Ghost Hunter

by Serena Akeroyd

  Tweaking one, he says, voice gruff, “Take a seat. Dinner’s ready.”

  I glare at his back as he turns away and starts to dish up. My core is molten from those tiny touches and the playful flirting we engaged in.

  “We’ve got a situation,” I inform him. “It’s an itch that needs scratching. By you.”

  He snorts. “Dinner will be ruined otherwise.”

  “Jesus, has it come to this? We tell each other we love one another, and suddenly, dinner’s more important than you fucking me on the table.”

  The wail is mostly teasing on my part, and he hears that and starts laughing. “I’ll make sure all your appetites are satisfied before the night’s out, but before then, dinner won’t wait.”

  Huffing out an exasperated breath, then grumbling as I take my seat at the table, I glower at him as he turns around and sets the plate before me.

  When I see the meal, I groan. It’s my favorite. “Jerk.”

  He snorts. “For making your favorite?”

  “Yeah. I was horny, now I’m hungry.”

  More laughter. “I know which one takes precedence.”

  “If you were trying to change my appetite for a good meal, you shouldn’t have said we needed dinner first.”

  “My major mistake was daring you to do that.” His gaze drops to my still-bare tits. They jiggle as I reach forward for the plum sauce and anoint the pan-seared duck breast in its juicy goodness. With sautéed spinach and sliced potatoes, this is my most favorite dish he makes.

  Still, I have to punish him a little. Grabbing the spoon in the boat of sauce, I load it up then drip some on each boob. He chuckles as I swirl the sauce over my nipple with my pointer fingers, then suck each digit clean.

  Thoroughly.

  Enough to have the chuckle dying, heat rising in his eyes—as well as something else, I hope.

  He groans. “Witch.”

  “Nope. Just a seer.”

  His gaze remains glued to my boobs throughout the meal. Kenna pops up within minutes of our taking a seat, makes a very unladylike grunt at the sight of my tits before disappearing. David, Drake’s nephew, shrieks at the sight before doing a vanishing act, and very swiftly, for the first time in a non-sexual situation, we’re totally alone.

  Granted, it’s semi-sexual, but he’s not screwing me, is he? It’s not totally X-rated. Boobs are everywhere. In Europe, women even sunbathe topless, so I’m doing nothing out of the ordinary with my plum sauce-anointed ta-tas out on display.

  It’s kind of weird, if I’m being honest. No ghosts around. It’s like the first time you can stay at home without a babysitter as a teenager…

  I’m surprisingly at ease with having my boobs on display. Mostly because I know Drake is totally turned on. My boobs aren’t porn star big, they’re more conical than round, and I have stretch marks on my belly and hips—all currently visible. Yet, I’m not freaking out because he doesn’t see them.

  He sees me. And he wants me.

  That’s a very heady feeling. A sense of power I never felt I’d ever have over anyone. Not that I’ll abuse it, outside of displays such as these, but it’s wonderful to be looked at with the eyes of unconditional love.

  “I wish I didn’t have to go back to the office tomorrow,” he says, halfway through the meal.

  “Seriously?” I ask, surprised because Drake’s job is more than just a career for him. It’s a vocation.

  “Seriously.” He shrugs. “In comparison to your adventures, being stuck behind a desk isn’t exactly fun.”

  “Today wasn’t fun, either,” I point out.

  “No, but it was better than listening to Mrs. Peters talk about…” He grimaces. “Well, never mind.”

  He never mentions his patients because he legally can’t, so even hearing a name has my brows rising in surprise.

  “I meant to talk to you about tomorrow anyway. I’m going back to the bookstore where I found David. Kenna says the murder victim, Paula Dietrick, is in there. Casper said I need to talk to her.”

  “Why?” For the first time, his attention is on my face, not my boobs. I’m not sure if that’s just basic interest or if he’s concerned.

  “I think Casper knows I can’t really stop myself from getting involved.” I huff out a breath. “It’s in my nature. I hated withholding information from Arroyo, and I’m actually stunned she let me get away with it. Even if everything I have to say isn’t admissible in court, I thought she’d keep at me until I told her all I know.”

