Ghostgirl ~ JB Salsbury

by JB Salsbury

  “You okay?”

  She nods but keeps her eyes closed.

  I lean in again, this time tilting my head as I ply her lips with mine. She responds the same way, still holding her breath, if I’m not mistaken. After a few more gentle pecks, I pull back, smiling at how flushed her pale skin has become.

  “Open your eyes,” I say.

  She does, and when her gaze focuses on me, her eyelids are heavy.

  “How do you feel?”

  She squirms in her seat, her upper body angling toward me almost instinctively. “Warm.” She licks her lips. “Tingly.”

  “Good. Then I’m doing it right.”

  Her eyes drop to my lips and flare.

  “What do you want?”

  “More.”

  Thank God. I scoot closer and cup her jaw. “This time, you do what feels right. Don’t hold back. Just close your eyes, relax, and give in to it, okay?”

  Her head bobs, but she’s already diving toward my mouth. A low chuckle rumbles in my chest as she anxiously presses her mouth to mine.

  Rather than pulling away after a few soft brushes of our lips, I part mine and wet hers. “Breathe,” I whisper against her skin. As a soft puff of air comes from her mouth, I take the opportunity to tease the seam of her lips with my tongue.

  She pulls back, blinking, lips shining.

  “Is this okay?” It feels taboo, as though I’m breaking all the rules, but I can’t find it in myself to care.

  “Do I . . . I mean, should I . . .” She stares at my mouth.

  “Whatever you want. This is your kiss, Mercy. You call the shots.”

  She contemplates that for a second then leans in. I meet her halfway, joining our lips again. I’m shocked when she parts hers, opening just slightly, enough for me to get a tease of her sweet tongue. My eyelids slide shut without my permission as I become powerless before the kiss. I tilt my head and slip my tongue between her teeth. She does the same, coaxing a groan from my chest as our tongues slide together for the first time.

  “Mmm,” I hum against her. “You taste so good.”

  I dip back inside and marvel at how quickly she picks up on the lazy rhythm I set. I expected her to be clumsier, our teeth to knock together in a sloppy first kiss. Don’t get me wrong—I would’ve enjoyed the crap out of that too, but she is a quick study. She’s a natural.

  I suck her lower lip into my mouth, and she pushes closer, so close the next move would be crawling onto my lap. As much as I wish she would do that, it would definitely lead to something more, and this can only be about the kiss.

  I take my time, slowing things to a crawl in order to memorize every dip and curve of her mouth. Her lips are warm and pliant, and if I could curl between them and live there forever, I would.

  I slide a hand into her hair, cup her jaw, and run the pad of my thumb along her cheek. It’s even softer than I imagined it would be. I wonder if I sucked on her neck how quickly the powder-white skin would turn purple. My blood hammers through my veins when I imagine her wearing my mark not only on her neck but on her body in places only she could see.

  Our hurried breath is the most erotic soundtrack, and I fork both hands to fist her thick hair, hold her close, and lick deeper into her mouth. She moans, and the sound sends my blood surging through me. She claws at my T-shirt, and the bite of her short nails against my chest is like a straight shot between my legs. I suck her tongue, nip at her lips, and growl when she returns the favor.

  I’ve never had a kiss—especially sober—crank me up so much that I’d be ready for sex immediately.

  But I can’t ever have sex with Mercy.

  She’s got to be a virgin, and no way should a girl like her waste something so special on a prick like me. I wouldn’t let her make that kind of mistake—not with me, not with anyone.

  Rather than ripping my lips from hers, I slow things down. She makes a noise of protest in her throat, but after a few minutes of me bringing her back softly, she abandons my mouth.

  Her cheeks are flushed and her lips swollen and the color of a raspberry, probably from me sucking all the blood to the surface. I wonder what other parts of her pale body I could make flush with color. “Damn.” That kind of thinking will get me nowhere.

  “Did I mess it up?”

  I smile at her, and—screw it—I peck her lips one more time before releasing her and putting a foot of space between us. “No, you were perfect. Better than perfect, actually.” I can’t get my pulse to stop racing, my head to stop swimming, or the blood to redistribute to my vital organs. I squint through one eye. “Are you sure you’ve never done that before?”

