by B. N. Toler
“Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!” I yell, and clap my hands in front of her face. She jolts up, her eyes frantic. I get a great shot of her breasts, and dear God, they are beautiful, I mean, call me an asshole, but I have no shame in staring at her before she jerks the blanket up, covering herself. Man, I miss the feel of a woman. Their softness, their warmness.
“I’m going to kill you!” she shouts.
“Little late for that, babe,” I reply and jerk my chin. She tosses a pillow at me. It goes right through me and lands on the floor.
I yawn. “Ouch.”
“Don’t wake me up like that ever again!” she shouts. “I don’t have any clothes on!”
“Really? I hadn’t noticed,” I mock confusion.
“Asshole!”
“My, my, we’re grumpy in the morning,” I chuckle as she stands, wrapping the blanket around her. The dead can still get hard-ons. I have to turn from her, so she doesn’t see mine as I mentally lick her long, lean body. Damn!
She grabs her bag and scurries into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. Apparently, mornings are not her forte. When she exits the bathroom, she’s wearing worn jeans with holes all over and a black tank top. Her dark hair is down and she’s put on a little makeup. Although she still looks tired and frail, she looks refreshed, and that makes me happy. I don’t know her well, but I hope when all is said and done, I can help her find some happiness.
“How much did you see?” she asks as she zips her backpack up.
“Not much.” I shrug and she sighs with relief. “Just your breasts,” I add nonchalantly, and she throws a hair brush at me, which zips right through me and hits the wall.
“Thought we already established that won’t work.”
“You suck,” she huffs and flings her backpack over her shoulder.
“They were really nice, Charlotte.” I compliment her and she blushes, but she can’t help but smile.
“You’re lucky my gift is limited to seeing and hearing you. If I could touch you, you’d be talking in soprano right now.”
I laugh as she opens the door and slams it in my face. I materialize beside her, outside, and we head to the front office to check her out, but Ginger just smiles and shakes her head.
“Apparently, Mr. Mercer went home and told Mrs. Mercer about you; she came in first thing this morning and paid for your room until Sunday.”
“What?” Charlotte stares at the woman like she’s grown an extra head.
“She left this for you, too.” Ginger hands her a Ziploc bag with Charlotte’s necklace in it.
“Why would they do this for me?” Charlotte asks, but instead of looking at Ginger, she looks at me.
“I think you remind them of their daughter. She died over a decade ago,” Ginger says, before she smiles, sadly.
Charlotte lets out a deep sigh, and I see how this news affects her. Her gray eyes stare down as she takes in the information. “Thank you, Ginger.”
“Oh, and here.” Ginger sets a brown paper bag on the counter. “These are my homemade blueberry muffins. You need to eat, girly. Put a little meat on those bones. That’s what men ‘round here like on a woman.”
“I like big butts and I cannot lie.” I rap like Sir Mix A-Lot and thrust my hips. I see a ghost of a smile on her lips, and I know she wants to laugh at me.
Charlotte smiles at Ginger and takes the bag. “You’re too kind. Thank you so much.”
“I’ll see you later, hon. Oh, and Mrs. Mercer, I call her Susan, said Mr. Mercer had your truck towed in this morning to their gas station. They filled it up and brought it here. She said it’s parked around the side of the motel.”
Charlotte looks right at me. Something I noticed she rarely does in front of other people. “I told you they were nice people,” I shrug. “Come on.”
“Thank you, Ginger.” Charlotte waves before we exit.
“What is this place? Fucking Mayberry? Why is everyone so freaking nice?”
“Not everyone,” I snort. “You’ll meet the town assholes soon enough.”
I feel like I’ve officially entered an alternate universe. I immediately drove to the Mercer’s gas station where Mr. Mercer refused to take the hundred dollars. After much pleading, he agreed to hold my necklace until I could repay him, but he said I had to have a job first before he’d take a dime from me. So Ike and I loaded up in my 4Runner and drove two miles south until we parked in front of place called Ike and George’s.
“You own a restaurant?” I ask as I stare up at the sign.
“I did. It’s all George’s now.”
