by S. E. Harmon
“You don’t buy his I’m so devastated face?”
“Actually, I do.” I started the car and put it in gear. “Fifty bucks he’s crying into his sourdough right now.”
“You’re on.”
I’d like to say I had a fighting chance, but even as I drove by the back of the store, we saw Luke pacing near the recycling cans. His phone was tucked between his ear and shoulder, with a cigarette between his lips as he talked and gestured. He didn’t look our way.
“Not a tear in sight,” Danny said smugly. “Where’s my cash, Christiansen?”
“I only have a twenty on me,” I grumbled. “Do you take checks?”
“Your precious little dolphin checks? Nope.”
“They’re manatees. I have a thank you card for my donation that says I’m a ‘wildlife warrior,’” I informed him. “What about coupons?”
“Nah.”
“Sex?”
He gave me a considering look. “Yeah,” he finally said. “That’ll work. A blow job. And you don’t stop until I say so.”
I loved giving Danny blow jobs, but that sounded like such a perfect prize for me. Thinking about what I missed out on made me slightly bitter. “Opportunistic whore,” I muttered as I drove.
Danny chuckled.
The sun was high in the sky by the time we left Melanie’s. Surprisingly, she wasn’t that bitter about her breakup with Mason—at least not anymore. She told us that they’d maintained a friendship after the divorce, and I didn’t doubt the veracity of that claim. Hell, judging from her emotional response during much of the interview, she might’ve still loved him. But he’d hurt her badly, even if it had been unintentional. Where I came from, we called that motive.
I got in the car, feeling a touch perkier with all our new leads. I needed coffee—coffee, not that green tea shit—and my whiteboard. And then? I turned to Danny, who was buckling his seatbelt. “I want to talk to Sue. And the other ex-wives. Then we need to—”
“Rest?” Danny suggested.
That man had the most horrible ideas. “Well, yes. Of course. But what if—"
“You got a little sleep and woke up refreshed and ready instead of bleary-eyed and hopped up on donuts and coffee?” He held out his hand across the console and wiggled his fingers when I didn’t take it. “Yeah, I was thinking that too.”
His psychic skills were abysmal. I sent him a dark look. “I wasn’t thinking any of those things.”
He wriggled his fingers again, and I slid my hand in his with a huff. His hand was larger than mine, warm and callused and… safe. I didn’t know why he made me feel that way. Yeah, he was more built and a lot taller—a genetic fact he had nothing to do with and still lorded over me anyway—but it wasn’t that. He could be five feet tall and a hundred pounds and still make me feel safe.
I was trained to protect myself, so I didn’t need him to make me feel that way. He just did. I wasn’t a ghost whisperer or a detective when I was with him. I was just Rain. I liked that—a lot.
“A two-hour catnap,” he promised. “It won’t kill you.”
“It might. And holding hands while I’m driving is really sappy,” I informed him, but other than a small quirk of his lips, he ignored me and gripped my hand tighter.
I liked that too.
.
Chapter 8
My two-hour catnap turned into a five-hour sleep fest.
I woke to the soft sounds of Danny moving around the house. Strips of sunlight filtered in through the blinds, warming my skin pleasantly and further banishing the gloom of early morning paranormal activity. A bleary glance at my phone put the time at slightly past noon.
Danny bustled back through the bedroom door, and I squeezed my eyes shut just in time, evening out my breathing. I placed his movements by sound alone—a simple task, courtesy of the hardwood floors, his trusty boots, and a sure, even footstep.
He headed into the bathroom. There went a flick of the light switch and some vigorous brushing. Then the rush of water in the sink. There was silence for a few minutes, and I was pretty sure he was taming his hair with gel or mousse or sculpting clay… or whatever the hell else was in those fancy little jars he kept on the shelf above the toilet.
I heard the light switch again and footsteps as he came out of the bathroom. There was a muttered curse as he stumbled over something, and the soft jingle of his keys as he rounded the bed. Then stillness.
