Ghostgirl ~ JB Salsbury

  Ghostgirl

  Copyright © 2018 JB Salsbury

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Cover Art by:

  PixelMischief

  Interior Design & Formatting by:

  Christine Borgford, Type A Formatting

  She was brainwashed into believing she could save mankind.

  Now she’s the one who needs saving.

  Abandoned with his two younger brothers, Milo Vega was placed in foster care. Now a twenty-year-old high school senior covered in gang tattoos and working as the school’s janitor, he is living a life vastly different from the one he was destined for.

  When another foster joins the family, this one from the psychiatric facility, Milo’s skeptical. A rare genetic condition makes her unlike any girl he’s ever seen, and he wants nothing to do with the one he calls Ghostgirl.

  Despite his reluctance, his protective instincts flare when she enrolls in school, and eventually, an unlikely friendship grows between them. When a tragic event snaps her fragile psyche, Milo is faced with the possibility of never seeing her again.

  Unless he risks it all to save her.

  Contents

  GHOSTGIRL

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Other Titles by JB Salsbury

  Six months ago

  THIS IS MY punishment. My fiery lake of burning sulfur. My blazing furnace, with weeping and gnashing of teeth for all eternity.

  I am held in darkness—that much is true—but it is not heat that licks my skin. The frigid air bites through my thin robe and numbs my toes. The only warmth comes from the thick bindings lashing my wrists and ankles to the cold metal bars. My hair provides little protection from the chill. My heart pumps furiously to keep me alert, and my teeth chatter.

  A single dim light burns high above me, illuminating enough to show me I am in a room much smaller than that from which I came. How I hated the confinement of those four walls then. If I had only known it was to get worse . . . so much worse.

  My breathing speeds. I turn my head to try to look around, but I can’t make out anything except walls and shadows. I close my eyes and attempt to go back to my last coherent thought before I woke up here, to pick apart the fuzz in my head and piece together a recent memory, but it’s too thick to sort through. I did something wrong to be banished to this eternal damnation—this I know for sure. But what?

  “Mercy,” I call out to the stillness in the room.

  The only response is the return of my own voice.

  “Show mercy, please . . .”

  My heart feels as if it’ll explode from my chest. The only sound is my panting breath as it reiterates my fear. I am alone. Is there no one to save me? Whatever I have done has sealed my fate, which is to be lived out in a space slightly larger than the bed I used to sleep in. The tears burn my cheeks as they form rivers down the sides of my face to wet my hair. I pretend I’m back in my old room under a blanket with a warm cup of broth. I lick my lips and act as if my salty tears are butter spread on warm bread.

  I am home.

  My head swims, and the fuzziness in my mind expands down my body, lulling me, drawing me deeper. If I’m lucky, I’ll fall asleep and never wake up. But I fear luck won’t find me here.

  Something shuffles nearby, and I imagine I’m hearing the sound of my legs shifting beneath soft sheets. A lock clicks, and I see my old room, the large wooden door opening to—

  A woman gasps.

  My eyes pop open, and I pull against my restraints. “Please help me!” My vision is murky, and I struggle to see anything more than a silhouette in the low light.

  The person is too small to be male, and her steps are soft as she draws closer. “Don’t be afraid.”

  “Who are you?” I fist my hands. The muscles in my legs flex and cramp but don’t move. “Where am I?”

  “A little more light, please.” Her words are said quietly and to no one, but the light obeys and flickers brighter.

  She has the power to command light. Is she like me? She steps closer until she leans over me on the cold table. Her dark hair falls around her face. No, she’s nothing like me. Her gaze probes mine, and although kindness rests in her expression, her lips turn down in a disapproving frown. “Are you all right?”

  “I . . .” I squint my eyes against the light that has my head throbbing. “Can’t remember.”

  “Don’t worry. You’re safe now.”

  “Safe from what? I don’t understand.”

  Her frown deepens, but when she sees me staring, she dips her chin as though trying to hide it. “No, I suppose you don’t.”

  I study the open door over her shoulder and wonder what lies beyond it. If I could get her to release me and could move quickly enough, I could make it out before being caught. However, leaving could mean certain death for someone like me.

  “My name is Laura, and I’m here to help you.”

  “You will show me mercy, please. Free me.” I tug on my restraints until my skin burns.

  Her dark-brown eyes communicate a longing of some kind. I lock on to them and attempt to read her emotions, but they’re impossible to see. What has happened to me? Am I fallen?

  “You were picked up by border patrol. You were unconscious. They thought you were dead.”

  As her gaze darts to my arm, I grunt in frustration at the loss of eye contact.

  “Do you remember how you got there?”

  “I don’t know where I am. Please. I’m scared.” My eyes grow hot, and a fresh river of tears runs down my cheeks.

  “You were evaluated by paramedics who brought you to the hospital, but once you came to, you were uncooperative with police. Do you remember that?”

