Ghost Hold

by Ripley Patton

  Marcus’s parents had died running for their lives, or at least for their love.

  I looked across the tub at him, the water lapping between us. He was so brave and good and gorgeous in his vulnerability that it overwhelmed me. It made me feel like just knowing him was a gift I didn’t deserve and could never earn. Of all the girls in the world, why would he pick me to trust, to confide in, to sit in a bathtub with pouring out his heart?

  “Are you pissed that I didn’t tell you about The Hold earlier?” he asked, completely misreading my silence.

  “No.” I shook my head, feeling the wet tips of my hair brush against my knees. At least he was telling me now, before I went in there and found Samantha all wrapped up in a cult.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” he said, his face dark and serious. “My life is totally fucked up.”

  “That wasn’t what I was thinking,” I objected, reaching out my ghost hand and touching his leg. “Everyone’s life is fucked up. That’s not your fault. It’s just life.”

  He leaned forward and caught my hand in his. “Thank you,” he said, his eyes warming me despite the fact that the bath was growing cold and we were both turning into human-sized prunes.

  “What about after the accident?” I asked. “Didn’t The Hold try to take you?”

  “I honestly don’t know,” Marcus said. “I mean I was dead. And Danielle hid. Maybe they thought we were all dead, and they didn’t want to have to explain to the police why they’d chased a family of four into an oncoming train. All I know is they never bothered us again. By the time I got out of the hospital, The Hold had moved its headquarters out of Oregon and gone underground. That was eleven years ago, and we’ve had nothing to do with each other since.”

  “Until now,” I clarified, certain things finally falling into place. “Until we came for Samantha and you needed guns.”

  “I figured they at least owed me that,” Marcus said, bitterness creeping into his voice. “The guys at the gun club are way down on the totem pole. All I had to do was tell them I was marked and that I needed supplies. I didn’t expect any of them to realize who I was.”

  “And now The Hold knows you’re here in Indianapolis, their new headquarters.”

  “Not necessarily,” he said. “If anything, they probably think I was arming myself against the CAMFers, and I’ve gone back to Oregon. They would never expect me to move against them.”

  “But taking Samantha is moving against them.” What had Marcus gotten us into this time? “And you just told me that she’s heavily guarded. How did you expect me and Passion to get her out? And why? You said it yourself earlier. If she’s guarded like that, then she’s perfectly safe from the CAMFers.”

  “Just because something is kept, doesn’t mean it’s safe,” Marcus said, staring at me. “Ask my mom.”

  And there we had it. This wasn’t only about saving Samantha from the CAMFers. It was about saving her from The Hold. Saving a young woman trapped in a cult, just like his mother had been. Except this time, we didn’t even know if she wanted to be saved.

  “You think Samantha is in danger from The Hold?” It wasn’t really a question.

  “I know she is,” he said. “And from the CAMFers, if they figure out a way to get her out before we do.”

  “And you really think Passion and I can do this?” I asked, more unsure than I’d ever been before. “That we can get Samantha away from not just one group of crazies, but two?”

  “Yes,” he said, confidence in me shining from his eyes.

  10

  OUT OF THE BATHTUB AND INTO THE FIRE

  “Aren’t you cold?” I asked, my teeth chattering a little. I cast a longing glance across the room to the white fluffy towels hanging on a heated chrome towel rack.

  “You’re the one with clothes on,” Marcus said, smirking. “Get out and get us some towels.”

  “But it will be colder out there,” I argued, “and you’re the man. What ever happened to chivalry?”

  “You just want to see my bare ass again,” he teased. “Admit it.”

  “No, never. I’ll even close my eyes.”

  “Really?” he said, sounding disappointed.

  “Yes, really,” I said, squeezing my eyes shut.

  There was a moment of silence, perhaps the sound of Marcus nursing his bruised ego, followed by a splash and a slosh of the water in my direction as he climbed out of the tub.

  I stole a glance just in time to see his gorgeous ass stroll across the bathroom and grab a towel. He wrapped it around his waist and turned toward me.