  “I think she’s impressed with everything you told her. It made believing you’re scared easier to accept.”

  I nod, agreeing with him. “And I am scared, but…”

  “Not enough to back off,” he says, ruefully filling in what I’m finding hard to put into words.

  “I’m sorry, Drake,” I tell him, bowing my head and putting down my knife and fork.

  He sighs, reaches over to stroke the back of my hand. “Don’t be. You’re tenacious, Jayce. That’s a part of your nature. I always knew that.”

  “But this could put us in danger. I’m behaving irrationally, and it’s not fair to you.”

  “To be honest, danger kind of follows you around, Jayce. I knew that when I dived into this relationship.”

  “How?” I frown. “How did you know that?”

  He snorts at my umbrage. “The first time we met, you took me to that bookstore. Not only were gangbangers eyeing us up like we were their next meal, the actual store itself looks like it could burn up from faulty wiring at any minute. If death by fire wasn’t enough, it looks like you could fall through the floorboards… that was pretty dangerous.

  “Then, you threw down the gauntlet at my nephew’s murderer. A son of a powerful family in the state, never mind just the city. You did that without blinking.

  “We worked closely with a murderer and pedophile who we sent, illegally, to Saudi Arabia, so they could punish him because we, legally, couldn’t.

  “Then, that journalist you had come around? You couldn’t just leave it as is. You had to tell her you knew she’d committed vehicular manslaughter, a DUI, as well as messing with a crime scene and falsifying evidence alongside countless other crimes… She either thinks you’re going to blackmail her or hold it against her in the future. Either way, it wasn’t exactly ‘safe’ to tell her you knew that. Jesus, people get killed for less.”

  His long speech has me biting my lip and all forms of hunger that had been unfurling through my body die a swift death.

  Because, shit, he’s right.

  I am reckless.

  He’s been in danger knowing me from the start.

  “But they’re people,” I tell him, my voice a little hoarse. “They’re predictable. This kind of ghost isn’t. I have no real idea what limitations he has on his powers. I just know he can pull shit I’ve never seen before.”

  “Which is, granted, a little nerve-wracking. But,” he says with a shrug, “I’m not scared.”

  “How can’t you be? I am reckless, Drake. I didn’t really realize that until now.”

  “You’re more strident than reckless,” he informs me. “You go through life thinking you’re untouchable. If I’m honest, that’s one thing I love about you. It scares the shit out me, and makes me fucking glad I know Krav Maga and can keep us safe, but it’s like you’re a bright beacon in my life. Somehow, you’re around all these fucked up people, and it doesn’t touch you. You stay true to yourself.”

  I study him a second, and can see how he means every word. Each syllable is spoken earnestly, honestly. I feel it. I can feel him.

  With a sigh, I reach over the table, lips twitching when his eyes drop down to my boobs again, and grab his hand. “Thank you,” I tell him, tone sincere.

  “You don’t have to thank me,” he immediately denies. “Just don’t change.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “I think it’s too late for that. Old dogs, new tricks, you know?”

  His smirk is, weirdly enough, self-satisfied and smug
. “Good,” he informs me, then points at my dinner. “It’s getting cold. Eat.”

  And like that, the conversation is over, and dinner is back on.

  Chapter Ten

  Jayce

  “You’re right,” I tell him the next day. He rescheduled an appointment so he could have an extended lunch and could come with me to the bookstore.

  “I usually am,” he teases, then asks, “About what in particular this time?”

  I pointed a hand at the back alley we’ve just traversed, then the store which is falling around about our ears. “This is dangerous.”

  “I’m surprised the city hasn’t come and asked you to knock it down. It must violate more health codes than…I don’t know what.”

  I shrug as I peer into the gloom. Mildewed books make up the major stench in here, chased by rat shit and piss.

  Not sure which stinks worse, I wrinkle my nose and head deeper into the gloom. Because Drake was also right about the electricity—which does work—I don’t switch on the light since I really don’t want to die by electrocution and, instead, I turn on the huge ass flashlight I bought this morning.

