Kiss & Hell

by Cassidy, Dakota

  Delaney bit her tongue before saying, “No, Mrs. Ramirez, this isn’t what you think. Clyde’s just a friend and someone has to talk to the dead persons. That’s my job.”

  Mrs. Ramirez clucked her tongue. “Ju make de persons up because ju are lonleey. Ees okay. I un’erstan’. An’ I don’ know no frien’ who looks at his other frien’ like dat. Ees okay. I no tell nobody.”

  Right. An hour from now the entire East Village would be doing the wave in her honor because Delaney Markham’s dry spell was over. “I don’t make them up. And I’m telling the truth, Mrs. Ramirez, this isn’t—”

  She flapped a pudgy hand in Delaney’s face. “Now, ju two go. Ees almost ti’ for deener. I watch de babies—ju go eat or someting. Ju take my Delaney so’where nice, hookay?” She patted Clyde on the back before rooting at her feet to scoop up dog number four to check his diaper. “Ju are wet, Meester Fancy Pants. We feex.” She gave Clyde and Delaney the stink eye. “Whe’ I co’e back, ju be gone.” She turned her back on them, making a beeline for Delaney’s bathroom and leaving no room for discussion.

  Clyde held out his arm to her, his smile cocky and condescending. “So whaddya say we go and eat and you can attack my character, say, somewhere much more public? You know, so you can tell me how you really feel with a live audience.”

  She pursed her lips, grabbing her coat and scarf. “You know, it’s not impossible that you’ve been lying to me, Clyde Atwell,” she said in hushed tones, letting him help her with her jacket. “This sudden blank you’ve drawn would be stupid of me to ignore.”

  “Yep.” He sauntered to the storefront, opening the door for her.

  “That’s it? That’s all the denial I get?”

  “Yep. What good does it do me to defend myself when those wheels in your head are turning at a pace faster than the speed of light? It’s wasted energy.”

  “Which is very practical,” she said, fighting the grin she wanted to let loose when he laced his fingers with hers. “However, not terribly passionate.”

  “Passionate?”

  “Yeah. Passionate. To defend yourself would show some passion.”

  “To defend myself would be useless. You’ll think what you want whether I tell you differently or not. Until you have solid proof to the contrary, you want to find something to harp on me for, some imperfection, big or small, to make me a bad guy. That means when I go, which you were all about reminding me I have to do last night—you can console yourself with the fact that I was just a jerk. A liar. The other possibility is, if you can catch me in a lie, you don’t have to let your guard down. You don’t have to let me in. I get it.”

  Delaney stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk, ignoring the people who passed by. Right in front of Anthony’s (“All You Can Eat Kielbasa and Pasta”), she decided to let him have it. “Let you in? Where am I not letting you in to?” Besides her drawers. Done. She’d done that. In fact, she hadn’t just let him in, she’d thrown the door open for him.

  The cool night air settled between them before he spoke. “Your life. Don’t kid yourself into thinking I don’t get you, Delaney. You’re as isolated as I ever was. My situation was work related, yours is just situational, but it’s the same damned thing. You haven’t had a relationship in a long time, and now you’re afraid. You’re ready to condemn me because it’s as good an excuse as any to stop any more intimacy between us. That means you can’t be hurt when I have to go. That’s because you like me. If this is your way of subconsciously telling me you’re freaking out because last night was that good, let ’er rip, but don’t hide.”

  She didn’t even lower her voice when a young couple strolled past them hand in hand. “Wow, Freud, thanks. My life in a paragraph. And quit patting yourself on the back about last night, Dr. Love. You’ll pull a muscle.” She cast him a scathing glance, tucking her purse back over her shoulder.

  “I’m only speaking the truth, and, I might add, I did it with passion.” He chucked her under the chin, then kissed the tip of her nose.

  But she shook him off. “I’m not accusing you of lying because I don’t want to sleep with you again, Clyde.” Or was she? Was she just looking out for herself and the possibility that if she let Clyde have too much of her, she’d end up hurt because there was absolutely no doubt he was hitting another plane and soon? It dawned on her that she was afraid she’d become too attached. This fear she carried around didn’t solely have to do with the terror of retribution from Satan if he found out Clyde wasn’t breaking her.