  I swallow against the awareness of my tender throat. There was screaming. I remember the screaming. My fingers ache as I ball my hands into fists again.

  “They sedated you and had you transferred here to the Los Angeles Psychiatric Health Care Facility. I’m sorry we had to strap you down here. We had to make sure you weren’t a danger to yourself.” None of what she’s saying makes sense, but it does feel familiar, like a distant memory.

  “When did I arrive here?”

  “Around ten o’clock last night.”

  I shake my head. Everything is a blur, and even my most recent memories seem ages old.

  Her frown deepens. “You’ve been under observation. It’s nothing personal, just protocol. I’m here to clear you and move you to a more comfortable room.” Her eyes search mine, probably looking for something ins
ide me just as I’m searching for something inside her, some hint that would explain why I’m here. “Maybe we should start with the basics.” She smiles and works the binding at my left wrist, freeing it. “What is your name?”

  I pull my arm in close to my body as she works the right wrist next. “Name?”

  “Yes.” She moves to my ankles, freeing one and then the other. “What do people call you?”

  Is it not obvious? I was taught that people know what I am just by looking at me. Unless . . . I am fallen. A cold sliver of fear slides down my spine, and I roll onto my side and curl in on myself even though my muscles resist. “I am called Angel because of what I am.”

  She nods and her mouth smiles, but the rest of her face remains hard. “I see.” A firm burst of air comes from her nose. “And what exactly is that?”

  I press my palm against the cold surface of the bed I was strapped to and push to sit up. My legs dangle over the side, and feeling rushes back to my toes in a wave of tingles. “I think I know why I am here.”

  Her head tilts, inviting me to continue without saying a word.

  “For God did not spare the angels when they sinned but sent them to hell, putting them in chains . . .” I look at the thick brown bindings that had tethered me. “To be held for judgment.”

  “Is that what you think? That you’re here for some kind of punishment?”

  I don’t answer because I want so badly to be wrong, but . . . yes. My lower lip trembles, and I grip the dirty skirt of my nightgown until my knuckles ache. “Please, I beg you for mercy.”

  Her palm touches my hand, and the contact makes me jump. She backs away, knotting her hands together as if my skin burned her and she’s rubbing away the sting. “I’m a child psychologist. It’s my job to help you take back what has been taken from you, not to punish you or shame you. Do you know how old you are?”

  “My existence is limitless.”

  The woman frowns.

  “I want to go home.”

  “Okay. And where is that? How do we contact your parents?”

  “I do not have parents. I was created, not born.”

  “Created?”

  “You act as if you can’t see me. As if you don’t know what I am.”

  I force my hand to reach forward. She doesn’t flinch. I brush shaky fingers against her cheek. Her face is warm and welcoming against my clammy skin. I focus on my thoughts, pulling at my energy to bolster my power.

  “Do you see it now? Can you feel the truth of what I am?”

  She blinks slowly and shakes her head.

  I drop my hand. How does she not see me? “I am an angel.”

  Present Day

  Milo

  “SO ARE YOU going to ask me to prom, or what?”

  In what universe does the hottest, richest, most popular chick at Washington High want to go to prom with me? That’s how I want to respond, but I’m no amateur. I wasn’t born to the dating game yesterday.

  I shut my locker door, hike my backpack strap higher on my shoulder, and turn to the little blond-haired, blue-eyed cheerleader—yeah, a freakin’ cheerleader—and shrug.

  “Sounds like you’re askin’ me.” I lean against the wall of lockers, and she moves closer, so close that I get swallowed by her bubble-gum scent, which matches her bubble-gum-colored lips. I wonder, If I kiss her, would she taste like candy?

  “Maybe I am.” Her long dark eyelashes make a few slow passes up and down, and her lips quirk into a dangerous smile.

  Everything about Carrie looks soft, from her expensive sweater to her tan skin and long golden hair. Resisting the urge to reach out and touch her is hard. I pinch a strand of those silky locks between my fingers and give it a gentle tug. “You tryin’ to piss off your parents or something?”

  Her eyes light up, and she smiles. “No. Why would you say that?”

  I’ve been at this school for two years and she’s only noticed me now? She’s got an agenda—like I give a shit what that might be.

  The school’s hallway is crowded between classes, and I can feel the eyes of everyone who passes. Yeah, I know how this looks—the pampered princess flirting with the thug. What we’re doing is definitely going to stir up a shit-ton of drama. We’re only talking, but I can already hear the whispers, yet who am I to deny the girl what she wants?

  She and I have been flirting for the last month, dancing around the idea of more by way of shared looks and innocent touches. She’s been moving closer and closer to me in class and has pretended a few times to not understand an equation, though the girl gets As on every assignment. It’s obvious she’s interested, but I never made a move because we’re on totally different socioeconomic levels.

  Beauty and the foster kid.

  “That shit’s like three months away.”

