Ghost Hunter

by Serena Akeroyd

  Ghost Hunter

  Jayce Ventura - Ghost Detective 3

  Serena Akeroyd

  Copyright © 2019 by Serena Akeroyd

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Epilogue

  Also by Serena Akeroyd

  Chapter One

  Jayce

  “Turn the light off,” I growl, grabbing the pillows and covering my head with the squashy down.

  A deep chuckle comes from the left side of me, and I grab the other pillow and use it to whack him in the gut. Drake doesn’t even grunt, damn his hide.

  “Why do you want me to wake up in a bad mood?” I ask from behind the pillow, pouting all the way. It doesn’t even matter that he can’t see my mouth, just as long as he can hear it in my voice.

  “Because everyone should wake up in a bad mood on their birthday.”

  That logic has me stumped. I pull the pillow away to glower at him. Regardless, he remains unrepentant. “That’s just mean. As if life doesn’t suck enough, we’re reminded once a year that we’re getting older. Like I need a reminder. Like I need to be woken up so early I can hear birds.” My bottom lip pops out more. “I hate birds.”

  He snorts. “See, this is what I’m talking about. You always wake up in a bad mood anyway, which means my waking you up before I go to work won’t put a damper on things.”

  I scowl at that. More twisted logic that, for some weird goddamn reason, actually makes sense. I hate it when he makes sense at… the clock beside my bed tells me six forty-five.

  Jesus Christ.

  Six forty-five?

  The man is literally trying to kill me.

  The last time I was up this early, I was in school.

  “You weren’t even awake then at this time,” Kenna, one of my ghostly companions, reminds me.

  Hell, she’s probably right.

  “Stop being a misery guts and give the man a kiss,” Kenna chides, breaking into my thoughts again. “You should see the breakfast he’s made you.”

  Anyone else would probably jump through their skin at having a strange voice speak to them in their bedroom, moments after awakening.

  But it isn’t an intruder. Well, not much.

  Kenna’s my trusty companion and regular pain in the ass. She’s also a ghost, one of many in my entourage, but she doesn’t let that stop her from bitching at me.

  I groan at the dual assault of their jostling. “I want to sleep,” I grouse. “That was my present. We both agreed on it.”

  “Some gift. You always wake up late. Today should be different,” Drake informs me.

  I huff as he grabs my hand and tugs me upright. When he does, the sheets tumble away and he lets out a wolf whistle.

  “When did you strip?” he asks me.

  “Does it matter?” I grumble, shooting a disgruntled glance at my boyfriend of eight months. “Would you prefer me to cover my tits?”

  “No. Did that sound like criticism? Because, to clarify, I sure as hell wasn’t complaining.”

  “Jesus, every time. What is it with you two? If it isn’t sex, it’s flirting. If it isn’t flirting, it’s cozying up to one another.” Another of my retinue, Drake’s nephew David, slouches in.

  Grumbling all the way. Jesus, that boy can complain.

  “I’m sorry if our being happy is irritating, David,” I hiss at the kid, making Drake flinch.

  “He’s here?”

  “Yup,” I retort, gloomily. “When isn’t he?” Because I know how it fucks with his mind that his nephew might hear us screwing, I quickly add, “But he’s only just popped in. He knows we have a closed door policy.”

  The relief on Drake’s face is enough to make me want to laugh, but if I do, I’ll be the one who pays the price.

  Drake is a real prude around David, which totally blows.

  Wanting to take his mind off his dead teenage nephew—I’m all heart like that—I let him drag me out of bed.

  Butt naked now, David immediately screeches at the sight of me, and scampers out the room.

  I’m past caring if he sees my feminine ding-a-lings to be honest. The ghosts in my apartment have seen me, warts and all. Truth is, I’ve looked worse than this.

  There was the time I had a trio of murder victims gawking at me as I puked up a tub of Cherry Garcia—sadly not into the toilet, but the tub. Damn, that had been a gross morning.

  The hangover from hell after I decided to try absinthe was witnessed by a twelve-year-old ghost who didn’t know what a hangover was and thought I was being exorcised… Jesus, after a visit from the green fairy, it had felt like exorcism. And if anyone would know, it’s me.

  After all, my momma had me exorcised.

  Twice.

  Shoving the pleasant thought away, because who doesn’t love to think about psychotic parents on their birthday, I merely grab my robe from the back of the door and shrug into it—Drake lets go of my arm long enough to oblige me.

  I actually think he’d have a problem with my eating breakfast naked. Bizarre, I know. It’s a morning thing.

  Either that, or a Drake thing.

  If it was evening, that would be a whole different story. But in the morning, he’s in work mode

  Makes sense, I guess.

  Never having had a work mode, I couldn’t really say.

  He continues to pull me through the penthouse apartment, not stopping until we reach the kitchen. Which, quite frankly, has been his domain since he moved in with me. Sure, I know that’s quick after eight months of seeing one another, but hell, I have a lot of baggage and the man doesn’t seem to mind.

