Page 7 of Ghost
With how good she looks in my hoodie, I don’t ask her what’s in her backpack. Instead, I found a pair of my socks, too. When I return to her, she gasps when I kneel at her feet.
“You don’t have to do that.” Looking at my leg with worry, I get the oddest sense of satisfaction from her concern.
Ignoring her, I reach out and carefully grab her ankle. Plucking off her sock, still damp from her steps, a scowl forms at how red the underside of her foot looks. When I apply slight pressure, her toes jerk.
Diesel got her out of the house. Without Diesel, she wouldn’t be right here within my reach.I can’t hate Diesel.
“This is going to be the last time you get hurt.” Muttering the words, they’re a carved promise. “I’m going to keep you safe.”
From the hitch in her breathing to the small dip of her chin, it’s set in stone. Looking down at me with something new behind her gaze, she lets me tend to her feet so we can move this along and get some food into her stomach.
4
Eliza
If there were a world record for Stockholm syndrome to kick in, then I’d be the holder. What else do I call this thing twisting up in my gut? It could be exhaustion. Maybe I’ve succumbed to these delusions and accepted my situation.
This late in the night, it’s outrageous for me to be hovering over a plate of onion rings and a chicken sandwich that guarantees an upset stomach in the morning.
I’ve always had set meal times, with very slim choices to pick from. Everything has always been planned out for me, so this spontaneous moment feels unsettling. I hate it.
While I don’t want to accept that Ghost is right about my father, about the control he clearly has on me, the evidence is glaringly right in my face.
Ugh.I don’t want to think about myself anymore. At this point, I’m so mentally exhausted that I can hardly even think as it is.
Crunching down on another ring, I stare at his leg. Did he really get kidnapped, or was he lying? Did they take his limb so he couldn’t leave? My own legs curl at the thoughts, the slippers now on my feet thump against the foot of a couch.
“What are you thinking?” Ghost sits at the other end, creating a space between us, watching me with an intensity that feels both new and familiar. After asking for this food to be made, he’s been quiet, seemingly content just to observe. But is this any different than what he’s confessed? Have his eyes always been on me like this?
The bite goes down the wrong pipe, and I cough. Clearing my throat, I grasp for something to say that isn’t the dizzying truth. My gaze catches on the solid line of his prosthetic, and I nod toward it. “I’m wondering how similar our cases really are.”
Ghost nods slowly, his eyes leaving mine to stare at a point on the wall. In this room, there isn’t much. It’s more of a refuge when the chaos of the bar becomes too much. The thrum of the bass is just a muffled beat on the other side of the door.
“Someone reached out to me when I was not in a good mental state,” he begins, his voice soft. The memory visibly pains him, tightening the skin around his eyes. “Four years ago, I got in a bad motorcycle accident. The loss of my leg was only the second worst loss that day.”
Trying to figure out what could possibly be worse than losing a limb, he chuckles despite the grim topic.
He lets the silence hang for a moment, the unspoken loss a heavy presence in the room. “I lost my nerve. The fear… it ruined my love for riding. It ruined everything. I fell into a hole so deep I didn’t see a way out. I tried to end it.”
He laughs like it’s funny, but the amusement doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Someone from the club had heard about my story beforehand. My now best friend, funny enough.” His mouthfinally curves into a smile, the memory turning better. “Stacks doesn’t like taking no as an answer when he demanded I join the club. The bastard is insistent. He kicked down my door when I broke my streak at the bar, found me, and literally dragged me here before I succeeded in a second attempt.”
Surprised by his story, I can’t believe it. Sounding like he’s faced death multiple times, his name really is fitting. “You’re amazing.”
He freezes, his head tilting as if he’s sure he misheard. A slow, bewildered blink. The reaction is so genuine, so unguarded, it sends a wave of warmth through me. A little part of me is shocked, too—not just by the compliment, but by the sincerity of it.
So, Ghost was rescued in his own way. I suppose I can see a few similarities. Looking at him now, he looks great. Sure, his body has taken damage, but the person he is on the inside isn’t someone I’d ever consider having suffered.
Munching on my food, I peel my eyes away as he rubs the back of his neck. Coming off like the bashful type, he goes as far as muttering a thanks.
He’s kind of cute.Sure, I haven’t had the chance to be around a lot of guys, so my experience with them is slim to nothing, but this pull I feel toward him can’t be from nothing. Again, is it Stockholm syndrome, or something else?
It’s scary to think I could be feeling anything for a man who is a mixture of my kidnapper and rescuer.
Once I’m done with my food, he takes my styrofoam dish and sets it to the side. As he gets to his feet, he motions back toward the rooms available.
“Let’s get you settled. You’ve had a long few hours.”
