Ghost Hunter

by Serena Akeroyd

I just cock a brow at her. “I want to help, Jayce.”

  She shakes her head, sighs as she gets to her feet. Leaning over to kiss my cheek, she murmurs, “I’ll see you at lunch. Have a good morning.” Then she shuffles off.

  Concern overwhelms me at her dejected form, but I shrug it off. There’s nothing I can do until she lets me in, and getting her to realize I’m aware she’s stone-walling me is the first step in that process.

  I wonder if Kenna is watching her charge’s back as she trundles off to the bedroom. Or is the twenties’ flapper watching me instead? Wishing she could share what was going on with Jayce? Help me help the one woman we both love.

  With a grimace, I collect all my dishes together and shove them in the dishwasher. With a quick wipe of the counter, I leave the kitchen as clean as I found it and do some trudging myself—heading off into the hall.

  Tempted to see if she’s gone back to sleep, I fight the need to peer into the bedroom and step toward the front door.

  It’s going to be a long morning.

  A marriage counseling session, a patient with suicidal thoughts, and two more with severe OCD—one so bad he might have to be committed for a while—is how I spend the majority of the morning.

  The marriage guidance session is one long argument. I wish it wasn’t my first appointment of the day. It gives me a throbbing headache to hear both man and wife, two people who loved each other once upon a time, bickering like kids in the schoolyard.

  It’s an endless monotony of “he said, she said,” but it’s more cheerful than the session with Guy, the man who keeps thinking about killing himself because his mother died recently.

  The bizarre thing is the two patients with OCD are actually entertaining sessions, which help to lighten my mood. Jennifer manages to find the whole situation amusing, and the major problem stems from the fact she thinks there’s nothing wrong with washing her hands with seven doses of liquid soap, or checking she’s locked the door in multiples of five. Freya is a different matter. She came to me after her desire to be clean had her using bleach on her skin. But, she’s friendly and otherwise cheerful. She laughs at herself, too, but sometimes, it does get her down—quite naturally. Today, she is ebullient, though.

  I’m luckier with my final patients of the morning than I was with the earlier ones.

  It doesn’t help my glum mood that when I step out of the office building where my practice is housed on Madison Avenue, it’s grim and looks like it will rain.

  I grab a taxi, hailing the bright yellow beacon with a raised hand, and get inside when one swoops to attend me. Within five minutes, I’m at Henry’s, Jayce’s favorite patisserie.

  It’s a wonder I haven’t gained a shitload of weight thanks to her way of eating. I don’t know where she puts it, honestly. She eats so much crap, that she should be overweight, but she isn’t. She’s curvy, granted. The kind of curves that have curves on top of curves.

  It pops into my head that maybe she is overweight but I don’t see that. I just see this sexy woman who sets me alight with lust.

  My cock is almost always semi-hard around her. A feat I’d felt sure had died when I was younger, but she’s made a fool out of that notion.

  Even now, stepping off the busy sidewalk, and crossing into the hottest patisserie this side of the Hudson, I see her and boom, I’m hiding a hard-on. I shrug out of my coat and use it to cover my lap as I head toward her.

  She’s in a booth at the back. Wearing a bright red dress, she’s as much a guiding light as I’ve ever seen. Her breasts are plentiful, round handfuls that my fingers itch to squeeze and tease. Her waist dips in then flares out to hips I can grab a hold of when we fuck.

  She’s all woman, all my woman.

  She smiles at me. Her lips are as bright as her dress, and she’s wearing a little makeup.

  As I approach, she gets to her feet and the way she walks to me, rolling her hips in a way that would impress a stripper, makes me groan at what has to be an upcoming punishment.

  She hears the groan, smiles wickedly at it. Jesus, it is.

  “You’re making me pay for this morning,” I announce to the world, uncaring who hears.

