by JB Salsbury
“I heard they let you out.” I turn my chair around to face him, as having my back to him feels wrong—makes me vulnerable. I ain’t afraid of him, although I know he wishes I were. Still, turning my back on a snake is just stupid.
He puts his hand on the back of Julian’s neck and smiles. “Good behavior, ese.”
“Omar.” I offer the LS VP a chin lift that he returns.
“What’s up, Emilio?”
“Nothing much. What’re you guys doing here?”
Sebastian motions for Julian to take his seat while he drops down to take the table next to us. He sets a calculating gaze on Mercy, and even though she’s tucked well into her sweatshirt, I hate his eyes on her.
“We came by to grab a bite. Never expected we’d run into you.” Sebastian motions toward Mercy. “Who’s this?”
“Friend.” I don’t want to tell him she’s our foster sister, don’t want him knowing anything about her.
He’d never mess with me or my brothers. He knows El Jefe would feed him his own heart for even trying, but everyone else in my life? They’re a big ol’ glowing target. And after I openly accused him of having something to do with my mother’s “disappearance,” I’ve been on his shit list.
He leans down, trying to get a peek beneath her oversized hood. “You got a name, conejita?”
Her head comes up, and she looks right at him. He recoils, and I try hard not to laugh at how easily he spooks.
“Dios . . .” He blinks and smiles. “You’re a ghost, no?” He laughs awkwardly, and Omar joins in. “Holy shit, cuz.” He knocks me in the shoulder. “She yours?”
“I told you she’s a friend.” I spit out the words, my jaw aching.
“What’s your name?” he asks her.
“Mercy.” Though I expect her answer to be soft and shy, she speaks her name with the kind of authority that she used last night when we were in her room.
How can she be so tentative with some things and so bold with others?
“Mercy.” Sebastian studies her then addresses Miguel. “Miguelito, no greeting for your primo, ese?”
Miguel glares at him then shakes his head and goes back to his meal.
Whereas Julian was too young to understand why we ended up with Laura and Chris, Miguel was there the morning our mother went missing. He was there when I called out our dad for killing her, he witnessed the beating that came after, and he felt the full force of our abandonment. Sebastian never denied his involvement, and Miguel isn’t stupid.
Sebastian scratches his jaw and leans his elbows on his knees, a dark expression aimed at Miguel. “You disrespectin’ me, puto?”
“Don’t.” I lean toward my cousin and try to speak calmly and directly even though every cell in my body wants to rip him into pieces. “Don’t forget who you’re talkin’ to.” My blood hums in my veins, and he doesn’t take his cold, hard eyes off me until Omar clears his throat.
“Bastian, let’s go.” Omar shifts on his feet while I continue to stare at my piece-of-shit cousin.
“Right.” Sebastian shoves up from his seat, making the thing scrape loudly against the concrete. “I’ll see you ‘round, ese.” He smiles, but it’s far from friendly.
“Bye, Bastian!” Julian waves, his fingers coated with grease.
The guy’s eyes dart to Mercy then slide back to me, and he smiles, all teeth.
Don’t even think about it.
Julian tugs at the back of my shirt, but I ignore him until Sebastian and Omar are back in their Cadillac and pulling from the parking lot.
He tugs again. “Milo, now that Bastian is out, does this mean Dad will come back for us?”
Miguel seems just as interested in my answer, and even Mercy is paying attention.
“As soon as I graduate and get my own place, I’m going to get legal custody of you and Miguel. Dad might come back, but we’ll never live with him again.”
Julian frowns. “Oh.”
Miguel’s shoulders seem to relax a little.
“Don’t be sad.” Mercy’s soft voice catches us all off guard. Her eyes are fixed on Julian. “If it makes you feel better, Julian, I don’t even have a father.”
His black eyebrows pinch at the middle. “Then how are you here if you don’t got a dad?”
Her eyes widen. “Well, because I was created, not born.”
Miguel and I share a look that says a lot of What the hell is up with this girl?
“Created. Like Adam and Eve?” Julian says.