  Plus, he’s cute, and in bed? Jesus H. Christ, the man has taken me around the Milky Way more times than I can count. He doesn’t just make me see stars, I see freakin’ galaxies.

  When you meet a man like that, girls, you keep him. He’s lucky I haven’t chained him to the bed. If my life wasn’t already weird enough, that might have been an option.

  The kitchen is kind of old-fashioned. Wooden cabinets, copper shit hanging over the cooker. I think it’s supposed to be fancy, but I never did understand how copper pans were decorative.

  Like I said, this country-style kitchen is his abode, and I’m quite happy to visit as a foreigner.

  Still, this morning, he’s tried. Bless him. The marble breakfast counter is loaded down with waffles, bacon, and eggs, a huge pot of coffee—see what I mean? Total. Keeper—fresh strawberries, a large tureen of homemade whipped cream, and toast.

  “Aw, babe, this is awesome,” I tell him, my voice still raspy from sleep. I reach for the coffee pot, pour myself a mug, and take a giant sip as I look over goodies he’s made for me. When on earth did he wake up to make all this stuff?

  It’s practically midnight now!

  Once the caffeine soaks into my deprived tissues, I decide to be nice to him for getting up so early, and follow him around to his side of the counter where he’d been about to sit. It’s then I attack.

  Sliding my arms around his waist, I hug him. Hard. “This is the best birthday breakfast ever,” I inform his chest, because my face is smooshed against his delicious pecs. Yeah, did I mention my psychologi
st boyfriend has pecs?

  I mean, this dude belongs in a romance novel. He’s like, totally perfect.

  Well, bitches, he’s all mine.

  With a happy sigh because he is all mine, I hold him tighter, trying to imbue my feelings into the embrace. “This is really so sweet of you.”

  He presses a kiss to the top of my head. “You deserve it.”

  “Can we strike a deal?”

  He chuckles, and I feel him move his arm and hear the splash of coffee as he pours himself a mug. “Sure, babe. What kind of deal?”

  “There’s no way I can compete with a birthday breakfast. How about on your day, we have birthday dinner?”

  “That sounds perfect,” he answers, sounding amused.

  But then, he usually does around me.

  I’m not certain what he finds so funny about the shit I have to say, but I’m glad he finds me humorous.

  My life is so fucking whacked, that if you didn’t find it funny you’d probably want to shoot yourself.

  I work with dead people. It’s worse than The Sixth Sense too. I mean, I live with the SOB’s. They tell me their sob stories, and make my day gloomy. To make it worse, there are ghosts every-fucking-where, so I never get a break. Then, people come to me for help and bring more ghosts to my door.

  I should just live in a graveyard. It would be a lot easier. And quieter.

  With a final squeeze, I let him go and retreat to my side of the counter. Loading up a plate with waffles, macerated strawberries, and cream, and I tuck in with a huge mouthful. He grins at me, and because Kenna would slap me around the head—not that I’d feel it—I wait until I’ve swallowed to grin back at him.

  “Glad to know I’ve taught you some manners,” she says with a sniff, peering at the breakfast display on the counter with a pleased look on her face.

  She’s the only ghost who can read my thoughts. We’re not sure why. It might be because she’s the first ghost I ever met and we connected in a way I’ve never done with another spirit, or maybe it’s because she’s so fucking nosy that she developed the talent just to spy on my already transparent life.

  Her glower of disapproval has me snorting into my coffee cup. I’d bitch at her if Drake wasn’t here, however, I try not to talk to the ghosts when he’s around.

  It’s rude, you know?

  I don’t normally mind, but with him, it’s different. I want to make him happy, and my having conversations with people he can’t see isn’t the way to go about that.

  See, I have learned something over the years.

  “What’s your plan for today?” he asks, after taking a bite of his own breakfast.

  “Well, I’m probably going to go into a food coma once you leave. So that takes up at least half my day.”

  He snorts. “Your productivity knows no bounds.”

  “Don’t you forget it,” I tell him with a wink. “But I have a journalist coming around at two, so I need to at least have washed my hair by then.”

  “I thought you weren’t going to talk to the press.”

  His cocked brow has me shuffling in my seat. I did say that, so I can’t blame the man for wondering at my motives. I can blame him for having a great memory, though.

  Damn his hide. Again.

  “You know that blonde chick? The one that keeps leaping out at me whenever she sees me?”

  “The Daily Press reporter?” he asks.

  I wrinkle my nose because I don’t actually know. Kenna sighs. “Yes, Jayce. Christine Jennings is with The Daily Press. How can you not know that when you called her?”

  I don’t answer because of the whole rudeness thing, so tell him instead, “Yeah. Her.”

  “You shouldn’t let her intimidate you into holding an interview,” he says with a frown, placing his fork on the plate as he turns his full attention on me. “That’s not fair to you.”

  “To be honest, after that whole situation with Marla Davison, I know I have to do something.” Despite my unease, I carry on eating; one of the many things I’ve learned in my lifetime is to eat when I can. Life will always continue on around me, but someone could always steal my food.