  Her grin turns darker, more wicked. It speaks of sin, and temptation, and lulls me into stepping closer than I should in a public place at one o’clock in the afternoon on a Wednesday. I haul her against my chest, not stopping until I can taste that evil smile. She shudders against me, and I love that. She wanted to make me pay for teasing her, but the game has backfired on the both of us. I savor her lips, loving the taste of coffee and mint on her breath. Soon, she’ll taste of beignets, and I’ll sup from her again.

  The need to constantly taste her is one that overwhelms me. It’s a need I think she shares.

  She pulls away from me with a sharp gasp, and I hold her to my chest. “People are looking,” she tells me, but she doesn’t care. I can see it on her face, read it in her eyes.

  “Does it matter?” I ask dismissively, watching as she slowly shakes her head.

  “I’ve corrupted you,” she whispers, but I can tell she likes that.

  “Maybe.” It’s no lie. Before Jayce, any kind of public display of affection would have broken me out in hives. I’ve always been affectionate, but not exactly tactile.

  Jayce changed all that. I want my hands on her, and I’m not afraid to admit it.

  She winks at me. “The beignets will be here soon.”

  “You knew I’d be here on time?”

  “When aren’t you, babe?” she asks, snorting as she untangles us, then does a little twirl.

  “Like my dress?”

  A low growl escapes me as I look at the pencil fit to her skirt. It comes to just above her knee and cups her hips exactly how I want to. “You look like sex,” I inform her and reach for her hand to press a kiss to the back of her fingers.

  That, more than our kiss, seems to get to her. She flutters her eyes at me, presses a hand to her chest, then staggers back to her seat.

  Feeling quite smug at her reaction, I sit opposite her in the booth. She’s just lightened up my miserable fucking morning, and she probably doesn’t even realize it.

  That spark of joy had been missing from my day, but now she’s here, it’s back.

  I normally practice yoga in my office at this time. The asanas help ground me. With the misery I hear, the stress and hurt I have to maneuver through with my patients, yoga is peace.

  It reminds me to embrace what I cannot change. To accept it, and to let that be my guiding light.

  I’m so fucking glad I came to Henry’s instead.

  Sure, I’ll be fighting the need to jack off all afternoon, but better that than feeling down in the fucking dumps.

  Before we can do much else than look at one another, our eyelids growing heavy with lust, a server appears. She clears her throat when she places a huge plate on the table. The gesture is either to grab our attention or because she caught sight of our little PDA before.

  Loaded down with beignets and more powdered sugar than snow on Everest, the plate houses Jayce’s favorite treat.

  I look up at the woman and ask, “A latte, please. Non-fat milk.”

  She disappears, and Jayce immediately captures my attention because she’s sporting a huge grin.

  “How can you be about to share these with me and ask for non-fat milk?”

  I shrug, but grin with her. She’s no better. Overloads on carbs then exists on nothing but Diet Coke. “I’m used to it. It tastes greasy otherwise, and these are oily enough.”

  “Delicious though,” she remarks, as she grabs a beignet and brings it to her mouth.

  She does the damnedest thing. Makes a round O with her lips, pops the beignet to her mouth, then slurps it back, whole, inside.

  I shudder. “Witch.”

  She winks as she chews the small ball of fried dough. “I do my best,” she says after she’s finished.

  I grunt at her, but take a beignet for myself. “No sandwich first?”
r />   “I wanted dessert first,” she counters.

  I shrug, well accustomed to this desire of hers. She’s a child in many ways. Will always opt for the sweet before her main meal. “Sure.”

  “How long do you have for lunch?”

  “Two hours. Patient cancelled this morning.” No lie, but I can tell she’s suspicious—it was rather fortuitous. I shrug at her. “You can believe I cancelled it if you want, but Mrs. Wallovitch will back me up.”

  She sniffs. “Like I’m going to check up on your schedule with your PA. I’m not your mom.”

  “No, but if you don’t believe me, I’d prefer you to know the truth than think otherwise.”

  She waves a hand. “I believe you. I just think it’s lucky, that’s all.”

  It’s my turn to wink. “I thought so too when it happened.”

