by Salsbury, JB
“Yo, Damia—”
My cousin’s fist flies faster than I can get the words out. The crack to Frank’s jaw sends him back hard into his friends, taking two of them to the floor along with him.
Girls gasp and scream, and Carrie races to Frank’s horizontal body. “Oh my God, he’s bleeding!” She whirls around and glares at Damian. “You’re such an asshole!”
My cousin throws out his arms. “Oh, I’m the asshole? That fucker started it!” He stares at Carrie, who’s using the skirt of her dress to mop up the blood pouring from her ex’s nose.
“Damian!” I say.
He looks at me.
“She ain’t worth it.”
Teachers swarm Frank, and Damian pulls off his pink tie and tosses it toward Carrie. Mercy tugs on the back of my shirt, and I look down to find her mostly calm and not at all rattled. I say a quick prayer of thanks that what she just saw didn’t scare her too badly.
“Mr. Vega!”
Damian holds his hands up in surrender toward Principal Mendoza. “He started it.”
“We have a no-fighting policy. You’ve lost your prom privileges.”
“Thank fuck.” Damian shakes his head, laughing, and heads toward the exit doors with us.
“You good?”
He flexes his fingers, probably enjoying the familiar ache of a perfectly executed punch. “I’m okay.” He eyes Mercy. “Sorry ʼbout that.”
She flashes him a shy smile. “He deserved it.”
I tug her close to my side. “Yeah, he did. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
We’re all grinning as we push out and into the night air. “You guys headed home?”
“Nah, I’m taking Mercy for a drive.”
Damian’s brows pop high with a knowing smile. “Nice.” He looks at my date. “You were by far the hottest chick in the room tonight.”
“Easy, asshole.” I lightly shove his shoulder, and he laughs.
Mercy points at his right hand. “You’re bleeding.”
He studies his knuckles. “No, that’s Frank’s blood.” He wipes the back of his hand on his tux jacket. “Good thing this is a rental.”
“You need a ride?” I ask.
He throws his thumb over his shoulder. “No, I drove. You guys have fun. I’ve got a hot date with my palm in thirty.”
“You’re disgusting.” I pull Mercy toward the car to the sound of his laughter.
“What does he mean?”
I chuckle. “You don’t want to know.”
When we climb into the car, I feel lighter. Shaking off the entire Carrie situation, knowing now that I was right all along and she was only in this to get a rise out of her ex somehow has me breathing easier, and I’m grateful for Mercy. Damian was right—she was the hottest girl in the room tonight, and soon I’ll have her all to myself. My blood warms as I remember how perfectly our bodies fit together on the dance floor, how her nose would brush against the tattoo on my neck and I would hear her breathing me in there. My fingers flex on the steering wheel with the effort required not to reach over and slide my hand to her inner thigh, my darker skin against her light, feeling her pulse like butterfly wings against my palm when I squeeze her tightly enough to let her know she’s mine.
I rub at my eyes, trying to shake the visual, but it does no good.
I speed up to the next stop sign and slam on the brakes then reach over to hook Mercy by the back of the neck and pull her sweet lips to mine. My fingers fist into her hair, and I’m sure I’m fucking up the fancy twisty shit, but I can’t feed my hunger for her quickly enough.
As if she can sense my need, she tilts her head and parts her lips for me, inviting me in to take what I want, and meets me stroke for stroke. She tastes of Hawaiian punch and liquor, part girl and part woman. Our tongues tangle together in a frenzy, and her hands come up to cup my face.
“I need you,” I whisper between kisses.
“I know.” She kisses me more deeply. “I’m here.”
The center console digs into my ribs, and I growl in frustration at the distance between us. Headlights sweep by, and I’m reminded that I’m at a stop sign with cars buzzing all around.
She pulls away first, leaving me there panting like a thirsty, overheated dog.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to attack you like that.” I do my best to rearrange my hard-on without making it too obvious before pushing on the gas again.
“I like kissing you, Milo,” she whispers softly.
I imagine she has breathed the words against my lips, our bodies pressed together beneath my sheets.
What is this crazed hunger I have for her? Why can’t I seem to control it?
“I’m not ready to take you home.” Because home means no more touching and we’re back to being foster kids in the same family, and right now, I just want to hold her in a way that is very much not meant for familia. “You feel like going to the beach?”
Her entire face lights up. “Yes.”
Long Beach is a twenty-five minute drive away. I park in a lot next to one of the marinas and crack the windows, hoping the cool ocean air will take the edge off my need for her.
The view isn’t the best, but it’s private, and despite my promise to Laura, I need privacy with Mercy right now.
“Come on.” I hop out of the car.
She does the same, following me around to the back, where I pop the hatch and sit on the back.
A few streetlamps give off enough light to see, but I wonder if the dimness makes Mercy near blind as she squints at our surroundings. Sailboats docked in the marina bob up and down with a creaking sound of old stubborn wood.
“You got somewhere to be, Güera, or are you gonna sit down?” I pat the spot next to me, and she walks over but doesn’t sit. Instead she faces me, her gaze fixed on the side of my neck. The tension between us grows thick, and my desire to pull her into my arms is stronger than ever.