  Marla Davison is Hollywood—as well as European—royalty. Somebody somewhere leaked that I’d helped her on a case, and ever since, the press has been bombarding me.

  Seven months later, the pressure to hold an interview is still going strong. If so much time can pass in this fickle world with their interest unabated, I figure something’s gotta give.

  Sadly, it’s me.

  “I have to do something. They’re driving me nuts. I went for pizza yesterday and they were there. Waiting. It’s starting to get weird.”

  “The guy behind the counter must have told someone you were coming to collect your takeout.”

  I huff. “Yeah. See? Ridiculous.”

  “Well, either that’s ridiculous or the fact the press know you well enough to bribe your pizza restaurant,” Kenna points out.

  Rolling my eyes at her, I grumble, “It can’t be too bad. They usually paint me as the devil incarnate, which is always fun. It’s not like she can hurt me.”

  The thing about Drake is his eyes are always sad. I met him because he came to me for help with his nephew’s death. He’d refused to believe that David had died of an overdose like the coroner claimed, and he’d asked me to investigate.

  We’d discovered that one of David’s bullies at school had doped his drink.

  Because I met Drake after David’s death, I don’t know if his eyes have always been sad. But they are now, and every time I fall into his dark chocolate brown gaze, I melt. His sadness kills me. That’s why I’m glad I make him happy.

  He’s so serious. He needs me to lighten his days.

  And trust me, that’s a testament to my frame of mind because working with dead people certainly isn’t cheerful. If my whacked sense of humor can lighten his melancholy, that makes me one very happy bunny.

  “I hate that you’ve been vilified by the press so many times, when all you want to do is help.”

  So that’s why he looks down.

  It’s on my behalf.

  Touched, I shrug. Not being dismissive of his kindness, but simply at the fact that that’s my life.

  “I’m used to it, sweetheart.”

  “That’s what makes it worse,” he retorts with a sigh. “I don’t want you to be used to it.”

  “I know. But I am, so I don’t get hurt anymore.” At that, I wince. “Well, that’s kind of not true. When I get hold of the article, because I’m a masochist like that, I usually always cry a bit. But I get over it.”

  Kenna’s hand drifts over my shoulder as she pats it. She’s a pain in my butt but she loves me. She’s like my mom. Actually, that’s kind of rotten of me to even compare the two women.

  That witch isn’t at all like K. She’s my rock. Has been all my life. Always will be.

  What hurts is that, though she patted my shoulder, I didn’t feel it. I know she did it, and I have to take note of it. But yeah, the pat was a visual comfort rather than anything else.

  Having a ghost for a mom can suck at times.

  “Did you really have to schedule the meeting with that woman on your birthday?” he chides. “Couldn’t you have gone to Elizabeth Arden for the day or, I don’t know, gone shopping?”

  That has me snorting, as well making Kenna hoot like a damn owl. “Since when have either of those things been on my agenda?”

  “You just made my point for me. That’s what birthdays are for. Doing things that you never do.” His eyes sparkle at me, for once, no sadness burrowed away in those depths, only a joy that makes my heart freakin’ melt. “This isn’t your only gift,” he tells me, his excitement practically screaming from his pores.

  I eye him suspiciously. “What is it? You know I don’t like gifts.”

  His grin isn’t diminished by my dampening tone. “I know, I know.” He lifts the newspaper at his side and retrieves an envelope. “Happy birthday, Jayce,” he t
ells me with a soft smile.

  Despite myself, I feel tears start to burn my eyes. Jesus, when did I turn into such a sap?

  I stare at the envelope for a long while, then blow out a breath as I tilt my head to look up at him. “You didn’t have to do this, Drake,” I tell him softly.

  His smile is so tender, it makes more tears choke in my throat. “I know. I wanted to.”

  With a quivery breath, I open the envelope. Then, eyes widening, the chuckle I release has him grinning like a buffoon. “Are you being serious?”

  “Dead serious.”

  “But you hate Dolly Parton.”

  He shakes his head. “You love her.”

  “Are we really going to Dollywood?” I squeal. Talk about excitement overload.

  “God help me, but we are.”

  “You are the best boyfriend ever!” I leap up from the chair, rush around the counter, and squeeze him so goddamn tight, I swear, I don’t know where he ends and I begin.

  This is the best birthday I’ve ever had, and the day has barely begun.

  “That’s it. I just have to do it,” I declare, after grabbing his chin and kissing him, morning breath be damned because I probably taste like waffles and strawberries now. “This deserves nothing less than a happy dance!”

  So saying, I totally strut my stuff. And if my boobs happen to fall out from behind the confines of the robe, hell, he deserves the flash.

  Dollywood, here we come!

  Chapter Two

  Jayce

  Christina Jennings is one of those women who you really want to smack. I mean, I know we’re a part of a sisterhood and all that shit. We’re supposed to face the Man as a unit, but God help me, I’d prefer to deal with the Man than with this chick

  I bet carbs never pass her lips, and she’s exactly the kind of woman who gets up at like three to go to the gym at four. I mean, someone has to use those twenty-four hour gyms, and she’s totally one of them.