  This time, she huffs before she bites into a beignet without her previous care. Powdered sugar disperses around her, dulling her bright red dress with each bite. As her tits are the main recipient of the cloud of sugar, she’ll have to wipe herself down after.

  I will totally volunteer for that service.

  I’m such a kind man.

  When the server returns with my coffee, I ask for the savory menu. Once that’s placed on the table and I’ve looked through, I call her back and make my order, doubling it because I know Jayce will pick at the chicken salad sandwich, too.

  “She’s got a crush on you,” Jayce mumbles around a donut as the woman disappears.

  “Yeah? She’s out of luck then, isn’t she? I’ve got enough on my plate with you.”

  Rather than taking that as an insult, she preens a little. I can’t help but shake my head at that. She’s very pleased with my comment.

  “How do you know, anyway?”

  “The ghost with her told Kenna.”

  I really should stop being so surprised when she tells me these things, but it always comes as a shock.

  There’s this whole other world going on behind ours, and only a handful in this world, because Jayce surely can’t be alone in having this gift, actually see it.

  It makes me ponder just how important Jayce could be if she’d tried, really tried, to apply herself.

  She’s not politician material. No way, no how. But with a gift like hers, with access to the biggest scandals man can be a part of, and all without having to do more than talk to a bunch of dead people… Hell, knowing her wicked nature, maybe it’s a good thing she doesn’t have her eyes set on the Capitol.

  “Anyway, less of the stalling. You’ve been stalling for weeks,” I tell her, ignoring her jealous remark.

  She has no reason to feel jealous, and I know she knows that. It’s this weird mood she’s in. It’s fucking with her head. Another reason why I want to resolve whatever it is that’s troubling her.

  With a heavy sigh, she admits, “I met a client the day after my birthday. I learned there are different types of ghosts. It scared me, and I’ve been having nightmares ever since.”

  “What do you mean by different types of ghosts?” I ask, not exactly pleased by the news. It’s hard enough to get my head around the fact that regular ghosts exist. Never mind different ones. Because that doesn’t bode well.

  We’ve all watched fucking Poltergeist. That’s the last thing I want in our lives.

  She shrugs. “I don’t really know all the kinds there are, but I met one. I guess the only way to describe him is malevolent.”

  I gulp. I can deal with more shit than even Jayce could imagine, but ‘malevolent’ spirits are the way to worry me.

  I blame too many horror movies in college. I grew out of my fascination with them, but still, they have the power to make me jumpy.

  “Malevolent?” I ask, my voice hoarse.

  “This man built on an ancient Native American burial ground.”

  Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. It is Poltergeist.

  “Because of it, and because of the way he treated the bones—he just threw them away—he has this freakin’ Chief following him around. The axe is literally waiting to fall, and I’m not supposed to say anything to the guy who came to me. If I do, I’ll call on the wrath of the Chief, and that’s the last thing I want to do.”

  “So, you feel guilty?” I ask, taking a beignet then sipping from my coffee. The sweets will totally ruin my appetite for the sandwich I have coming up, but fuck it.

  We’re talking about an evil spirit. I need all the sugar I can get—I kind of understand Jayce’s philosophy now.

  There’s no issue that high fructose corn syrup—my previous arch-enemy—can’t resolve.

  “I guess I do.” She frowns down at the table, then casts a quick glance around the patisserie. It’s buzzing with life. All the tables and booths are full, but as I look around the snazzy red and green décor with brown leather accents, I have to wonder at the other world she sees.

  How many of the clients here have ghosts traipsing after them?

  How many people is she actually capable of seeing as she takes a look around an everyday café?

  It’s a responsibility that never ceases to astonish me. And coming from a woman who is totally irresponsible, it’s an insight into her character that always has me realizing how much of an onion Jayce is.

  So many fucking layers. Each one revealing a facet of her nature that will always perplex, beguile, and enchant me.

  “I didn’t like the man. Creep looked like a modern day Colonel Sanders, for fuck’s sake,” she continues, breaking into my thoughts. “But what pissed me off the most was his greed. He oozed it.