  “So? It’s never too early to start making plans.” She shuffles her feet.

  I dig that I have the ability to make someone as popular and flawless as Carrie nervous. “All right, I’ll go with you.”

  She jumps and makes an adorable squeal that has me smiling down at her. “Really?”

  Is she for real? Only a blind man with a vagina would say no to someone like her. “Yeah.”

  “Okay, awesome!” She stares for a few seconds at my neck, then her gaze slides up to meet mine, her cheeks flushed. “Perfect, so . . . we’ll talk more about it later.”

  Her arms wrap around my waist, and I freeze up before I realize she’s probably expecting me to hug her back. I tap her back a few times.

  “Oh!” She pulls back, smiling. “My dress is fuchsia, so you’ll have to wear something that matches.”

  What the hell kind of a color is fuchsia?

  The speakers lining the hallway blare the signal telling students to head to class, and she skips off, her expensive glittery sneakers squeaking against the linoleum. My class is on the other side of the building, but I risk the tardy so that I can watch her bounce down the hallway until she’s out of sight.

  “Don’t forget your eyeballs, man.” My cousin Damian shoves me in the arm. Anyone with eyeballs can tell we’re related. He’s the shorter, bulkier, tattoo-free version of me with the same pale-brown eyes the Vegas are known for.

  “Fuck off.” I give the latch on my locker one firm tug to make sure it’s closed before joining him on the walk to chem.

  “Since when did you and Carrie get cozy?”

  I nod to a couple guys from the football team as they pass. “She just wants to go to prom.”

  “With you?” He grins, and his eyes dart to the tattoo on my neck, probably unaware he even did it.

  The look says all it needs to, and I can’t even be insulted because it’s exactly what I’ve been thinking myself.

  Why would a girl like Carrie O’Hare want to be seen in public with a guy like me?

  “Apparently.” I push through the door into Mrs. Jameson’s classroom, grateful her back is to the room.

  As I drop my bag on a table in the last row, Damian does the same. “She’s probably just trying to make her prick ex-boyfriend jealous.”

  “Or . . .” I slump down into my seat, legs wide. “Maybe she just can’t resist my charm.”

  “Right.” He laughs, pulling out his notebook. “You’re a regular prince.”

  “Technically . . .”

  As Mrs. Jameson starts in on our lab for the day, Damian leans close. “Maybe she knows you’re old enough to buy booze.”

  I shove his face. “Or maybe she heard about my ten-inch di—”

  A symphony of giggles erupts from the table of girls next to us.

  “—ll pickle.” I smile at them, which only sends them into another fit.

  He chuckles. “You wish.”

  Whatever.

  Screw it. Damian’s right.

  With my gang affiliations inked all over my skin and the hundred-pound chip on my shoulder, I’m given a wide berth, which makes Carrie’s sudden interest in me surprising and suspect. I’m Washington High’s token char
ity case. I’m also a “super senior,” the name given to high school students over age eighteen to make it sound like a superpower, make the situation less humiliating. And no, it doesn’t work.

  “Dude, what the hell kind of color is fuchsia anyway?” I take notes, copying what Mrs. J has written on the board.

  “Pink.”

  My pencil freezes, and I turn toward him. “Pink?” The word shrivels from my lips. “I’m not wearing pink.”

  “If you want in Carrie’s pants, you better wear pink.” He points at me with the blunt end of his pen. “Girls hate it when they don’t match their date.”

  “But pink?”

  “Bright pink.”

  “Not happening.”

  Class moves in its usual slo-mo, and when the bell finally rings, I’m starving. I grab the paper-sack lunch I made for myself and get in line for whatever the cafeteria is serving for today. Foster-kid bonus: free school lunch. Besides, one PB&J isn’t enough to fill me up, and I hate taking too much food from home when my foster parents have to feed my two growing brothers.

  “Afternoon, mi vida,” I say.

  “Aye, lobo.” Lupe, the lunch lady, clucks her tongue and tosses a few extra chicken strips onto my tray.

  “Me? No.” I fake offense and wink, making her blush as she hooks me up with one more strip. “Gracias.”

  “De nada.” She shoos me away with a flick of her gloved hand.

  I move to the table in the back of the cafeteria where Damian and a few other guys are huddled over their own banquets. Passing by a table of juniors, I spot my brother Miguel.

  He’s sitting by himself, which means his one friend must be absent.

  I stare between him and the table of guys I usually eat with, but this choice is an easy one.

  As I drop my tray down next to Miguel, he looks up from pushing mushy noodles around with his spork. “Hey.”

  “Bro.” I nod toward his tray. “Not hungry, ese?”

  He shrugs one shoulder. “Tastes like metal.”

  Miguel’s the pickiest eater I’ve ever known. He stopped eating meat when he was ten, and my dad used to give him crap, saying he was the milkman’s kid cause no Vega would refuse menudo.

  “Yeah, but you need to eat,” I say.