  It lights up the upper central atrium of the bookstore, revealing crags and nooks that haven’t seen the light of day in a long time, and don’t do well with all their flaws revealed.

  High ceilings, long rich-red floorboards, and carved bookshelves make up what must have once been a very grand place.

  Now, it’s the pits. Which is why I bought the lease.

  Ghosts come here when they’re newly formed. They’re attracted to negative spaces, and there’s nothing more negative than this place.

  Eventually, they find their way back to the people they wish to haunt, but they almost always start their new lives in a place like this.

  Cheerful, huh?

  Drake sniffs. “What’s that smell?”

  “Rat crap,” I tell him, trying not to smile at the face he pulls.

  I head for him, sliding my arm around his waist to keep us close.

  The last time we were here, almost a year ago, we weren’t dating. He was a client, and we were on another case.

  I can sense his lingering sadness about why there’s no point in my making this place safe.

  Ghosts wouldn’t come here if it wasn’t like a magnet they were attracted to.

  I have a few other spots. Abandoned subway stations, an old house in Queens, but this seems to be the most favored place.

  I only come here if Kenna’s found a ghost I want to speak to. It’s hardly my favorite locale.

  After I shiver a little, I smile when he curls his arm over my shoulders and tugs me close.

  I’m not sure why he’s here, really. It’s not like he can see the ghost I want to talk to. But I’m glad he is. It’s nice not to be alone in this anymore.

  “Whatever she says, I’ll pass on to you, okay?”

  He nods, and as he has a tendency of doing, kisses the crown of my head. The affectionate act always makes my lips curl in a smile.

  Some might find it a patronizing kiss, but I don’t. I love it. It’s like one of those caresses that are subconscious. He doesn’t even think about it. He just wants to connect with me.

  “Is Kenna here?”

  “Yeah. She came earlier. Paula didn’t want to talk.”

  “Can hardly blame her. She must be terrified.”

  “Probably that, and angry. Would you be happy if you came from that luxurious pad of hers and ended up here?”

  He clears his throat. “True.”

  Hiding my grin at his sheepish smile, I call out, “Kenna? Where are you?”

  “Over by the children’s book section,” she tells me.

  “I’m not coming in any deeper. It’s too dangerous. I’m by the entrance.”

  “She doesn’t want to budge.”

  “Tell her if she wants to avenge her death, she’ll come and talk to me right now,” I retort, not taking any ghost BS, and fold my arms across my chest to back up my stance.

  I’m the only one who can fucking help, so I won’t let her screw around with me. Sure, Paula’s going through some trying shit, but she’s, sadly, got several lifetimes to work through it.

  If I help, on the other hand, and she can find some semblance of peace, she might be able to cross over soon.

  Maybe Kenna tells her that, because my ghost mom soon appears. Her flapper skirt swishes about her calves, and her long beaded overdress is a well-known beacon that draws my attention to the woman behind her.

  Paula is what I’d, uncharitably, call well-preserved. Even as a ghost, I can see how much Botox she had. Her breasts are pneumatic, and her waist had to have had surgical help. She’s one of those Barbie dolls that old pervs like her husband love to have on their arms. Still, we can’t all be authentic and true to ourselves, and even if she was addicted to plastic surgery, it doesn’t mean she deserved to be freakin’ murdered.

  Hell, I’m addicted to Twinkies. If someone decided to kill me over them, I really wouldn’t be fucking happy.

  She’s looking at me like I’m the suspicious one, but I withstand the interest, and though I know the answer already, ask, “Paula Dietrick?”

  Paula whimpers.

  “She’s only just remembered her name,” Kenna whispers.

  Some ghosts don’t remember who they are for a while, where others wake up and think they’re still alive—it can be hard work for them coming to terms with the fact they’re dead.

  “Why am I here?” Paula asks, her question dulcet and soft. If I’d heard her in real life, I’d have said she had a babydoll voice. One of those annoying singsong voices that sound like they’re hardwired to make men get erections and piss off every other female in the area.

  But, she’s dead and scared. Yes, Drake is here, but surely she’s not talking like that because of him?