  “Hey, you peeked,” he accused, acting appalled as he brought a towel over and held it out for me.

  “Only a little,” I admitted, standing up in the tub and feeling like a drowned rat. I stepped out, my basically see-through tank top clinging to me, cold water cascading down my legs and making a puddle on the floor around me like I’d peed myself. Yeah, sexy!

  But Marcus must have felt differently, because when he wrapped me in the warm white towel, he pulled me into his arms, wrapping himself around me as well.

  I looked up, and found his mouth descending toward mine. It was a gentle kiss at first, but there was heat behind it. I could feel it building in both of us.

  His hands slipped inside my towel, trailing warmth across my damp skin right through my clothes. I kissed him back, running my hands over his shoulders and around his neck.

  “We—should probably—stop,” he panted, the third or fourth time we came up for air.

  “I know,” I groaned, resting my head on his shoulder. My towel was on the floor, and for one mad moment I wanted to yank his off too. This is what I wanted. My whole body was screaming for it. And so was his.

  “Olivia Anne Black,” he said, whispering my name against my wet hair, almost like a prayer. “You are a beautiful and amazing creature.”

  My face was pressed against his chest, inches from his PSS, the blue beauty of it swirling in my peripheral vision. I wanted to touch it. I didn’t want to be afraid anymore, holding back. I wanted to know I was safe with him no matter what.

  “Hey, I’m up here,” he said, touching my chin and tilting my head up towards his. He was smirking a little.

  “This is you too,” I said, placing my ghost hand on his ribs, reveling in his quick intake of breath.

  “Yes, it is,” he said, glancing down at my hand, his breath coming even faster.

  “Why do you think we have PSS?” I asked, trailing my fingers inward, marveling at the incredible beauty of his ice-like ribs, his heart and lungs pulsing in blue tranquility. You might think it would be grotesque staring into someone’s chest cavity. But there was nothing gross about Marcus with his shirt off, PSS or not. Maybe it was because it was all blue, and glowy, and intricate. “It’s beautiful,” I sighed, “but you have to admit, it’s kind of weird.”

  “No weirder than human cells,” he said, his voice gone suddenly husky, “or hair made of dead protein, or the fact that we have two legs instead of three. It’s simply a product of evolution.”

  “Spiritual evolution, like your grandparents believed? Are you and I becoming pure spiritual beings?”

  “Um, no,” he said, his eyes transfixed on my touch, his body swaying toward mine. “It isn’t religion. It’s biology and science. We definitely aren’t pure.” His hands were stroking my back. It was like we were having two very different conversations, one with our brains and mouths about PSS, and one with our bodies that was definitely not.

  “But what about the powers?” I argued. “Being able to reboot or reach into someone, that’s not normal.”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “PSS is a part of our body, and all parts of the human body work very hard to keep it alive. Why should it seem unusual that our PSS would develop that too?”

  “I never thought of it that way, I guess. I mean yours keeps you alive.”

  “And your hand kept you alive back in Greenfield,” he insisted.

  “So what about Ja
son, or Nose or Yale? How has their PSS ever helped them?”

  “Maybe it hasn’t. Yet. But maybe like you and me and Danielle, when they have the need, their PSS will develop a power to save them.”

  It was a theory Marcus and I had talked about before. That maybe the CAMFers had put us all on their list because we had a power or the potential for one. But whenever I tried to imagine what power Nose or Yale’s PSS might develop, it just gave me the giggles.

  “But that’s only a theory,” I said, my fingers roaming again and pausing just at the edge of his PSS.

  “Yes, it is,” he said, looking into my eyes, almost daring me. “And it could be wrong.”

  “I don’t think it’s wrong,” I said, staring back at him.

  “Neither do I,” his breath huffed against my face.

  What were we talking about? His theory? Me touching him? Both?

  “Olivia,” he said. A hope. A plea. More than a name or a word.

  “I’m afraid of what will happen,” I whispered, looking down at my hand there, so close.

