by Salsbury, JB
She grips my upper arm and squeezes. “You’re doing great. Just . . .” Her eyes roam, and her lips purse as if she’s trying to think of the right way to say whatever she wants to say. “Please be careful.”
“Don’t worry. She’s safer with me than with anyone else.”
Her hand drops from my arm. “It’s not her I’m worried about.”
What’s that supposed to mean?
She turns to head inside but stops before reaching the door. “Oh, you should go to the front door. Then it’ll feel more like a real date.”
I take her advice and skirt the side of the house to the front lawn, all while feeling a thousand pounds lighter. For someone who prides himself on not giving a crap what people think of me, I’m finding Laura’s opinion is the exception. Her acceptance of my feelings toward Mercy means more than I thought it would.
I hop the three steps to the front door in one stride and lift my hand to knock, but before I’m able to, the door swings open.
Now, I’ve seen a lot of great-looking things in my life:
A Mexican food spread for two hundred people.
A perfectly rolled joint.
A woman with curves in all the right places.
All those things are background noise in comparison.
“Mercy . . .”
“We match” is the first thing out of Mercy’s lips, and my mind is pure mush, unable to translate until I realize she’s wearing a navy-blue dress, not the T-shirt kind I helped pick out from the mall, but a long skirt that goes to her toes and a top made of lace. The sleeves are nothing but lace caps on her shoulders, which showcases miles of her creamy white skin. Her hair is pulled up in twisted pieces and piled high on top of her head. Her face is mostly makeup free except that her eyelids and cheeks have been dusted with something that gives her a platinum sparkle, and her lips are stained the prettiest pink.
“You look—” My voice cracks, and I cough to clear it. “Really . . .” My gaze devours her body like a buffet, starting at one end and eating its way to the other. “Really pretty.”
“Thank you.” As expected, her cheeks and neck take on the softest blush, which I’m becoming addicted to. “Are you coming in?” She steps back, and when I walk through the door, she turns around.
My eyes widen as the back of the dress comes into view. Lace covers the entire expanse from hip to shoulder, and behind it, I can make out the slight shadow of her tattoo.
My feet are cemented in place as I desperately study her back, wanting to rip away the fabric to get to the grayscale wings inked beneath.
“Who died?” Miguel says through a cheekful of pizza, his smirk aimed at me from the kitchen.
“Ha ha, payaso. You’re hilarious.”
Julian comes running down the hallway and skids to a halt in front of Mercy. “You promise you’ll watch it with me when you get home?”
“I promise,” she says.
“What’s going on? You made a postdate date with my brother?” I put my hand on my chest. “That’s cold-blooded.”
Julian pulls a piece of pizza from the box in front of Miguel. “You can come too. We’re watching Cars Part Two!”
“Fun.”
He’s made her watch that at least three times that I know of. Mercy really is a saint.
She points at the box in my hand. “What’s that?”
I was so caught up in Mercy that I completely forgot I was holding it. “It’s for you.”
I open the lid and hold it out to her, but she refuses to touch it.
“It’s okay, it’s just a flower.”
It’s more than just a flower. It’s a cluster of white flowers with a purple-and-yellow center, and it looks like it cost more than a full tank of gas. I pull it out, thankful that it has a wrist strap so I don’t need to slip my fingers into her dress and pin it on. I wonder if Laura did that on purpose.
As if conjured by my thoughts, Laura comes in and snaps a couple photos of us in the living room. I don’t touch Mercy more than placing my palm on the small of her back, and that seems to set Laura’s mind at ease. Her easy smiles and genuine laughter feel as though she’s giving us her blessing.
I’m grateful when that’s all over and we’re finally outside. I take a deep breath and enjoy the view of her back as she leads me toward the Explorer. She goes to the passenger side before I make it, but I refuse to hit unlock on the key fob.
“No opening doors tonight.” I hit unlock, and the old hinges squeal as I open the door for her.
“I know how to get into cars on my own.”
“I know you do, but that doesn’t mean I can’t do it for you, right?”