  His gaze held hers for an uncomfortable period of time before he responded with an easy smile. “Yeah, you are. You don’t want to get too attached. Each time you’ve gotten attached to someone or something, it ended. And that hurt. I make it worse because I understand your gift. I believe in it, and it doesn’t freak me out. It’s not something I couldn’t learn to live with. That makes me one step ahead of everyone else you’ve been involved with. The others found out about it by circumstance and freaked out and the relationship ended—with a navy sea captain, as I recall. If you can keep me from you by pretending I’ve been lying to you, not only will you not end up being what you call played, you’ll protect yourself from the end result of this fiasco. Me leaving. What I wonder is this. What’s going to happen when you find out I’m telling the truth, Delaney?”

  Her stomach rose and fell like the swell of the ocean; her heart pounded in loud, harsh beats. The neon light of Anthony’s blared with its annoying redness, exposing her. Horns blared, people meandered along the sidewalk, yet all she could feel was the night swallowing her whole.

  Okay, so she didn’t want to get too attached and for all her “I’m an informed, mature woman of the new millennium” talk last night, for all the “this has to end” rhetoric, Clyde had hit the nail on the head. It must not be in her to live for the moment. She wasn’t the kind of chick to tap it and skip back off to her life with a satisfied smile. Her desire to have children, to create a family, was stronger than even some mind-blowing sex. She wanted more, and even if she wasn’t sure something like that could ever develop with Clyde at this early stage in their relationship, he had so many of the right qualities that it sent her into a full-on freak.

  But there were facts she couldn’t ignore.

  He liked her dogs. They loved him to the point of ignoring her as of late. He was wicked-ass hot, but had no clue how brick shithouse he was. He was smart. Most of all, he understood the life she’d been living—the ghosts she communicated with. That was half the battle in finding someone to share her whacky life with, and that he’d have no choice but to go before she could get to know him better just plain sucked wankers. That she wanted to know him beyond this fairly superficial level troubled her more.

  “Ms. Markham? Care to elaborate? Maybe fight back with some of that passion?” he taunted.

  “No.”

  “Sulking much?” He grinned, obviously to show her he was teasing, but she wasn’t laughing.

  Her arms crossed in protective mode over her chest. “What’s all this about anyway, Clyde? You don’t strike me as the kind of guy who likes to get deep unless it’s knee deep in H2O2, or whatever it was that you creamed yourself with.”

  The hand that had held hers tucked deep into the pocket of his jeans; his lips were grim. “I think I’m turning over a new leaf. Maybe it’s a little late, maybe it’s well past the time it was due, but there it is. I spent ridiculous amounts of time buried in books about life, but I didn’t gorge on life itself. Looking back, I would have done it differently. So I’m paying closer attention, and paying closer attention means that I see you, Delaney. I know you and how you tick. I want you to see that interacting only with the dead has left you with blind spots to everything else. I want you to see what I see now that I’m dead. And I don’t want you to miss out on what you want because you won’t at least try or realize that you’re not really trying at all.”

  Her mouth might have fallen open in astonishment if not for the fact that she had
so much to say. “Have I mentioned what my life’s like, seeing dead people? Were you not present for the overall synopsis?”

  Clyde’s head dipped. “I was there. I’m here now, and from my vantage point, I’m seeing someone who’s been rejected because of something she can’t control, and then decided it was much safer to stay at home with her dogs and Melinda Gordon than it was to take a risk.”

  If only that was the entirety of her self-imposed isolation. It would be a much simpler explanation than the real reason. Sure, the medium thing was a difficult pill to try to make someone swallow, and that she’d given up on a relationship was just as well, because Satan’s threat to hurt anyone she came in contact with brought her more fear than telling someone she talked to the dead.

  Delaney threw her hands up in the air in disbelief. “A risk? Risk? Did you smoke a bong when I wasn’t looking? Maybe hit my herbs and some paper towels for rolling? That’s not all this is, Clyde. This is about something much bigger than a risk.” A risk. Risk this, asshole. He had no idea what it was like to have to explain why and how lamps and dishes and a host of other objects had managed to become airborne without her moving a muscle. Or why she was in the coat closet, talking to fucking nothing. Risk that.