  When she eyes him, looking him up and down like he’s funnel cake at a fair—and the woman obviously hasn’t seen carbs since 1988—I reconsider my earlier belief.

  “You died, Paula. Someone murdered you.”

  “Jesus, Jayce. You could have told her a little more kindly,” Kenna retorts when Paula starts sniveling.

  At my side, Drake clears his throat. “It might be better if you’re a little gentler, Jayce. She could be scared.”

  I roll my eyes but to Paula, murmur, “Do you want the person who murdered you to go to jail?”

  “O-Of c-course.”

  “But you don’t remember yet who did it?”

  She shakes her head. “I’m not sure if I can remember. They grabbed me from behind and…”

  I nod quickly, not needing to hear the rest of the grim details. I know she had her throat slit. But I know something else happened before. I’m not sure what yet. It’s something that happened in the bedroom. Logic says rape, but I’m praying that’s not it.

  Before I can say another word, my phone rings. Quickly reaching for it and seeing Arroyo’s number, I tell the room at large, “I need to take this. It’s the detective working Paula’s murder.” Connecting the call, I start, “Detective, this isn’t the best time.”

  “No? It’s only a quick call. You were right, by the way. Paula’s tox screen just came back.”

  “It took so long?”

  I can hear the shrug in the cop’s voice. “This isn’t a TV show. Forensics takes goddamn forever.”

  “Okay. So what did it show?”

  “She was drugged. Rohypnol. We found traces in the glass of water at the side of the bed. She took the drug there, then was dragged into the lounge. We’re thinking he wanted to incapacitate her. If O’Hara is our perp, he doesn’t exactly look like he lifts weights every day, does he? I don’t think he’d have been able to overpower a woman in her prime that easily.”

  Colonel Sanders? No, he definitely didn’t lift weights. But dragging an unconscious woman across the apartment? Shit, that would take a huge surge of adrenaline too. Stranger things had happened though, I guess.

  �
�If not dragged, then ‘helped’ there.”

  “Same difference. No signs of a struggle, but there wouldn’t be if she was roofied.”

  “True. Thanks. I appreciate the heads up. Surprised too, if I’m being honest.”

  “Huh, I guess. Just thought you should know.”

  She’s trying to tempt me into feeding her more information. My lips twitch with appreciation. I like this woman. She’s my kind of person.

  “If anything comes to mind, I’ll let you know.”

  “Thanks, Jayce. I’ll see you around.”

  Palming my phone, I shove it back in my pocket. The ghosts wouldn’t have heard Arroyo’s end of the call, but Drake, who’s standing close to me, would. I shoot him a look to make sure we’re on the same page, and seeing he is, ask, “Were you having an affair with Francis O’Hara?”

  Even as the words fall from my lips, I know it’s a stupid thing to ask.

  The way she’s eyeing up Drake is answer enough. Still, if you don’t ask, you don’t learn. And people have an infinite way of stunning you.

  “That old coot? No way.” Paula sniffs. “My husband’s ten years younger than him. Why would I go older?”

  “More money?” I ask nonchalantly, amused at the fire that flashes in her eyes.

  “I had enough, thank you very much. I sure as hell didn’t need to sleep with O’Hara, the old perv.”

  “Do you think he was the one behind your attack?”

  She shakes her head. “I’m stronger than him. He’s pretty frail. Two years ago, he was diagnosed with osteoporosis, and ever since it’s rare to see him without a cast somewhere on his body. I could definitely take him.”

  “You were drugged, Paula. He wouldn’t have been stronger than you.”

  “Drugged?” She bats her lashes at me, trying to look innocent and severely failing by about twenty-eight years. “Who would drug me?”

  “Your attacker, apparently. You were drugged in the bedroom. Drug residue was in a tumbler the cops found beside your bed.”

  “I was drugged in bed?” She gawks at me. “Who would do that?”

  “I don’t know. Who was with you that night?”

  She frowns, but not at me, more like at the fuzzy memories… to be fair, the drug would explain why she forgot her identity. It’s weird how the way a ghost dies can affect them as they transition into this plane of existence.