One
The first thing you need to know about me is—I see dead people. Okay, that’s a lie. I hear dead people—on an antique radio of all things. I know, right? But I didn’t make the rules. If I had, I certainly wouldn’t be working at Pretzel Pirate. The uniform is unrelenting polyester, and I can’t pull off white lace or a swashbuckler hat. I’m into striped tights, combat boots, cosmetics, piercings, and tattoos.
I’ve also got an amnesia thing going on. Don’t ask me to explain it, but my head’s foggy. I used to live in Kilmer, Georgia, and for reasons I can’t recall—I’m sure it seemed like a good idea at the time—I split with a cop from Texas…and some other guy. I haven’t seen the second dude for a while, but the cop brought me to Laredo. It was weird in Kilmer, and my mom’s…gone. I should be sad about that, but that part of my life is misty. Which makes me wonder if I used to do hardcore drugs. It would explain a lot, huh? I should be grateful it was a cop who pulled me out of that death spiral and not some perv who’d chain me up in his basement.
So I’m in Laredo now. The cop who saved me—and I’m sure whatever he hauled me out of in Kilmer, it was ugly—then deposited me with some family friends. They’re a married couple, nice enough, but I felt like I was cramping their style. They just had a baby, and I’m not au pair material. To make matters worse, their house burned down, and we were all out of luck for a while.
They went to stay with relatives, and I didn’t feel right about going along. So this guy, Chuch, found me a roommate, his cousin, Maria. She’s a nice girl, but not home a lot. We both work, and I’m trying to get into community college. Things being what they were in Kilmer, I got my GED here.
So anyway, it’s five thirty p.m. on a Thursday, and I’m stuck at Pretzel Pirate. The food court is hell. Each afternoon, I stare across at the same dorky kid selling burgers. Sometimes he makes a pirate hat out of a paper placemat and puts it on to mock me. I give him my middle finger as a special prize. Good times. This job pays minimum wage; it also siphons off a portion of my soul each time I say, “Arrr, matey, want to try a Buccaneer special pretzel with extra cheese?” FML.
Unlike charlatans who use a crystal ball, I can tune into dead people on my radio—and not random ones, either—so considering that I’ve learned to control the ability, I should be raking in the cash. But due to snafus like the Salem Witch Trials, the Gifted community frowns on us using our talents in the open, so any medium listed in the Yellow Pages is a fake. I wish I could figure out a way around this restriction, but for now, I’m working at the mall to make ends meet.
The only bright side is that I’m sober, apparently, and the guy who rescued me cares enough to check in on a regular basis. At least, I think that’s why he’s coming toward me. Here’s something I didn’t mention. The cop’s smoking hot. Jesse Saldana, that’s his name. I’ve never written it all over my notebooks or drawn hearts around it, but sometimes I do whisper Jesse in a certain way.
I have zero shot, but since the moment I saw him, I’ve been on fire. He’s got tawny hair and dark eyes, a hint of Mexican heritage in his tan skin. Plus, with a day or two of golden scruff, he always looks like he could use a shave. I see him and I just want to take a bite; he’s the ultimate forbidden fruit. I’m not sure exactly how old he is, but I’m guessing twenty-eight or twenty-nine.
Did I mention I’m not quite nineteen?
Ten years might not seem like such a big difference down the road, but right now, it’s insurmountable. Because he sees me as a project—I’m the girl he’s saving. And unless you’re crazy, you don’t kiss the crap out of damsels in distress. Christ, I hate that label. I wish I could prove that I’m not an at-risk youth, but I have no idea how to make it happen.
He cuts through the tables, making a beeline for Pretzel Pirate. Let me point out, there are way better places to eat. If he’s after actual food, the court has sushi, sandwiches, pasta, pizza, and burgers. Some of it even tastes decent.
God, Jesse Saldana’s smiling at me.
“Hey,” he says, as he reaches the counter.
“Arr,” I answer. “Prepare to be boarded.”
Oh, God, why? I have no idea why I said that. It’s not even an official Pretzel Pirate greeting. Mark, my manager, would vehemently disapprove. He’s all about corporate policy and reminds me of that movie where Jennifer Aniston works at a terrible restaurant and they give her shit for not wearing enough buttons.
Fortunately, Jesse laughs. He’s got a great smile, white teeth—and dimples. How am I supposed to cope? Dimples. It’s absurd.
“How’s the pretzel business?”
“It’s horrible. I have no dignity. On the plus side, I’ll be able to make rent.” When his brow furrows, I realize I’ve reinforced his impression of me as vulnerable, someone who needs looking after.
“If you ever need anything, Shan, let me know. I’m here for you.”
“You’ve been sentenced to community service? What’d you do?”
“Funny. Can I get a lemonade and an order of toasted pretzel bites?”
“Tell me this isn’t your dinner.”
“What?” Now he looks defensive. “It’s food.”
“Debatable.” But Mark would not be amused to hear me talking this way about our fine products.
Glumly, I put together Jesse’s order, mentally counting the seconds before he walks away. “So what’re you doing here?”
“Would you believe I was craving pretzel bites?”
“Not even on my dumbest day.”
“Car charger for my phone.” He lifts a small plastic bag. “I’m always forgetting to plug it in at night.”