“Ike and George’s? Original,” I try to joke and glance at him. He stares at the sign and shakes his head.
“I had two months left and I was out. I wasn’t going to sign-up for another tour. I was going to come back here and run this place with him. But . . .” He lets out an audible sigh. “Plans change, right?”
“May I ask how a restaurant survives in such a small town?” I try to change the subject.
“My family owns the building so we have no rent, and we’re one of only three bars in town. This is a big tourist spot, especially in the fall, like I told you. The Plantation is that huge place over there.” He points behind us where I see some huge stone pillars leading toward what looks like a gigantic mansion. “We get a lot of business from them as well.”
“I see.” I nod in understanding. “And is this where you think you’ll help me find employment?”
“It is. You can waitress, right?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s go in.”
The inside of the restaurant is rustic, with barrels set up and a bar top running along them. The floors have that unfinished-but-worn look, and country music plays over the speakers. I sidle up to the bar, Ike at my side, and take a seat, glancing around, trying to spot someone who works here. There’s a tin bucket of peanuts on the bar and my stomach grumbles. I didn’t eat Ginger’s muffins yet so I grab a handful and begin cracking the shells.
Suddenly, a blonde with way too much eyeliner appears and gives me a toothy grin. “I didn’t hear you come in, hon. How are you?” she asks.
“That’s because she was probably in the back snorting a line of coke or blowing the boss,” Ike adds, and it takes all my strength not to go wide-eyed and look at him.
“I’m good. Thank you,” I answer her after I get past my shock.
“Did you want to see a menu?”
“Tell her you’re here to speak with George,” Ike instructs me.
“Actually, I’m here to speak with George.” Her brows furrow at my words, and she gives me a good once-over.
“Is he expecting you?” she asks, suspicion laced in her tone.
“Stupid bitch,” Ike growls.
“No, he’s not,” I answer quickly.
“And you are?” she asks. Ike is seething beside me, but I don’t understand why. Her questioning is starting to get on my nerves, but I’m not pissed like he is.
“My name is Charlotte. But people call me—”
“Misty!” a deep voice bellows from the kitchen. I turn in its direction and almost fall off my stool when he rounds the corner from the kitchen. “Misty! Where’s the closeout from last night?”
My mouth drops open, and all I can do is stare. It’s Ike. It’s Ike in the flesh.
“Did I mention George was my identical twin?” Ike whispers from behind me as he softly chuckles.
Before I can think about it, I glance back at him, shock written across my entire face. I can’t explain what it’s like to see someone dead and see their mirror image in the flesh. My mind is mush right now.
“George, this little girl says she’d like to speak with you,” Misty ignores his question and jerks her chin toward me, her sudden distaste for me evident in her tone.
Little girl? Did she seriously just call me that? Normally I’d be pissed, but I’m still lost in awe of Ike’s brother looking just like him, so I brush off the insult and focus on the matter at hand.<
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“Oh yeah?” His gaze meets mine and he cocks his head to the side. “Do I know you?”
I’m still stunned frozen with my mouth hanging open.
“Okay. I should’ve told you, but could you please shut your mouth and stop looking like an idiot?” Ike requests from behind me. Snapping my mouth shut, I straighten up in my seat.
“Uh . . . no. We’ve never met,” I stammer.
George looks to Misty. “Misty, can you go help Sniper unload the produce?”
“Sure.” She smiles at him before cutting a quick glance at me. Once she’s out of sight, George walks behind the bar and sets his clipboard down. Now that I’m able to get a better look at him, I can see some differences. Ike is buffer and broader while George is thinner. George’s hair is longer, shaggier, while Ike’s is buzzed, military style.
“And you are?” George prompts, and I shake my head trying to get my wits about me.
“My name is Charlotte. I’m new to town. I’m staying over at the motel.” I pause, unsure of how to ask him for a job.
“Just ask!” Ike orders.
“I heard you might be looking for a waitress,” I somewhat snap, irritated with Ike. It’s not easy to have someone speak to you that you can’t acknowledge.
“And who’d you hear that from?”
