Page 3 of Ghost
My eyes water at the recurring thought, and I pinch them shut to avoid letting another tear spill. I think I’ve let too many fall as is.
Sitting up, I wipe my puffy, sore eyes. I feel like a child hiding from the world, but even behind a locked door, I can’t escape the inevitable. Tomorrow, I move in with a man I’ve never met in a new town. If my father is getting something in return, he can’t be a good man.
Just his name alone sounds scary. Blaze Walker. Besides being told he’s a powerful man, someone who could keep me safe, I’m in the dark. My father wants me to believe I’ll be okay? Well, my gut is screaming at me to run in the opposite direction, far,faraway.
A backpack leans against the wall, packed for the morning. Every time I look at it, my chest aches. As easy as it would be to throw it on my back and leave, reality always comes crashing in. Thanks to my father, I have nowhere to go. Because of his career, I could never work a normal job. I have no money saved up, not like I’m ever handed any in the first place.
All I can do is obey.
My brows furrow, and I dig my nails into my blanket, my frustrations bubbling over. Knowing no one will hear me, I let out a loud huff. Despite not changing a thing, I feel a smidge better.
Sighing, I slip out of my room into the calm, empty expanse of our home to find something to snack on. Call it an act of defiance, but I want to see if I can find any junk food hidden away. Something that’ll make my father upset, so he can feel an ounce of what I am.
A muffled curse in the distance jolts my heart. I’mnotalone.
Considering calling out for my father, I decide against it. I’m not ready to face him, and if it’s not him, I don’t want to alert an intruder.
There haven’t been any break-ins reported. Is that what’s happening?
Clutching my shirt, I move through the darkness toward the kitchen. A light is on. Peering around the corner, I see two men. One is heavily tattooed; the other, younger, in a leather jacket, eyes staring at the camera in the room with a weary expression.
“You sure he’s taken them out?” he asks, pointing up toward the flashing red light. He doesn’t look reassured when the other one tells him to be quiet.
Sucking in a breath at the realization that I’m no longer alone, fear clenches at my chest in a tight enough grip to make me dizzy.
“Don’t touch anything. Find the woman so we can get out of here.” Hissing the order as softly as he can, he makes their intentions clear as day.
They’re here forme. Why? Who knows. If I have to make a guess, it’s not for good intentions. Not when both of these guys look like they’ve stepped out of a motorcycle magazine.
I need to hide somewhere. Even better, I need to call the cops. This isn’t good.
Willing my body to move, I step back. As the floor creaks beneath my weight, I freeze and make eye contact with both men.
Oh, no. This is very bad.
“Don’t scream.” Tattoo holds out a gloved hand, his face panicked. “Please.”
His plea is meaningless. I scream anyway because who wouldn’t?
Tattoo curses and charges forward. He’s bulky yet quick. I spin around to run, but he quickly catches me, wrapping an arm around my waist and lifting me after just a few steps.
“Let me go!” I claw at his skin and kick him hard—once on his thigh, and again where it hurts.
He hisses and stumbles as he releases me. I don’t wait for him to recollect himself. I run through the darkness, crashing through the living room like a stranger. I stub my toe on the coffee table and cry out.
Just as pain radiates in my foot and I crash against the arm of the couch, light fills the room. Jerking, I frown at the youngerguy as he holds a grimace on his face. He looks in the direction of where the tattooed man is left behind. Sighing, he straightens his shoulders.
“Listen, we’re not bad guys. We’re just doing a job.” He doesn’t even flinch as I brandish a heavy book from the table to use as a weapon. His calm is more terrifying than his partner’s aggression.
I can’t be some kidnapped victim who ends up dead in a ditch, or held for ransom. Surely, I can make it out of this, right? People fight off their attackers all the time.
Who am I kidding?
“Please, don’t make this harder than it has to be,” he says, his voice low and steady.
Tattoo soon recovers, circling us with a scowl deep enough to run my blood cold.
I’m trapped between them. I swing the book wildly, but the younger one simply steps inside the arc of my swing and catches my wrist. His grip is like iron, forcing my fingers open until the book thuds to the floor.