  “I don’t ask for payment—you know that already—and I don’t need donations from every client, but he took great satisfaction out of that. Like I said, I don’t care that he came for a free reading but…”

  “It’s a measure of the man.”

  She nods. “Exactly. I would never have thought of it, but he made it a point to bring up the topic. If someone on the poverty line comes to my door, I don’t care if they can’t pay. I don’t even care if a man with a ten thousand dollar Rolex doesn’t pay. But to raise the subject with the express purpose of being a tightwad?” She purses her lips. “You know I’m not materialistic.”

  “I do, and I know what you mean. You can easily see him taking the cheaper way out by hiding the truth that his plot of land is above a burial site, then by being disrespectful enough to just throw the bones away.”

  She nods again. “Exactly. It made me dislike him, but just because I dislike him, it doesn’t make it right that this ghost is planning something against him.”

  “Doesn’t it?” I cock a brow at her. “Look at our last case. We were judge and jury, weren’t we?”

  She bites her lip. “I guess.”

  “That’s all the Chief is.”

  “But there’s a whole plot going down.”

  That has me gawking at her. “What do you mean?”

  “This is why I’ve been having nightmares,” she confesses, gnawing at her lip in a way that speaks of her distress. “He can call on the spirits of his people. That gives him enough strength, enough power, to make things happen on this side of the spectrum.”

  I choke on the beignet I’d just bitten into. She understands and just watches me, eyes watering, as I sputter up my guts and gulp down coffee to ease the rasp in my throat.

  “Seriously?” I ask hoarsely.

  “Seriously.” Her whisper is so low, it’s almost drowned out by the sound of the plate suddenly being placed before me.

  I jolt, then eye it, wondering what the fuck it is until I see the sandwich and realize it’s my order.

  “Can I get you anything else, sir? Ma’am?” the cheerful server asks me.

  We both shake our heads and she disappears again.

  “You can’t be serious?”

  “I am. Dead serious. This Chief, he’s managed to give the guy who came to me, Francis is his name, a treasure map. He believes that there’s really treasure that can be found, and that’s how the
Chief is going to punish him.”

  I study her, seeing the blank mask of fear on her face, and reach over for her hand.

  “We’ll work through this together.”

  She squeezes my fingers. “But that’s just it. What is there to work through? Casper tells me he follows me around for my protection. Until now, there’s been no problem, but he says because the Chief came to me, it could be the start of a whole shitstorm. I’m scared, Drake. Not just for me, but for you, too. You don’t deserve to be a part of this crap,” she tells me earnestly, tears welling in her eyes.

  The sight knees me in the balls. Her pain is my pain.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” I tell her instantly, squeezing her hand so tight I know it has to hurt, but I have to get the message across.

  We’re both in this for the long haul.

  Whether poltergeists or whatever the fuck may come our way are aware of Jayce now...

  It doesn’t matter. She’s mine. She always will be.

  She closes her eyes, bows her head, and starts to cry. I relinquish my hold on her hand and shuffle out of the booth. She freezes, and I know she thinks I’m leaving her, but I round the table and plunk down beside her. After wrapping an arm around her shoulder, it takes a second for her to cuddle into me, then curl her arm around my waist until we’re huddled into one another.

  Whatever I’d expected to be the root cause of her nightmares, it wasn’t this.

  Never this.

  But what’s done is done and though I’m frightened—I’m not too macho to admit to that—we’ll deal with this together. There’s no other option in my mind.

  Jayce has been alone all her life. Sure, she’s had ghosts as her companions. It seems like Kenna has always been there, but she’s never had someone tangible. Someone solid.

  I want to be that person for her.

  It’s more important to me than I know how to quantify.

  I don’t want her to deal with this alone. Even if the idea of evil spirits is terrifying for both of us, we will handle the shitstorm coming our way.

  There is no other alternative.

  And I’m resolute in that.

  Chapter Six

  Jayce