Her cheeks flush, and she climbs inside. I make sure her skirt is tucked safely around her feet and catch a glimpse of a sexy pair of strappy gold heels. My mind goes to steamy car windows and that dress in a pile on my floorboards. I slam the door shut, thinking that my promise to Laura to keep my hands to myself is going to be a lot harder than I thought as I walk around the hood and hop behind the wheel.
I might have promised I’d keep my hands to myself, but I never said anything about Mercy keeping her hands to herself. Without a single thought to the consequences, I snag her hand and place it on my thigh, just above my knee. She’s surprised at first, so I put my hand on top of hers, silently asking for her to keep it there. Her bare hand is warm through my woolen slacks, and my blood spins and coils in a very dangerous place. I’m just grateful the cab is dark and I’m wearing black pants, or this could get embarrassing really quickly.
“Are you nervous?” I squeeze her hand.
“A little.”
“Don’t be. We don’t have to stay long if you don’t want to.”
She turns toward me. “I’m not nervous about that.” Her gaze follows my body to my thigh, where her hand twitches slightly against me.
What is she thinking about? My pulse pounds in my neck at the possibilities. “Do I make you nervous?”
“Yes. Though not in a bad way.”
I don’t trust my own voice to respond. I wish I could trust her not to run away if she knew that although I enjoy what we have, I want more. I want to strip her down, open her up, and learn all her secrets, heal all her wounds and break her down until she’s writhing and begging me to put her back together again.
You need to get your head examined, Milo!
Being lost in some R-rated fantasy makes the next five minutes seem like nothing, and soon we’re pouring out of the Explorer and following people toward the LA Hilton conference room. Groups of students and couples are pairing off, which gives me the urge to do something I wouldn’t usually do at school. I grab Mercy’s hand.
She doesn’t miss a beat but looks up at me and smiles brilliantly.
“Is this okay?” I thread our fingers together, loving the way our hands fit.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
We get to the double doors, and I hand a Potter nerd our tickets. He then directs us to the line for photos.
Mercy sees what they’re doing and steps closer to me until our arms are touching from our entwined fingers to her shoulder.
“It’s just a picture. Something to keep as a reminder of our first prom.”
“I don’t think I’d like to see a photo of me,” she says almost to herself.
I lean down so that my mouth is close to her bare ear—no earrings, perfect. I just barely hold myself back from pulling her pale earlobe between my lips. “You’re beautiful, Güera.”
She turns toward me and, in doing so, almost brushes our lips together. “I don’t see what you see.”
“One day you will.” I’ll make sure of it.
“Will you keep the photo? Like you do the one of your mother?”
“Yes, but this one I won’t hide in a drawer. I’ll keep it out for everyone to see.”
A shy grin tilts her lips, and the photographer calls for us next. We stand in front of the camera and Mercy grabs my waist, mimicking the way my mom held my sixteen-year-ol
d self in the photo. I’m caught off guard for a second, surprised how accurately she’s managed to imitate it, and both my arms come around her as I press my lips to her forehead, then the flash snaps.
“Next!”
I squeeze her one last time, and we make our way inside, where all the senior class is huddled around a dance floor with a local DJ spinning some trendy pop disaster.
Blue and white lights hang from every available space, along with fake pine trees dusted in fake snow and more lights. Tables are scattered around the place, each decorated in a similar way. Only in a city where the sun always shines would they make it Christmas in May.
I spot the table where they’re handing out refreshments. “You want something to drink?”
Mercy squints as she tries to study her surroundings. Even with her limited vision, I expect she’s suffering from visual overload. “Yes. That sounds good.”
I lead her through the crowd, not missing the way people stare at her, the whispers and pointed fingers. I’d planned on people being assholes when they saw us together. I knew we’d hear the murmured shit talk and get vibed with dirty looks. I had every intention of setting people straight if they so much as looked at Mercy funny tonight, but now that I’m here, I’m filled with pride at the attention Mercy draws. No longer is she getting the “check out the freak” looks. Tonight, people are staring for a different reason.