  Her eyes widen. “I swear that was my first time.”

  “I believe you, Güera, but hot damn . . . you’re a natural.”

  “I am?” She does that thing with her fingertips on her lips again, and I feel a quick wave of jealousy, wishing those were my fingers touching her.

  “Yep. That was hot. Did you like it?”

  “Yes.” The word sounds like a fervent prayer, which makes me want to beat my chest and tie her up so she can never leave. “I really liked it.”

  Good, how about we plan on doing that again sometime? No! Dammit, I’m such a dick. She’s my foster sister, for crying out loud!

  “Do you want to watch another movie?” I need something to distract me from being alone with you and knowing how good you feel against me. After another hour and a half sitting on this couch, alone, knowing how soft her lips are, I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands to myself.

  “No, thank you.” Her gaze lingers on mine long enough to become awkward. “I think maybe I should go.”

  Relief and disappointment wash over me in equal parts. Either she read my mind, or she agrees that staying will only lead to a lot of naked possibilities. “Okay, let me grab my key so I can get you inside.”

  I get my key, and she takes her water bottle but struggles when we get to the door. The sun is still up, and she shifts on bare feet as if building up the courage to walk out into the sun.

  “You need me?”

  She lifts her chin, and the fear in her eyes is undeniable. “No. I can do it.”

  Scared, she still pushes out into the sun as though she’s done it a million times before. Her face scrunches up when the full force of the LA heat hits her skin, but she braves it and walks boldly up the driveway to the back door. I follow behind as her pale legs eat up the distance until she’s back under the shaded cover of the roof’s overhang.

  “Look at you makin’ the sun your bitch.”

  Her proud smile turns confused, and I chuckle at how fucking sweet she is, how untouched she seems even though I know she must’ve been through something uglier than I can imagine. To think, just weeks ago, I was looking forward to dirtying up Carrie, the Princess of Washington High. The thought of doing that to Mercy seems like an offense punishable by unholy damnation.

  Then again, I’m going to hell anyway.

  Milo

  SCHOOL LET OUT forty-five minutes ago, but that doesn’t mean I have the place to myself. Pushing a mop and bucket down the halls toward the freshman classrooms that need mopping, I pass a few lingering students. They don’t spare me a glance, thank God, and I tell myself it’s just three more weeks until I’ll be done with these hallways for good. A group of students stumbles out of a classroom. Some stay late for tutoring, some for club meetings, team practice, or theater rehearsals. I avoid them, and they avoid me.

  That’s why I’m surprised to hear my name being called.

  I stop just outside Room 112, Mr. Yuki’s freshman science classroom. He always has creepy shit in jars—alien-looking sea creatures, fetal animals with two heads, a six-fingered human hand. The dude is weird.

  I turn to see Carrie strutting toward me, all hip swing and no smile. Ever since I kissed Mercy, I’ve had little room in my thoughts for other girls, including Carrie. Mercy’s lips, her taste, her touch—she lit a fire in me that no amount of wishing her away will extingui
sh. I haven’t cared enough to play into Carrie’s flirtations or mindless attempts to get my attention. As she closes in, the spark of irritation in her eyes intensifies, and something tells me my days of avoiding her are over.

  “What’s your deal?” She stops in front of me, arms crossed at her chest. She’s wearing one of the shirts she bought at the mall on Saturday, a T-shirt just a tad too small that says #SELFIE across the chest.

  I remember her asking me if I thought it was cheesy. I also remember thinking it was but saying no.

  “I’ve been trying to talk to you all day.”

  With my hand firmly gripping the mop, I’m reminded how different Carrie and I are, and again I wonder why the hell she cares if I don’t stop and talk to her every opportunity I get. Clearly, the girl isn’t used to being ignored. A hundred guys here would beg to get her attention. Why is she so fixated on me?

  “I’m here now,” I tell her. “What did you want to say? Make it quick. I’m on the clock.”

  Her eyes narrow, those eyelids painted a pale blue that matches her shirt. “What crawled up your ass?”