Those pale eyelashes flick up and down as she studies me. She wants something, and I want to hear her ask for it.
“You know I’d give you anything you want.”
She blinks up at me, bewildered. “Can you . . . I want to see your neck.”
I prop my weight on my palms behind me and nod. “Be my guest.”
I half expect her to laugh or nervously twist her hands into the skirt of her dress, but she blows me away by crossing to me and stopping at my parted knees.
“You’re gonna have to get closer than that.”
She cautiously steps between my legs then because of the way I’m leaning back steps even farther until she’s nestled perfectly between my thighs. Her slender hip rests on my inner thigh while the skirt of her dress lies against my black polyester-covered crotch. “I don’t know how.”
I suppose she doesn’t, so I loosen the tie just enough for her to get her fingers behind it. She tugs at it until it comes loose, then she goes for the buttons at my throat. She’s still squinting, and I wonder if her poor vision gives her a headache, but that’s a conversation for a later time. She undoes the top button of my shirt, following the next three down until the collar drapes open at my chest.
Her little pink tongue darts out to swipe across her lower lip, and I turn my head to give her a better view.
“What is it about this tat that you like so much?”
She doesn’t take her eyes off of it as she answers, “It reminds me of where I came from and the people that I loved.” Her hands crawl up my shoulder to my neck, where she rubs the tattoo with the pad of her thumb. Goosebumps race across my skin, and I grip the fabric of her dress at her hip, holding her in place. She moves closer and leans in to press her lips against the side of my throat. “I’ve wanted to do that since the first time I met you.”
“Don’t stop now . . .” I tilt my chin, and she continues to slide her soft lips from my earlobe to my collarbone. Her scent scrambles my senses, and as much as I want to touch her, I keep my hands firmly in place.
She nuzzles my throat and rests he
r forearms on my shoulders, pulling back to look down at me. “What will you do after you graduate?”
“Move out, get my own place, adopt the boys. At least, that’s the plan.”
“Will you come visit?”
“Yes, and if you want, you could come visit us. Maybe, ya know, after you turn eighteen, you could sleep over.” I hold my breath, hoping she will understand what I’m asking but also afraid it’ll scare her.
She frowns. “Could I not sleep over now?”
“Ah, well . . .” How do I explain this? “If you’re in my place, I’d want you sleeping in my bed. With me.”
I wait for the light to come on behind her eyes, the signal that she understands exactly what I’m talking about. When they finally widen and she smiles, I assume she gets it. “You mean, like married people?”
“Yes, but we don’t have to—” This is like the time I had the birds-and-bees talk with Jules. I clear my throat. “Do you know how babies are made, Mercy?”
Even in the dark, her cheeks flush violently. “Yes. I read all about it in books when I was at the facility.”
Her body seems to tense up between my legs, and I try to soothe her by rubbing my thumb along her hipbone. “Good. Now . . . as amazing as that would be for us, and it would be incredible, that’s not what I’m talking about. Even just to sleep next to you in my bed, to hold you in my arms while you sleep, just to kiss you the way I want to, you’d need to be eighteen. There are laws in this state that I can’t afford to break.” Yet here I am, breaking all my rules with you.
“Age meant nothing where I come from. I could be thirty years old, for all I know, or I could be twelve—”
“You’re not twelve.”
“How do you know?”
I check out what parts of her body I can see from her position between my legs. “I’ve been around enough women to know you are most definitely a woman.”
“How many?”
I pretend I didn’t hear her question and run my knuckles down her bare arm.
“Milo? How many women have you been around?”
Too many to count. “Enough.”
She glares.
“Okay, what, like you want a number?” Lie, Milo, lie!
“How many have you kissed the way you kiss me?”
“I don’t know.”
Her eyebrows pop high. “You don’t know?”
“I’m not proud of my history with women.”
“And Carrie? Did you kiss her the way you kiss me?” I feel her body shift slightly away from me.
“Yes.”
The cool air hits my thighs as she backs away.
I stand up to get her back. “It’s not that big a deal. Kissing is like—”
“It’s not a big deal?”
“Shit.” I run a hand through my hair. “It is a big deal. It’s just that with you, it’s—”
“I suppose I could kiss another man the way I kiss you.”
I crank my head up so quickly that the muscles of my neck pinch. “No, you fucking will not.”
Her casual shrug says maybe I will.
And what the hell am I saying? Whatever it is, I may as well say it before it’s too late and she moves on and I never get my chance.
I close the space between us, grateful she doesn’t back away when I grip her shoulders. “Be with me.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Be my . . .” Girlfriend? Fuck, why is this so awkward? Probably because you’ve never done it before, shitface. “I want you to be mine. Only mine.”
“Like Gwen Stacy and Spider-Man?”
My lips twitch. “Yes. Just like that.”
“And Belle and Beast?”
“Yes.”
Those blue eyes shine up at me, and I wonder if she’s trying to figure out how to tell me to take a hike when she nods. “All right.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
I pull her into a hug. “Only thing is we can’t tell anyone. Not right away.”
“Okay, Milo. It’ll be our secret.”
But nothing truly stays a secret for long.