“Yes. Just like that.” She smiles warmly, leaving zero doubt in my mind that she believes what she’s saying.
Who did a number on her? She was brainwashed to believe she has no parents? That’s impossible. Where did Laura find this girl?
Milo
I’M SLIPPING ON a T-shirt when I hear a knock on my door followed by Laura’s voice.
“Milo, it’s me.”
“Coming.” I run a hand through my still-damp hair and swing open the door to find my foster mom smiling a little too big. “What?”
She steps inside, shaking her head, and damn if that grin doesn’t just keep on growing. “I needed a second with you before you take off.”
Ahhh, that explains all the grinning. “All right, but we’re supposed to meet—”
“I know. I’ll be quick.” She clasps her hands in front of herself and grins up at me. “Thank you for doing this.”
“It’s just the mall.” I slip past her to my closet and make a quick decision to wear my old black Converse. I don’t want to wear the new ones and make Carrie think I dressed up for her as though this is a date.
With arms crossed over her chest, she smirks. “You hate the mall.”
She’s right.
“I’ve been working with Mercy for over six months, and she’s made slow and steady progress, but over this last week, she’s really blossomed. I can’t help but wonder if it’s because of your influence.”
I’m grateful to have my head down over my shoes so that Laura can’t see my face as I’m about to lie. “I’m not doing anything but keeping an eye on her like I’d do for anyone in the family.” I feel a draw toward Mercy, and I wonder if it would eventually go away if I ignored it.
“That’s all it takes. She’s really struggled with trust. It took a long time to get her to trust me, but you, Milo . . . She trusted you immediately, and I just want you to know how much I appreciate you being there for her.”
When I don’t respond, she steps closer.
“Look, I know Mercy is different, and different is challenging at this stage in life. But this is a girl who went from being afraid to leave a ten-by-twelve-foot space to six months later going to the mall with a group of her peers. I mean . . .” Her voice is borderline hysterical. “It’s a miracle!”
I stand and grab my keys and wallet. “I don’t know ʼbout all that.”
She seems to shake off whatever high she was feeling and shoves a stack of cash at me. “Here. This is for her to buy clothes with. She’s never been interested in what she wore before, and I know I don’t have to tell you this will be her first time shopping. I’m not sure how much she understands.”
I snag the cash and shove it into my back pocket of my jeans. “No worries. I’ll make sure she doesn’t come home looking like a chancluda.”
She purses her mouth. “Do I even want to know what that means?”
I chuckle. “No, probably not.”
She shakes her head and turns to leave.
“Laura?”
She turns back to me, brows raised.
“Mercy said she doesn’t have parents. She said she was created, not born. What does that mean?”
Laura looks worried. “She said that?”
I nod.
“Dammit,” she mutters. “I thought we’d moved past that.”
“The way she said it, it’s like she believes her own lies.”
A flash of disappointment darkens her perky expression. “She’s not lying. She remembers very little
of her past. At first, we thought she’d been traumatized into forgetting, but what she does remember isn’t violent or neglectful. We’re still putting the pieces together. The damage that was done to her young and impressionable mind? It’ll take time for her to recover.”
“So if she has parents—ya know, a mom and a dad—where are they?”
“We don’t know. We’ve checked every police report in the country for a missing child of Mercy’s unique genetic abnormality, and there’s nothing. To be honest, if I didn’t know better, I would think she didn’t have parents either.” She grins. “Thankfully, I know better.”
“Right.”
She leaves, but I don’t follow as I soak in the new information.
Mercy has parents. Of course she does.
Maybe they gave her up because she didn’t meet the newborn-baby status of their rich, snobby friends—ten fingers, ten toes, but the color was all off.
She’s different, and that goes well beyond her frosty skin tone. She’s magnetic, addicting—her touch feels like electricity that makes my skin hum—hold the fuck on. Electricity?
I rub my face with both hands and give myself an internal pep talk to drop it. Mercy is weird, but she’s cool. Who cares where she came from? I don’t.