  “Nothing bad,” he promised, leaning into me and pressing his lips against my forehead.

  Isn’t this what I’d wanted? To lose my fear of this. Of him. Of us.

  Slowly, I slid my ghost fingers over his PSS, skimming the surface like water, feeling silky pleasure leaking out of me and into me through my fingertips. My hand felt electrified, like all the cells or energy or whatever had been zapped at once and every tiny particle of me was racing around telling all the other particles how good it was, how good he was, how much I should touch him like that more and more and more.

  And then as I watched, drowning in that sensation, the most amazing thing happened—the PSS of my ghost hand began to swirl and form patterns. At first it looked like random streaks and curves, but quickly the designs took on more clarity, forming thin lines of veins and arteries, the crystal outlines of joints and bones, the minute detail of each carpal and metacarpal coming into clear focus.

  “Whoa,” I said, yanking my fingers from Marcus’s PSS, but breaking contact didn’t change anything. My ghost hand still had ethereal bones and blood. I looked up at Marcus, and he was staring down at my hand too, a small sad smile settling across his lips.

  “That used to happen to Danielle when she was healing me,” he said, putting his hand gently under mine and raising it to his mouth. “I wondered if it would work with you.” He kissed the end of my ghost fingertips, one at a time, as we both watched the PSS bones and blood vessels slowly fade until my ghost hand was simply an ethereal outline again.

  “That’s amazing,” I said, touching his lips, feeling them curve into a happier smile. “But how does it work? What does it do?”

  “She had this idea that it meant we could transfer our PSS,” he said, frowning against my fingertips. “Like I was giving her some of mine while she was giving me some of hers. Some sort of energy exchange. But the effect never lasts.”

  “What did you feel when I touched you?” I asked, letting my hand fall away from his mouth. “Because I felt—something.”

  “What I always feel when you touch me,” he said, his eyes blazing into mine.

  Suddenly, I was crushed against him, my hand smashed between us. His lips were on mine, one hand tangled in my hair, the other yanking my hips against him. The next thing I knew I had my legs wrapped around his waist and his face was buried in my neck, his breath hot and panting, his lips trembling against my skin, maybe saying my name. It was hard to tell. We were teetering on the edge of something very specific, and we both knew it. And there were words tumbling toward my lips too. Words I’d never said to a guy. Three words I’d only ever said to my mom, and my dad, and Emma.

  “I want you,” I said, stroking the back of his neck.

  Not the exact words I’d been thinking of, but close enough.

  “I want you too,” he said, pulling back and looking at me, his arms squeezing me so tightly I could barely breathe. “But not in a bathroom.” I felt his hands on my hips, his strong arms lifting me gently out and away, my feet finding the floor again.

  About the time I realized he didn’t have his towel on anymore, he was quickly bending down and picking it back up to tie it around his hips. But it didn’t lay flat in the front. Not by a long shot.

  “And not in a room full of cameras with Yale, Nose and Jason watching,” he added.

  “Oh my God,” I said, frantically looking around the bathroom.

  “There aren’t any in here,” he assured me. “But there is one out there.” He nodded toward the door to the master bedroom. “And in pretty much every room in this house.”

  “That sort of kills the mood, doesn’t it?” I said, turning and crossing to the tub to retrieve my sweatpants and pull them on.

  “Hey, I thought you wanted me,” he teased, trying to grab my hand and pull me back to him.

  “I do,” I said, handing him his boxers and his jeans. “But not with the whole world watching. I want you all to myself.”

  “Well, then we should probably wait until we have our own tent again,” he said, smiling wickedly.

  “Then let’s hurry up and get this mission over with.”

  “Agreed,” he said, pulling me to him and kissing me again. “Do you want me to walk you to your room?”

  “No, I’ll be fine,” I said, pulling away from him reluctantly. “I’ll see you in the morning. Good night.”

  “Olivia,” he said, a catch in his voice.

  I turned to look at him, and I saw it in his eyes. For a moment I thought he was going to say it. Those three words. The three words I’d almost said moments before but had changed at the last second.