Shit! What am I supposed to say? Your dead brother? “Mr. Mercer mentioned it,” I lie. Hopefully it’ll never come up between them.
“You have experience?”
“Some. I waited tables in college.”
“And how long ago was that?”
“I dropped out after my freshman year six years ago. Family stuff came up.”
More like I started seeing dead people and thought I was losing my fucking mind, but I skip on the details with George.
“And since then?”
“Uh . . .” Since then, I’ve been driving around the country helping dead people, making no money at all. “I came in to some money, and it held me over for a while, but I need a job now.” Not entirely untrue. My father basically paid me to disappear. I was given a lump-sum of money and told to travel and meet new people. In other words, I was to disappear because I was too complicated, and I freaked everyone out because I could see the dead. I took the money, hugged my parents tightly, and vanished from their lives.
George gives me a once-over and crosses his arms. “I’d like to help you, but you just drifted into town, and I have no guarantee you won’t just up and leave without notice. Maybe try the grocery store down the way.” He turns and bends down, sorting something in a cabinet, and I glance at Ike and shrug.
“God, he’s an arrogant asshole,” Ike mumbles. “Okay. He’s a betting man. Tell him you bet you can pick out his favorite song on the jukebox, and if you get it, he’ll give you a shot.”
I glance sideways at Ike, letting him know how stupid that sounds.
“Trust me. He’s a cocky son of a bitch. He’ll take the bet thinking you won’t win.”
I shake my head no.
“Do it, Charlotte. Please.” He bats his lashes at me, and I fight the urge to smile. Instead, I glare at him and take a deep breath.
George stands and faces me again, a look of surprise on his face. Maybe he was expecting me to leave after he shut me down.
“You look like a betting man to me.” I stand and start digging in my backpack for spare change. “I bet I can pick out your favorite song on that jukebox. If I do, you give me a job. If I don’t, I leave and never come back.” I find two quarters and smirk at George flirtatiously, challenging him with a cocky shrug.
He snorts and crosses his arms again. “And who’s to say I’ll admit it’s my favorite song? I could just lie.”
“He won’t,” Ike adds, staring at his brother. “He’s not perfect, but he’s no liar.”
“I’m good at reading people. You strike me as an honest man,” I answer, fisting the quarters now. George’s brows furrow as our gazes lock. His eyes are so dark, not like Ike’s. Ike’s are an earthy brown, bright and soft, while George’s are like dark coffee and cold. Not a cruel cold, more like wounded, like a warning to stay away; a broken cold.
“What did you say your name was?” he asks, stepping toward me.
“I’m Charlotte, but people call me Char.” Except for your brother.
“Okay, Charlotte.” He smirks. Apparently, neither of the McDermott brothers plan to call me by my nickname. “You’re on. Pick my favorite song, and I’ll give you a shot.”
I nod in agreement and head toward the jukebox near the entrance. Ike leans one arm against the neon machine as I put my coins in the slot. “Johnny Cash, God’s Gonna Cut You Down,” he says. I can’t help it; I look up at Ike and smirk. “What? You’re not a Cash fan?” He gives me a sad look.
“I am,” I whisper.
“What?” he groans. “Beautiful and fantastic taste in music! Where were you when I was alive?” I smile slightly at his compliment, trying not to be too obvious to George, who is watching me like a hawk.
I flip through the selections until I find the song and enter the numbers. As I walk back toward the bar, the jukebox begins clicking, changing discs, while George and I keep our eyes locked on the other. I stop just before I reach the bar and cross my arms, matching his stance, and raise one eyebrow.
The familiar melody blares over the speakers, and I can’t help but smirk when George mouths, son of a bitch, letting his arms fall. A triumphant smile blooms on my face as I give him a casual shrug. “When can I start?” I grab my backpack and pull it over one shoulder.
“You can start training today if you’d like, but if you suck, you’ll have to move on.”
“Understood. Can I go change and come back?”
“Yeah, you got a pair of black shorts and sneakers?”
Surprisingly, I do. “Yeah.”
“I’ll have a shirt here for you; be back in an hour.”