I head out like a man walking to his own execution.
I don’t care at all.
I AM IN hell.
Absolute. Literal. Hell.
Execution would’ve been a relief.
The low murmur of hundreds of voices mixed with occasional laughter and really shitty pop music pumped from speakers has me crawling out of my skin. I’m surrounded by scents similar to what I’d expect hell to smell like—a nauseating mix of powerful perfume, fried food, and the occasional whiff of body odor.
The mall.
And on a Saturday, no less.
Miguel ended up hitching a ride with us, saying he wanted to check out the latest X-Men movie. He had the right idea—get in and get the hell away from the crowds. If I trusted Carrie, I would’ve gone with him, but the way she’s been eyeing Mercy since we met up in the food court and her on-the-sly whispers to Amber aren’t giving me a good feeling. I think I’d best stick close until Mercy’s able to defend herself against the typical high school mean-girl routine.
She stays by my side as we weave through racks of teen-girl clothes in some trendy clothing store. TV screens on the walls are playing a music video—the song sung by a dude with a high voice fills the store as he whines about his reputation. And he’s wearing pink. Maybe Damian’s right, and girls really do like that crap.
“What do you think, Milo?” Carrie holds up a tiny strip of fabric that hangs from two strings off its hanger. She places it over her chest, smiling seductively up at me. “Should I try it on?”
“It looks a little . . . small.” Even held over her chest, it barely covers her boobs.
She pouts. “Hmm . . . You’re right.” Her gaze darts to Mercy, who is glued to my elbow. “This would look hot on you, Mercy. Your chest is a lot smaller than mine.” Carrie holds the thing up to Mercy, who looks down at it as if it’s raw meat being pressed to her neck. “Don’t you think this would look great on her, Milo?”
A flicker in Carrie’s eyes makes warning bells go off in my head. This is a test.
I gaze down at Mercy in her hoodie, and yeah, she’d look hot in that top . . . over my dead body. “Eh . . . looks slutty to me.” I gently tug Carrie’s wrist to pull the top away from Mercy.
Carrie wrinkles her nose. “Slutty?”
“Oh wow.” Amber comes up to us with an armful of things to try on. “That’s so cute. Dibs!” She snags it and tosses it onto her pile.
Carrie goes back to browsing the racks, and Mercy presses so close her sweatshirt brushes my bicep.
“See anything you like?” I ask, noticing the way she pinches at clothes, bringing the fabric close to her face to study their patterns as she passes. “Can you see everything okay?”
“I think so.” She grins up at me, but she seems shy, almost embarrassed. “I don’t understand why there are so many options when their only purpose is to cover our bodies.”
I turn toward her and lean against the rack of flannel shirts as she studies their intricate patterns. “Clothes serve a bigger purpose than just covering a body. Think of them like . . . art or a form of expression. It’s like putting your personality on the outside.”
Her gaze swings to mine, and she squints as she studies my shirt then jeans and shoes.
“Did I do okay?” I want to laugh at how serious her expression is, as though checking out my clothes is equal to studying for a chemistry exam.
Her nose wrinkles, and it’s so cute that I’m tempted to pull her close and hug her, which is stupid on so many levels. “They’re just clothes.”
“True. But”—I motion to rack of simple T-shirts—“if you pick one that’s the right color . . .” I pull a navy-blue one. It’s simple, short sleeves, long . . . Wait, it’s a dress? Whatever. The color would look great on her pale skin. “It can make your best features stand out.” I hold the dress up. “What do you think?”
“Um . . .” She squints at it. “Okay.”
“Do you know what size you wear?”
“She’s probably a medium or large,” Carrie says as she pushes between me and Mercy to dig through a rack of dresses for herself.
I give Carrie a once over. “What size are you?”
“Small.” She smiles flirtatiously. “Duh.”
I snag a small for Mercy. She’s easily Carrie’s size, slimmer but taller. Carrie was right that Mercy’s boobs aren’t quite as big as hers, but they’re still a solid handful. I shove the dress at Mercy and help her pick out a few more things that seem practical—shirts, shorts, flannels, and a couple jackets she wouldn’t be swimming in.