  “I’m sorry I let you down,” he said, running his hand through his damp hair. “I promise that Palmer will never get near you again.”

  “You didn’t let me down.” I crossed to him and touched his face. He looked so tired. “Now get some sleep,” I said, kissing him one more time before I headed back to my own bedroom.

  11

  DOG TAGS

  I woke in my curtained bed, my hair still damp, my body relaxed, and I couldn’t help the smile that crept across my face as I remembered my early morning bath with Marcus.

  I stretched and rolled over. The clock next to the bed said it was 11:30 a.m. It had been a long time since I’d slept in on a Sunday, and not even the reeking matchbook next to the Walther on my nightstand was going to ruin that.

  I threw back the duvet, and got dressed in some sweats and a t-shirt. I wasn’t ready to wear Anne Clawson’s expensive clothes, wasn’t willing to become her just yet. I had one more day to be Olivia.

  After brushing my teeth and running a brush through my hair, I made my way downstairs to see what everyone else was up to.

  Passion was sitting at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of orange juice, looking like she hadn’t woken up much before I had. She glanced at me and gave me a shy smile. “Nose made fried potatoes and eggs,” she said, gesturing toward a huge skillet on the stove with her bandaged hand. All she had on it was a gauzy wrap around her palm and the web of her thumb. “It’s pretty good heated up in the microwave,” she added.

  “A microwave,” I moaned, reveling in the promise of instantly hot food.

  I went to the pan, filled up a plate, and nuked it for a minute. Nose always added cool stuff to his scrambled eggs, and this version had diced pepperoni, feta cheese, crispy potatoes and onions in it.

  As soon as I pulled my plate out of the microwave, I started shoveling it in my mouth, not even waiting until I got to the table. It was amazing.

  When I sat down next to Passion, she leaned toward me and said, “I believe you about last night. I believe you saw Mike Palmer.”

  “Thanks,” I mumbled between bites. I was about to ask her why she believed me and what she thought had happened to the camera footage, when Marcus came into the kitchen from downstairs.

  Just seeing him made all the heat of the night before come rushing bac
k, and I could see it in his eyes too—a flash of desire quickly masked.

  “Good morning,” he said, smiling at Passion and me, his laptop in his hands.

  “Good morning,” Passion said.

  I let that stand for both of us. First, because I hated mornings and he knew it. Second, because I was pretty sure anything I said to Marcus would sound like “I want you. Right now. Right here on this kitchen table,” no matter what words I actually used. And that would be embarrassing.

  “I was hoping you were both finally awake,” he said, setting his laptop on the table and sitting down next to Passion. “We need to go over the Samantha James stuff and make sure you know as much as you can.” He flipped open his computer and turned it on.

  Marcus had a whole file on Samantha James, including a bunch of pictures that looked like they’d been snagged off the Internet. She was pretty in an unusual sort way, willowy and tall like one of those high fashion models. She dressed like one too.

  “She has a PSS ear,” he said, pointing to a close-up of her face, her long brown hair tucked behind a glowing ethereal left ear. “She’s a senior, an only child, and the daughter of one of the richest families in Indianapolis. Her father, Alexander James, is a philanthropist and art collector.” Marcus showed us a picture of a dark guy in a dark suit with dark glasses. It was hard to tell what he looked like, other than that. “Her mother, Chloe, owns and manages rental vacation properties in exotic locations, so she travels a lot.” The picture of Samantha’s mother looked like a picture of a movie star. She was descending the stairs of a private plane. And she was beautiful, tall, and willowy, just like her daughter.

  “Samantha is a musical prodigy,” Marcus went on. “She’s a pianist and composer, and has won international awards for the music she writes. Some people believe it’s because of her special ear for music, her PSS ear.”

  Yippee for Samantha! Of course, a beautiful, modelesque, rich girl would get a socially acceptable ability like a musical ear, while the universe saddled me with a hand that yanked weird stuff out of people.