Girls sneer and inspect Mercy’s figure with downturned lips and eyes lit with jealousy. Dudes’ eyes pop from their pubescent faces as lust turns them into mouth-breathers. The girls want to be Mercy, and the guys want to be naked with the woman on my arm, and because of that, my chest puffs a little bigger, and I hold her a little closer.
Not letting go of her hand, I slip her a cup of red punch and grab my own while watching throngs of overdressed teens rub up against each other on the dance floor. Mercy observes them as if she’s watching the strange mating rituals of some exotic animal and takes large gulps from her cup.
“Thirsty?” I chuckle.
She blushes and throws her empty cup away before taking another I offer her.
She thanks me and drinks the second one while I scan the area, looking for people we know. Frankie Aloysius is dirty dancing some sophomore to a Jason Derulo song as if he’s literally trying to stick his dick in her through four layers of clothes. Patrick Swayze is rolling over in his grave.
I spot a table of football players who seem to be more interested in their phones than their dates, and Amber is there, tugging at her dress, which looks as though it’s missing a good few yards of fabric, but no Damian. Tonight will be more fun if we don’t see him. He’ll insist on the four of us hanging out, and I won’t allow Carrie’s sharp tongue to ruin what’s been a great experience for Mercy so far.
“You wanna dance—whoa.”
Mercy leans a little too far and must step on her skirt or something, as she stumbles into me.
I hold her up by her shoulders until she’s steady. “You all right?”
“Yes. I think it’s the shoes.” She smiles up at me, and her cheeks look a little pinker than they did when we got here, her eyes a little glossier.
I stare at the table of prefilled plastic cups. “Shit.” I grab one and take a gulp. Everclear. “Damn, Güera, how many of these did you drink?”
She holds up two fingers then squints, staring at them before putting up one more.
“Three?”
I hook an arm around her lower back to keep her steady as I hunt for my cousin. This has Damian’s name written all over it.
“Mercy, hi!” Ms. Murphy must be chaperoning as she strolls up, wearing something a lot shinier than her regular teacher clothes. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”
“Hi, Ms. Murphy!” Mercy’s speech is louder than usual, more animated. I need to get her out of here before she gives herself away. “This is my date.” She pats my chest. “My real date.” The grin she has aimed at her teacher is well beyond her normal shy grin. “Emilio Vega.”
I pause briefly at the way she said my name with perfect Spanish pronunciation. I’d love to feel the way her tongue rolls effortlessly against my ear as she whispers to me in Spanish.
A sudden weight shift on my arm snaps me back to reality as Mercy struggles in her heels after what I’m sure was three shots of 151-proof liquor.
“We were just headed to the dance floor.”
Mercy looks up at me, her brows practically touching together between her eyes. “We were?”
“Yeah, this is my favorite song.”
Ms. Murphy tilts her head to listen as Justin Bieber sings about being sorry, and fuck me, this is humiliating.
Mercy waves over her shoulder at her teacher while I drag her away, hoping I do it in a way that makes it look like she’s actually walking. I shove through groups of girls dancing together until we’re hidden in the middle of the dance floor, then I pull Mercy into my arms.
She fumbles with where to put her hands, first placing them on my chest, then giving up and dropping them to her sides.
“Like this.” I pull her hands up, slowly sliding my fingers along her slender bare arms to place them behind my neck. “You hold there, and I hold . . .” I allow my hands to take the same path of her arms, to her shoulders, down her sides, dragging my fingers the entire way until I lock them at her lower back. “Here.”
She stares at my chest with a shy smile and leans into my embrace. “I feel funny.”
“I’m sure you do. That punch you were drinking was spiked. You’re drunk. Welcome to the life of a normal teenager.”
Her smile falls instantly, and I hate that I wasn’t paying enough attention to what she was drinking and that she feels like shit because of it. “Does that mean I won’t remember?”
“Nah, you’re not that drunk. You’ll feel better in an hour. No one will have to know.” We sway to the music, moving a lot slower than the puke-pop beat. “I take it you’ve never been drunk before?”