I felt his gaze on me. I wondered if I was finally pulling off the fake sleeping thing. The smell of his soap got stronger as he leaned down, something fresh and crisp. I wasn’t sure what it was, but it really worked with his body chemistry. If color had a smell, I was pretty sure Danny’s would be green, like the scent of freshly cut grass on a sunny, summer day.
He exhaled a sigh that stirred my hair. When he pressed a kiss in the curve of my neck, the jig was up—I could no more stop my slight shiver than I could stop the tides of the ocean. His chuckle was a soft whisper against my skin as he kissed my neck again. “I knew you were fakin’ bacon.”
I didn’t bother to defend myself. He’d always maintained I was the worst fake sleeper ever, and I continued to prove it. Besides, being awake meant I got to demand more kisses, and I was all about that action. “Do that again,” I murmured.
He complied, and I shivered once more. When he finally moved away, I made a sound of protest, and he ruffled my hair. “I’m glad you’re up. Have you seen my cereal bowl?”
“What?”
“My cereal bowl. The red one.”
I rolled over and put my arm across my face. If we weren’t going to have morning sex, it was far too early for all this sun and talking. “For Pete’s sake, we have more than one bowl.”
He moved my arm and a stream of light hit me full across the face. I groaned piteously. At least the view wasn’t all bad. He hadn’t taken the time to shave, and I don’t think stubble ever looked better on a chiseled jaw. He looked exceptionally fuckable in black jeans and a navy Henley with the sleeves pushed up. I bought the shirt for him because I thought it would make his eyes pop, and I was absolutely correct. Probably could’ve gone a little bigger in size, though. It was good across the chest but a little tight in the biceps. Hell, those muscles were working that poor shirt so hard it was probably an OSHA violation.
Clearly tired of my dreamy staring, he raised an eyebrow. “Well?”
“Well what?”
“It’s a specific bowl that has a separation for the milk,” he explained patiently.
I briefly thought about throwing a pillow before I found my center. Maybe my mother’s yoga lessons were working after all. “It could be in the dishwasher.”
“It’s not. I checked. Any other ideas?”
I thought about throwing the pillow again. Clearly yoga was wasted on someone with my temperament. “Danny?”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t know where your cereal bowl is, but I do know where your gun safe is.” He didn’t seem properly threatened, so I spelled it out for him. “My biometrics are programmed.”
He chuckled. “I’ll just pick something up on the way. Go ahead and get your rest.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Yeah, it is. I was trying to be polite.” His eyes creased with amusement. “Quite frankly, without enough sleep you’re about as friendly as a grizzly.”
That was it? No lecture about giving ghosts boundaries? Nothing about finding another guru to help hone my ghost skills? Nothing about my latest nightmare that had me up in a cold sweat an hour after we got in bed?
I’d jarred him awake with my thrashing, and he’d linked an arm around my waist, too tired to even open his eyes. He murmured sleepy reassurances in my hair until I settled back down. I just assumed I had a lecture coming. He loved to lecture. It was his favorite, right after dissecting bad police procedurals on TV and spoiling the endings to movies. He would hype them up and then stop talking—just stop, right in the middle of a damn sentence—until I prodded
him for more. Then he’d raise an eyebrow and ask, “Are you sure you want to know?” He knew damn well I was an insatiably curious person.
I always wanted to know.
I squinted up at him. “Are you feeling all right?”
“Fucking peachy.” He kissed me again and headed for the door. “Get some more rest.”
“You’re the boss, applesauce.”
“And don’t you forget it.”
“You know, I was an FBI agent,” I informed him. “I’m a highly regarded and sought-after professional.”
“Well, right now you’re just my pesky sidekick and junior detective.” He smiled and hit the light switch. “Get used to it.”
“There’s nothing junior about my detecting,” I growled as the door closed behind him. Oh, there would be retribution for that later. Pesky sidekick, my ass.