With a curt nod, I spin around and head for the door.
“Hey, Charlotte!” George calls, and I turn back around. “How’d you know?”
I smirk. “Lucky guess.” I shrug before heading out.
Ike is laughing heartily as we climb in my truck. Well, I climb in, he just teleports or does whatever dead people do. “God, I know him so well. That was too easy.”
“Thanks for the warning about him being your twin, jackass,” I bite out as I start the 4Runner.
“Must be hard having two insanely hot guys around you at once.” I roll my eyes at him, but the truth is—it is hard. They’re two identical make-my-tongue-smack-my-brains-out hot guys. But I won’t tell him that.
“Yeah. Your looks have me quaking in my boots.” I laugh when I make the smart-ass remark. “So George and Misty are together?”
“No, just fuck buddies, I guess. It’s complicated.” I can tell he doesn’t like it. “I don’t want to talk about her. Let’s discuss how hot you think I am,” Ike jests.
Shaking my head, I press my lips together to stop myself from grinning. “You’re incorrigible.”
“What’s that? You like my body?” he says.
“Your head is unusually large. Must be that ego of yours,” I retort.
“If you want my body and you think I’m sexy, come on, sugar, let me know.” Ike sings his best Rod Stewart as he thrusts his hips in his seat.
“Wow. I’m going to need you to stop that right now,” I laugh.
“Why? Is it turning you on?” he asks as he continues to thrust his hips.
“More like killing my brain cells from watching it. Now, stop distracting me. I have to go and get ready for my new job.”
With that, he vanishes and I do a double take. Alone. I’m alone.
One hour later, I’m standing behind the bar with Misty while she explains to me how to use a soda gun like I’m an idiot. I’ve waitressed before, and it’s not rocket science, but I politely nod my head and smile as she babbles on. She’s talking really fast and constantly stops to swallow like her throat is dry
. I’m wondering if this is a side effect of the coke Ike said she does.
Ike appears and gives me a thorough once-over. The tight, black T-shirt that reads: Ike and George’s, leaves little to the imagination.
“You’re going to make awesome tips here.” Ike waggles his eyebrows, and I blush as I try to refocus on Misty.
Finally, she has me sit at a table and instructs me to fill the salt and pepper shakers and sugar packet holders, keeping me busy while we’re waiting for the lunch crowd to come in. Since I’m new, I can’t serve today, only observe, so I’m sure she’ll have me doing most of the grunt work. Ike sits across from me and watches, singing Get Rhythm, and I refuse to tell him it’s my favorite Cash song. My parents loved Johnny and Elvis. When all the shakers and caddies are full, I set about placing them on the tables, not realizing I’m singing Get Rhythm out loud as I do.
I’m singing and shaking my hips when I bump into a hard body and nearly drop my tray. George stares down at me and takes the tray, placing it on the table.
Grabbing my arm, he asks, “Why are you singing that?” His eyes are dark; accusatory.
I must look as stunned as I feel because Ike says, “It’s my favorite Johnny song.” He runs a wide palm down his face and stares at his brother.
“I don’t understand,” I say to George, but I’m really speaking to Ike.
“How did you pick my favorite song earlier today?”
I stare up into his dark eyes and refuse to blink. I know what broken is. Hell, I am broken. He can’t and won’t scare me. “Anyone who likes Johnny has good taste. You look like a man with good taste.” Misty just happens to approach at this moment and I take a stab for Ike. “I mean in music, at least,” I say, as I glance briefly at Misty.
“Nice,” Ike chuckles.
“George?” Misty asks timidly. “Everything okay?”
“I’m fine,” he releases my arm, our eyes still locked in a standoff. Finally, he turns and walks off with her.
I turn back to my table and whisper, “What the hell, Ike? You did that on purpose. You knew I’d start singing it and he’d hear me,” I hiss.
I glance at him and he’s rubbing his buzz cut, watching George walk away with Misty. His shirt rides up, exposing his abs and that defined V that makes me want to drool. Of course, in that brief second, I realize I’m drooling over a dead guy.