Seventeen months ago
“I’M GOING TO need you to help me out here, Angel.” Papa moves clumsily through my closet, knocking things off hangers before grabbing my ceremonial robe. He tosses it on the bed, and I gasp at his carelessness. He runs a hand through his black hair. “It’s all right. It’s okay, just . . . focus on getting yourself ready.”
“But Señora—”
He silences me with a stern look.
I drop oil into my palms and run it through and down the length of my hair, just how Señora has done it for as long as I can remember. My fingers shake, and I can’t seem to take a calm breath as Papa’s nervous energy seeps into mine.
I want to ask where she is. She has never missed a preparation before, yet when she was to arrive, Papa came rather than her. I brush through my hair and watch him from the corner of my eye as he drips the special serum into my tea. His clothes are wrinkled, his shirt slightly untucked just above one hip. I’ve never seen him so out of sorts.
“Today is a special day.” I hold my breath, hoping I won’t anger him for the question he must hear in my statement. When he doesn’t immediately lash out, I release my breath.
“It is.”
I continue to prepare my hair with long, languid strokes until all the tangles are free and I can twist it up tightly into a ball at the back of my head. Papa must see me struggling, because he pops open the jar filled with hairpins and stands behind me, stabbing my head with them to secure the mound in place.
He’s not gentle, and tears prick my eyes, but I try to relax to keep from whimpering in pain. When he finishes, I stand and remove my sleeping gown, waiting for him to slip the ceremonial robe over my naked body. He continues to move around the room until he turns suddenly and sees me.
“Angel.” He binds his gaze to the floor. “Please cover yourself.”
I stare at the garment, not sure what he expects. I’ve never dressed myself before. Would I even know where to start?
“I’m sorry, Papa, but Señora always does tha—”
“Well, she’s gone!”
I suck in a breath. Gone? As in . . . forever? A strange heat burns the backs of my eyes. “Please forgive me, Papa, but I don’t understand.”
He rips his hands through his hair again and again and, without looking at me, pulls the ceremonial garb from my bed and slips it over my head. It’s clumsy, not the flawless draping that I’m used to, but with a wiggle, I’m able to get it on. “She’s sick, Angel.”
“Then let me heal her.”
He huffs out a breath and nods. “That’s uh . . . that’s a good idea. I’ll have to see if I can arrange that.”
“Send her in to see me. Please.” My voice shakes, and an unfamiliar quiver strikes my chest. What would I do without Señora? She has to be okay. I will make her okay.
I feel caged, and my feet itch to roam, my fingers ache to scratch the walls in search for her, but I bite those feelings back and long for the calming seduction of the serum.
“Angel.”
My gaze snaps to his.
“There are things you do not know, things you aren’t meant to understand. I have protected you and will do so for as long as I’m able, but . . .” The lump in his throat bobs. “I may not be able to protect you forever.”
Fear courses through me, and I wrestle with what it all means. I cannot ask the multitude of questions that tumble through my mind. “As long as I am here, I am safe.” It’s a question disguised as a statement.
He cups my cheek, but his expression is unsure and worried. “Of course.”
I nod into his touch, and he releases me to bring me my tea. I swallow it in a few large gulps then drop to my knees and wait for its magic to take effect.
Papa drops onto the bed, his elbows on his thighs and his head hanging low.
Defeat? Regret? His body simply radiates failure.
&
nbsp; My power surges and expands. My tangible force carves through me, searching for release. I reach for Papa and gently grip his calf through his itchy slacks. His head snaps up, dark eyes boring into mine, and I wonder if my touching him will make him angry.
His gaze drops to the spot where my pale hand holds tightly onto him. “Angel?”
“Shhh . . .” I close my eyes and focus, then strange words fall from my lips as I release the full power of my ability. My skin hums as I transfer light into the darkness of Papa’s mood, clearing it away in my mind’s eye, turning it to dust and flooding it with purity, fixing whatever is broken inside the person who has helped me to understand what I am, who I am, and my purpose on this earth.
His movement calls my eyes to open, and I peer up at him, now standing. “That’s enough.” He steps out of my grip.
“But—”
“I’m fine.” He tugs on his coat and smooths and retucks his shirt. His face is hard, his mood locked behind his usual mask. “Save it for those who pay for it.”
“Yes, Papa.” My chin falls at his rejection. After everything he’s done for me, everything he’s given, why will he not take from me?
“We’re going to be doing more healing ceremonies from now on, as many as we can fit in.” He clears his throat. “Your people need you.” He motions for me to rise. “Let’s go. We don’t have all day.”
I don’t know what he means, but as the serum opens me up to its influence, I can feel it’s far from good.
Milo
PEOPLE WHO ARE born blind don’t spend their lives cursing the absence of vision because they’d never know what they were missing. But if they were suddenly given the ability to see, maybe just a week or a month, going back to living in the darkness would be insufferable.
That’s how I feel about Mercy.
Watching her from where I’m sitting on my couch, her head resting on my pillows, her long white legs crossed at the ankles and leading up to a pair of soft gray shorts, her eyelids closed while she listens to music through a pair of black Beats, I wonder how I ever managed to live my twenty years without her.