The throaty sound of his Charger’s souped-up engine reverberated through the house. I listened to the comforting purr for a few moments until he drove off and the rumble faded to nothing. Silence reigned again, only broken by the soft hum of appliances and the chirping of a few plucky birds that weren’t scared off by obnoxious muscle cars.
It was so quiet and peaceful, the knot in my shoulders started to loosen a bit. The sheets smelled fresh—like Gain and the scent boosters my sister insisted we try, and I snuggled into the covers. Maybe I could sleep some more after all. I was perfectly, wonderfully alone.
Just as I started to drift off, a huffy voice broke the silence. “God, I thought he’d never leave.”
“Shh. I think he’s sleeping.” Another voice joined the first. I wasn’t willing to open my eyes to check, but it sounded like Mason. “He’s been up practically all-night. Can’t you see he looks exhausted?”
I could almost hear the other ghost’s shrug. “No more so than usual.”
Well, fuck you very much. I screwed my eyes shut tighter in the ensuing silence. I didn’t have to wait long. The first ghost let out a gusty sigh. “Are we just supposed to wait?”
“Yes,” Mason hissed. “Now keep it down.”
Another few minutes passed before the first one made an irritated noise. “This isn’t fair. The bridge said we can’t be here when Muscles is here. Well, now he’s not. We followed the rules and now it’s our turn.” His voice got louder. “Yo, bridge!”
I knew from experience they weren’t going anywhere. I opened my eyes and threw back the covers, trying to gear myself up to start the day on less than five hours of sleep.
“I have work, you know,” I said clearly, “and my name is not bridge.”
“You’re not working, you’re sleeping the day away.” A third voice joined our little party, and he sounded older and cantankerous, as if he was the one being disturbed.
I stumbled to the bathroom to Mason’s chattering. He seemed upbeat, which was good… it would be great after a cup of fucking coffee. Didn’t any of those ghosts know how to work a fucking Keurig?
I stopped short and blocked the door as he tried to follow me into the small bathroom. “That’s far enough, don’t you think?”
“But I thought we could—”
I closed the door on his upturned little nose and pressed my fingers to my temples. After taking a moment to try and find my center, and failing, I cranked both handles of the shower. The plumbing screeched bloody murder as the water stuttered out of the showerhead. It would be a few minutes before the stream was steady, but the water pressure was strong, and the hot water tank was huge, and fuck, I sure needed it.
I had just taken off my boxers and tossed them on the floor when Mason popped up on my side of the door. I spluttered for a few seconds before I could speak. “You!”
“Me,” he agreed. “I figured you could use some company.”
“You figured wrong.”
I briefly lamented the loss of my usual morning routine. I never thought I’d miss sitting on the john, just contemplating life in general, but here I was. Then I hopped in the shower and snatched the curtain, yelping when the scalding water hit my backside. I adjusted the temperature, hoping my erstwhile intruder didn’t follow me in. The last thing I needed at this point in my life was to share a shower with a very persistent ghost.
“So I heard you met Luke,” he prompted, still thankfully on the other side of the curtain.
“That I did.” Since he was determined to hang around, I decided to ask him some questions. “How do you feel about him marrying your ex-wife?”
It was a second before he could answer. “Wow. You don’t pull any punches, do you?”
“I’ve never been a fan of hedging, no.”
“Certainly explains the state of your backyard,” he huffed.
“Those are Danny’s hedges,” I informed him. “I don’t live here.”
“Coulda fooled me,” he muttered.
Okay, maybe I spent a little more time over at Danny’s than necessary, but I really, really didn’t like being called on it. “You have something you want to say, ghost?”
“Oh, so I’m just ghost now?”
“You are when you’re getting on my damned nerves.”
“Well, you’ll just have to forgive me for not being excited about ripping off some pretty sticky Band-Aids” he snapped. “I love my brother and Melanie. I’m glad they found each other. But I’m human too. I felt a little betrayed at first.”
“Even though you didn’t love her?”
“I always loved Melanie. I just couldn’t love her the way she deserved.” He rubbed his neck and right before my very eyes, fingerprints appeared on his neck, stark against his pale skin. Blood dripped from his forehead and created a macabre trail of red as it slid down his collar bone. “I knew I needed to be honest and let her go.”
