom, but is freedom really better than captivity?

  Does knowledge make you stronger? Is it possible to know too much?

  I frown—a look I’m finding on my face more often—and flip on the sink to rinse the sweat from my forehead. The water is already warm in my hands, which is strange. I turn back to the closed door, wondering what time Milo came to bed.

  When I move to splash my face, I notice a spot on the front of my white nightgown. I pull at the fabric with my fingers. “Blood.”

  I look down at the counter, wondering if the blood was there when I leaned up against it, but it’s clean. I shut the water off and walk back toward the door but stop short when I see a towel hanging from the hamper. I throw it open, and the white terrycloth is wet and stained with blood.

  “Milo.” Is he hurt?

  I shut off the light and tiptoe back to bed. I flip on the small reading light I use at night and shine it toward Milo. For a moment, I’m drawn to his beautiful body, so dark and colorful, the complete opposite of mine. His chest rises and falls evenly, his face unharmed. I follow the line of his muscled arm down to his hand.

  I gasp and cover my mouth to keep from waking him.

  His knuckles are wet with fresh blood. I reach for the tissues on my nightstand and dab at the gashes, thankful it doesn’t wake him. I slip away and move to the other side of the bed. His other hand is tucked under the blankets. I slowly peel them back and shine the light on that hand—fresh scabs.

  I look around the room, but seeing anything in the dim light is hard, so I carefully cover him up and go into the closet to search for his clothes. There, right on top of the hamper, is the black T-shirt he wore at dinner. I pull it out and shine the light, squinting. Seeing if anything is on it is hard, and I curse my weak vision. I reach for his jeans and lay them on the tile then shine the light and confirm my fears.

  More blood.

  It’s spattered like paint on the front, with one bigger smear down closer to his ankle. I look over at his black boots, the ones with the heavy toes that he wears when he goes out on jobs. The toes are also spattered in blood, and because of the small size of the scabs on his knuckles, I don’t think it’s his own.

  My chest wells with anger but mostly sadness.

  What has he been doing, and why is he lying to me about it?

  Is he in danger?

  Are we safe here?

  How long will it be until someone wears Milo’s blood the way he wears theirs?

  I fear we’ve run from one danger straight into the arms of another.

  Milo

  MERCY NEVER LOOKS more beautiful than she does when she smiles. No matter how small, any sliver of joy the woman feels shows up all over her face. When her eyes light up and dance, that always takes my breath away.

  I don’t think I’m the only one affected. Her charms, it seems, work even on animals. One of the many pit bulls El Jefe has patrolling the estate—this one with a stocky build, wide toothy mouth, and hornlike clipped ears—is grinning up
at Mercy while she scratches its belly. Its tail whips back and forth at whatever she’s saying as she smiles down at him.

  I spend every morning watching her from the kitchen window as she sits on the lawn with this damn dog. I sip my coffee as her purity and goodness wash away last night’s sin. I think I’ll take her on a drive today and get lost far away from this jail cell, where I can pretend we’re just a regular couple doing regular-couple things.

  “You gonna tell her?”

  At the sound of El Jefe’s voice, my peaceful mood nosedives just as quickly as my grin. His slippered feet shuffle up beside me, his eyes just as puffy as mine feel from the late night and early morning.

  I go back to watching Mercy, who is now lying on her back with her hand on the dog . . . in the sun. Was it not even a year ago that she was terrified to stand outside for too long? It feels like another lifetime.

  “You should tell her.” My dad is speaking English, probably to avoid being overheard by the staff working hard to prepare breakfast.

  “No.” I can’t take my eyes off her. God, she’s beautiful. “Not yet.”

  “You gonna hunt them all down and kill ʼem first?”

  I no longer cringe at the easy way we talk about death. I’ve acclimated to a new way of life. I see it through new eyes, through the eyes of a man protecting the one person he loves more than himself. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her safe, to finally answer all her questions and take away her nightmares, even if it costs me my soul.

  “I’ll tell her. Once I get the right people, I’ll put their fate in her hands.”

  “Órale.” He chuckles and walks away, leaving me to stalk my woman in private.

  I’m so close to finding the people who held her captive for most of her life. When I find them, I’ll use them to reel in every single soul who’s responsible for her captivity and their plans to use her for muti. I will finally give Mercy the justice she deserves.

  Only then will she really be free.

  * * *

  Milo and Mercy’s story concludes in Saint.

  Milo sold his soul to the devil to save an angel.