  I run a hand through my hair and blow out a big, calming breath. “Nothing. Just got shit on my mind.”

  “You’ve barely spoken to me since the mall. You haven’t returned any of my calls or text messages . . .”

  “Just been busy.”

  She lifts one perfectly sculpted brow.

  “All right. Listen, I don’t see this thing between us going anywhere.”

  “Who says it has to go anywhere?”

  Pretty much every female I’ve ever met wants more than I’m willing to offer.

  She steps closer. “I have no plans to bring you home to meet my parents, if that’s what you’re thinking. I just thought, you know, we could hang out.”

  “Going to prom, though—”

  “Is just an excuse to be together. Alone.” She looks around, and when she’s satisfied no one is watching, she gets into my space and runs her palm up my chest to hook around the back of my neck. “I’ll be eighteen by prom, Milo,” she whispers, and I can not only smell bubblegum but also see the wad of pink pinched between her back molars.

  How can I even consider what she’s offering after having kissed Mercy on my couch? That’s what the voice of reason screams inside my skull, yet my body is singing a completely different tune.

  “I can’t promise you I’ll be everything you need me to be, Carrie. I’m no good at playin’ bitch.”

  She grins, and it’s all catlike with claws. “I kind of figured that out already, and I’m still game if you are.”

  I keep one hand on the mop handle and the other at my thigh. “I don’t know.”

  “It’s just prom. We’ll sneak off, get a hotel room. Don’t worry—I’m paying . . . blah blah blah.”

  Mercy’s flushed cheeks, puffy pink lips, and fluttering lashes flicker in my mind’s eye. What are the chances of anything happening between us? Zero. Nada. No chance. She’s my underage foster sister, for fuck’s sake, so why the hell am I avoiding an opportunity like Carrie for something that’ll never be?

  “So?” Carrie dips low to catch my eyes. “You game?”

  A door slams behind us as a student leaves, his back toward us, so we’re still safe from being spotted by a teacher.

  “I guess so.” I regret the words immediately.

  “Good.” She stares at my mouth, and I wonder what she would do if she knew I had Mercy’s lips between mine twenty-four hours ago. “I’ll reserve the room.”

  My blood pumps hard at the thought of a night alone with a beautiful woman, and as I imagine it, the woman in front of me is not the object of the fantasy, her tan skin and blond hair replaced by pure white.

  She bites her bottom lip and leans in for a kiss, but I turn my head, making her huff in frustration.

  “I gotta go.” I push the mop bucket away and don’t miss Carrie’s poorly hidden sneer. “Catch you later.”

  She doesn’t say anything as I push inside the classroom to the sound of her fancy shoes clicking down the hallway.

  “Thinkin’ with your dick will get you into trouble,” my dad used to say.

  For once, I think he’s right.

  “ARE YOU ALMOST done?”

  I turn around to see Julian poking his head into the supply closet as I’m putting away the mop and bucket. “Yeah, ʼmano.”

  I fucking hate mopping—not as much as I despise cleaning toilets, but it’s definitely in my top five most-hated janitorial duties.

  If someone told me five years ago that one day I’d be scrubbing the floors of a middle-class high school in the burbs of LA, I would have throat punched them and called them crazy. My plans were to become just like my dad, heading up the LS, staying up late, and sleeping in even later. I’d have people bring me food and clean my house. Respect would be given on sight, and if I didn’t get it, someone there would bring the pain until I did. And just like El Jefe, I’d live outside the law while others sacrificed their freedom so I wouldn’t have to take the fall.

  As I hang up the mop in the dark, dank closet, it’s a glaring reminder of how far from the old me I have come, living a life that’s the complete opposite of the one I had planned. I’m not complaining. I’d much rather work an honest job and earn the respect of my brothers than contribute nothing and demand respect I don’t deserve.

  “You ready?” I grab my backpack and ruffle Julian’s hair.

  He ducks away from me and tries to smooth the mess on his head.

  “You get your homework done?”

  “No.”

  “No? Then what have you been doing for the last three hours?”