“Mason, you’re….” I gestured at his head and he put a hand up there, frowning as he came away with matted clumps of hair and blood.
“Sorry.” He grimaced. “This just happens sometimes, especially when I get agitated or start thinking about what happened.”
“Did you ever see your killer?”
“Nothing but shadowy images.” He frowned. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, though. Details come in fits and starts. I don’t know what’s real and what’s not. I can’t even really remember what I did that day.”
“That’s rather unfortunate.”
“Tell me about it. It’s like whatever entity is forcing me into the afterlife wants me to forget… to forget about everything and everyone I left behind. I know it would be better if I could, but I can’t. I just can’t.” He shook his head.
“Not yet,” I said softly. I hated reminding him that he eventually had to move on, but it had to be done.
“Not yet,” he agreed.
The blood flowed more rapidly now from his wound. It looked so… fucking real. Just as I thought that, a droplet finally made its way to the floor with a tiny little splash. I looked in disbelief as it pooled on the tile.
“How are you so substantial?”
“I don’t know.”
I closed the curtain slowly, cocooning myself in the small space. I needed to think. The ghosts seemed to be getting stronger. Was I the cause? Was there something I should be doing, or not doing? Not for the first time, I wished there was some sort of manual for this kind of thing.
“So what’s next on the schedule?” Mason asked.
“Unfortunately for me, you collected wives like some people collect Pokémon cards, so I need to speak to the rest of them today. I’d like to know if one of them slit your throat for being so very gay.”
“Like I can help that,” he said defensively.
“Then for being delusional about being so very gay.” I swiped at the shampoo running down the sides of my nose and ducked under the spray. “And if I still have time, I’d like to speak to your mother.”
From his extended silence, I could tell he wasn’t particularly thrilled about the idea. “I don’t want you upsetting the people I love. They’ve been through enough.”
<
br /> “Because that’s what I live for,” I said in exasperation. “Upsetting little old ladies and kicking their dogs down the stairs.”
“Not Mr. Pickles.” He sounded horrified.
“Mason?”
“Yes?”
“Get out of my bathroom.”
He huffed. “What’s the big hairy deal?”
I decided to forgo the conditioner and soaped up my body haphazardly. “The big, particularly hairy, deal is that everything I do in here, I like to do alone.”
“Not exactly,” he corrected. “Weren’t you and your guy… er, occupied on that sink a few nights ago?”
I didn’t answer. Fuming, I rinsed off with the detachable shower head. It was a crying shame. We had all the creature comforts in the bathroom except fucking privacy. Can’t a man give his boyfriend a blow job on his own sink without it being front page news in the Washington Ghost?
I rehung the shower head and twisted the knobs, shutting the water off. Silence reigned again. When I stepped out on the bathmat, I stopped short to see Mason still standing by the sink. “You!”
“Me,” he said again with a shrug. “If it helps, you’re a very nice-looking man.”
“What?”
“Personally, I go for dark haired guys,” he said earnestly. “Blue eyes. Built and tall. You know the type.”
“Intimately,” I said.
“He is something, isn’t he?” He blushed at my raised brows, and he hurried on to say, “Not that you don’t have your own appeal.”
“That means a lot,” I said dryly.
“I mean, your stomach is pretty flat. You have nice, strong legs and beautiful hazel eyes. I love hazel eyes. And your um, stuff,” he waved at my lower half, his face now completely pink. “It’s about average, don’t you think?”
If he’d overestimated, I would’ve let him stay. I pointed at the door. “Out.”
“But—”
“We’ll sort out your problems when I’ve got on pants.”
“But I—”
“Out!”
He sent me a dirty look and sailed through the wall. I snatched a towel off the hook that was probably overdue for a washing. I muttered to myself as I dried off aggressively enough to turn my skin pink. “About average.” Then louder, “My boyfriend seems to like it just fine!”