When her arms are full of clothes to try on, I direct her to the dressing rooms. “You girls go ahead. I’ll wait out here.”
“No way.” Carrie winks at me. “You have to judge the fashion show.” She grabs my hand and drags me toward the dressing rooms, where two oversized seats rest. “Sit.”
I take the empty seat, the other one occupied by a man who looks to be in his forties and miserable as he watches his young tween daughter twirl around in a tight dress that barely covers her ass.
Carrie grabs Mercy by the arm. “Come on. We’ll try all our stuff on, and Milo can vote on his favorites.”
Amber is already in a room, burning through her hundreds of choices, and Carrie directs Mercy to the room next to hers. Mercy looks back at me before going inside, as though she’s looking for my approval or communicating that she doesn’t want me to leave. I nod, which seems to give her the assurance she needs as she turns and closes herself inside.
The man next to me groans like a dying animal while rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.
“But Dad, it’s what all the girls are wearing!” His daughter’s pitching a fit about his dislike of her teen-streetwalker dress.
“I don’t care, Amy. The answer is still no. No way.”
She stomps her foot and slams the dressing room door behind her. I figure watching this unfold for the next thirty minutes will make for some decent entertainment.
I pull out my phone and text Miguel: Checking in. What time does the movie start?
He gets right back to me: Started 5 min ago.
This makes me wonder if Mercy has ever been to see a movie. I have to ask her. Being the first one to take her might be cool.
Carrie’s dressing room door swings open, and she’s wearing a tiny dress covered in gold sequins. Her cleavage is pinched high and draws my eyes up past the glaring reflective dress. She turns and wiggles her ass. If she dropped anything in that dress, she’d be giving everyone within a ten-foot radius a beaver show. I’m tilting my head, thinking she probably wouldn’t even have to drop anything. I bet if I just got a little lower—
“Wow.”
I turn to glare at
the man next to me.
“W-what? She uh . . .” He clears his throat. “Looks good.”
I jerk my chin toward Carrie but keep my eyes on the guy. “She’s not much older than your daughter.”
He winces and shakes his head, mumbling something about having the girl’s mother take her shopping next time.
“What do you think?” Carrie shakes her ass in my face, but I can’t focus because I keep expecting the door Mercy is behind to open, and I don’t want to miss seeing her in something I picked out. “Well?”
“It’s . . .” I try to come up with a kind word. “Shiny.”
She props her hands on her hips. “Shiny.”
I shrug.
She blows out a breath and returns to her dressing room. Both she and Amber come out a few more times in clothes that look too small. Eventually, Amy and her dad leave, and I’m left alone, impatiently waiting on Mercy.
With Carrie and Amber in their rooms for another wardrobe change, I head to Mercy’s and rap softly on the door. “You okay?”
“Yes.” She sounds good. Maybe she’s just not the type that feels the need to wave herself around to get the approval of others. I can respect that, even if I’m dying to see her in clothes that fit.
“Okay, I just wanted to check—”
The lock clicks, and the door slowly creeps open.
Mercy’s standing on the other side, wearing the dress I picked out for her. It was nothing special on the hanger, literally just a long T-shirt, but on Mercy, it’s transformed. She knots her hands together in front of herself. “Does it fit?”
“Turn a—” I clear the crack in my voice. “Turn around.”
She’s barefoot, her white feet stepping in a circle, all that platinum hair piled high on her head to showcase the perfect slope of her neck, the tender line of her jaw looking as if it’s made of porcelain. Once she’s made a full circle, she stares up at me.
“Yeah. You look beautiful.”
She blushes, and damn, I love the color that brings to her face. Before I do something stupid, I step back, and she closes herself inside. I turn away and take my seat again, willing my pulse to get itself under control.
She’s a foster kid, for crap sakes! Who knows what she’s been through, yet all my thoughts of her are becoming more and more proprietary, as though I’ve claimed her in some way.