She shakes her head, a frown still marring her pretty lips. “No. But Laura told me I’ve been drugged before.”
My molars grind together, but I try to play it cool. I really try.
“That’s the reason why I forget.”
“Well, this, what you’re feeling now . . . is not that, okay?” It’s irrational, but I’m starting to feel no better than those assholes who drugged her. “You’re in control, and I’ll keep you safe.”
We sway side to side to our own beat. Her feet hit mine, and she laughs and apologizes, and I wonder if I’ve ever seen her so relaxed.
“Why are you so nice to me?” she asks.
I have to look away because I’m afraid of what might come out of my mouth when I’m staring into her eyes. “You’re different from most girls.”
The muscles in her back tense up, and I run my thumb along her lower back, hoping it soothes her a little. “No, I mean, you don’t get caught up in all the petty shit girls are caught up in. You don’t play games. You’re funny when you don’t even try, and ya know, you’re hot. Smokin’ hot.”
A laugh bursts from her lips, and she rests her forehead against my chest to hide her smile.
“I like you, Güera.”
When she pulls back to look up at me, her expression is serious, her gaze fixed on mine. “I like you too.”
I know I promised Laura I’d be good, but no way can I go the rest of the night without kissing her again. Just one kiss won’t hurt, won’t change the damage that’s already been done.
I spot Damian at the edge of the dance floor, his arms wrapped around Carrie with a fistful of her ass. Her lips are moving quickly, and I imagine her telling him exactly how the night is going to go from foreplay to drop-off in the morning. I feel sorry for the guy. Damian looks a little bored. He’s wearing a black tux with a pink tie and vest that matches his date’s fuchsia dress and purse. I chuckle to myself. I wonder if Carrie is keeping his nuts in that bag. Hope the pussy is worth it.
I’m about
to suggest to Mercy that we blow this place and go for a drive when something knocks Damian from behind and sends him stumbling into the crowded dance floor. My muscles tense, and my feet stop swaying with the music.
“What is it?” Mercy turns to follow my line of sight.
“Come on.” I lead Mercy through the crowd to stand at my cousin’s back.
“Only someone with a death wish hits a man from behind.” He’s eyeing Aloysius and his geek gang.
“Don’t look at me, Pedro.” Frankie Fuckface looks like a starving penguin in his tux, the too-big fabric hanging off his bones as he talks shit to Damian. “I didn’t touch you.” I study his heavy eyelids and sloppy mouth.
So Mercy isn’t the only one who’s been sucking down the punch.
“I don’t have time for this shit,” Damian mumbles and turns to Carrie, who I catch wiping a huge grin from her face. “You ready to go—”
Another shove hits him from behind, but this time, he’s prepared, so it doesn’t knock him off balance.
I suck on my teeth, count to ten, roll my head around on my shoulders and pray for patience, and it looks like Damian does the same.
Mercy’s soft and shaky hand grips mine. “Milo.”
Just walk away. It’s the right thing to do. I send the command to my feet, but they don’t budge an inch.
“Milo.” Mercy peers around my arm, her eyes flaring. “Maybe we should get Damian and go.”
She’s right.
We should.
I give her hand a squeeze just as Damian whirls on the asshole, a smile on his face. He leans in so they’re nose to nose. Frank doesn’t flinch or cringe away.
“You got two freebies,” Damian says. “I dare you to touch me again.”
Frank laughs, and his crew of six does the same. “Ohhh, I’m so scared.” He gets in my face. “What’re you gonna do about it?”
“Back off, man.” I call out to the piece of shit. “I’m serious.”
“Ohhh . . .” He laughs. “Now I got the janitor on my ass too?” His friends all cackle, and Mercy sucks in a quick gasp.
I look down at her, and she’s glaring at Carrie, who seems to find this violent little exchange funny. That explains the out-of-nowhere flirting and the bold propositions. I was right from day one. She’s trying to make her ex miserable, and jealousy is her torture of choice.