  “I don’t know. Just . . . stuff.” He keeps up beside me as we navigate the bowels of Washington High to get to the parking lot.

  “What stuff was more important than homework?”

  “Mercy made me promise not to tell.”

  Just hearing her name does some crazy shit to my insides. But more importantly, why the secrets? “Oh yeah?”

  He’s silent, which is abnormal. Usually, getting the kid to shut up is impossible.

  I stop walking. “Hey. What is it?”

  “Huh? Oh . . . What?”

  I lift my eyebrows. “What are you hiding?”

  “Nothin’. I swear!”

  “Jules.”

  He looks everywhere but at me. “I promise, nothing—”

  “Julian.” I use my most parental-sounding tone and finally get his eyes. “Don’t lie, ese.”

  His body deflates as if someone popped a release valve in his lungs. “I can’t tell you,” he mumbles.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I promised.”

  I stare out the front doors of the school, where Mercy and Miguel are sitting in the grass. Mercy is in the shade with a book opened and held close to her face, and Miguel is on his back, headphones on and using his backpack as a pillow.

  “All right, it’s cool.”

  His dark brown eyes widen. “Really?”

  “You made a promise. I don’t want to be the reason you break it. I’ll just get the information out of Mercy myself.”

  He grabs my shirtsleeve. “Wait. Don’t, or she’ll get mad that you know.”

  “Know what? You didn’t tell me anything.”

  He seems to chew on that for a second then stutters his way through an explanation. “She’ll know you know something, and . . . she’ll . . . th-think I told, and I d-didn’t, so—”

  “Hmm . . . Good point.” I cross my arms over my chest. “So maybe just tell me, and I’ll keep it to myself.” Why do I care? Whatever it was they were doing was probably about as scandalous as chasing butterflies.

  He chews on his bottom lip, his eyes dart to the door, then his shoulders slump. “She healed me.”

  “Que?”

  “She healed me,” he says more loudly.

  “How exactly did she do that?”

  He shifts his weight from one sneaker to the other
. “I was having real bad stomach cramps. My stomach hurt all day, and she said she could fix it.”

  “And did she?” Because as fucking ridiculous as it sounds, a tiny part of me thinks she could. I’ve felt the hum in my gut when her eyes fix on mine, her probing glare that digs into my soul to heal the hurt and smooth the rough spots. The way my skin heats from her touch and warms me through to my bones, I can’t help but want to believe.

  “Yes. It’s gone.” His once-turned-down lips tilt up in a big smile. “All she did was put her hands on my stomach, close her eyes, and it was crazy—my body felt warm, and then she made all the pain go away.”

  “Where was Miguel?”

  “Please don’t tell him! If he finds out, Mercy will be so mad at me. She said she’s not supposed to help me. She said if she did and they found out, she’d be taken away.”

  “They who?”

  He shrugs. For him, the best part of the story was over, but now all my questions surge. Like how the hell can anyone heal anyone? I know the answer: they can’t! It’s impossible!

  Then why is my mind desperate to believe?

  I turn and push out the double doors, and Mercy and Miguel look up at us. I scrutinize every inch of her face, searching for guilt, remorse, or excitement—some tell that she really did heal my brother. She looks no different than she did this morning—baggy jeans and a plain white T-shirt that matches her skin. I wish I could see past her dark sunglasses to her eyes. She can hide a lot behind her oversized clothes and all that hair, but I saw the heat flare when we kissed, watched the desire bloom in those pale-blue orbs. I’ve seen the fear, the worry, the confusion. What her expression hides her eyes hand out freely.

  “You guys ready?” I nudge Miguel with my shoe, and he gets up slowly while Mercy bounces to her feet after shoving her book into her bag.

  The walk to the car is silent, and I hang back to chat with her. I want to step into her path, hold her face in my hands, and kiss her before asking about what she did to my brother, but I shove my hands in my pockets instead. “Good day?”

  She dips her chin. “Yes.”

  “You sure about that?”

  Those black sunglasses dart my way, and even though I can’t see her eyes, her brows pop up from behind her shades. “Yes. Why?”