  But Clyde wasn’t letting go. Yet he appeared neither angry nor even a little frustrated. His quiet urgency set the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. “No, that’s exactly what it is. If you live the rest of your Friday nights at home on your bed with your dogs, watching Ghost Whisperer in that ratty bathrobe, it’s a much safer bet you won’t meet someone who thinks you’re a kook. It’s easier. But I’m here to tell you, Ghost Whisperer will be canceled someday. I know that offends your sensibilities, but even J-Love won’t be around forever. You can either replace it with some other show, or you can go out and get a life. Getting a life is a lot harder than finding something new to watch on TV. It’s work.”

  She was aghast, but it didn’t keep her from defending her position. “When prospective dates think you’re crazy, when even the average female you meet at the gym finds out you think you see ghosts, shit changes. Save the speech.”

  “Know what I did when you went to help that customer today while we were surfing the Net?” The smug look he gave her, right there in the middle of the sidewalk, said he’d found some fact about something he could throw at her like a fastball to back up his new life plan for her.

  Delaney stuck her neck out while she shook her head. “No, Clyde, what did you do? Absorb a class in psychiatry at the speed of light so you could tell me what’s wrong with me?” She chose not to hide the sarcasm in her tone this time. In fact, she let it drip right off her words and into the space between them like puddles of melting hot chocolate on ice cream.

  But he smiled wider. “Nope. I searched mediums, and forums for mediums. I’m laying bets there’s plenty of them out there. Mediums, that is. People who feel just like you do. People who have the same sorts of social problems you experience because ghosts show up at inopportune times. Don’t think you’re all that special, Delaney. You’re not the only woman with a burden to bear. Maybe you should get over yourself.”

  Get over herself? Get. Over. Herself. Easy for him to say. Red flooded her cheeks and fire raced along her neck in a flush of color. “I never said I was special, demon. I said it was hard to meet people. And hey, Mr. Supernatural—why don’t you saunter up to someone and tell them you’re a real, live demon? See how well that goes down. And P.S., over ninety percent of those people you found online are all full of shit. I’ve seen some fruit loops in my time, and they don’t even see their own shadows, let alone the spirits.” She’d been to some of those forums and discovered the real shysters. She was accused of being one all the time, and yeah, it had put her off most of the human race. So the fuck what.

  Clamping his hands on her shoulders, Clyde forced her to look him in the eye, and he wasn’t smiling anymore—he was intent. “Then that leaves ten percent who aren’t full of shit. Go figure. But you wouldn’t know that because you won’t even give it a chance. Why couldn’t one of those people be someone you spend some time with? Get to know. Have some goat cheese with? Get off your ass and try.”

  “I hate goat cheese.” Which was a lovely defense and totally not true.

  Clyde shook his head with a firm not-buying-it. “No, you hate rejection and the smallest hint of it. You don’t do it because it’s the looking for what you want that you don’t want to do. So let’s say you hook up with someone—or a hundred someones and they all call you a kook. You didn’t lose a limb—it won’t kill you. It’s just words, Delaney. You’re not afraid of words, are you? You call me enough of them. But what if there’s just one someone in that bunch who doesn’t think you’re a nut? Imagine that . . .

  “This isn’t about me lying to you. This is about me giving you some hard truths from a perspective you have to admit is pretty damned accurate. It’s about indulging in the possibility you’ll end up alone, and not only letting it happen but wallowing in it. It’s so much safer, but look where alone got me. I can’t even find my cold, dead body, and I have no one who’s alive to do it for me. Some would say that’s pretty pathetic. Is that what you want?”

  Her eyes rolled, and her mouth opened. “I want you to get off my ass and stop projecting your postmortem introspections about how insulated your life was on me. My life isn’t anything like yours.” She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from gearing up for a good smackdown. He was rubbing her raw, and it was pissing her the fuck off.

  “Because my introspection’s too close to home?”

  “Because it’s a retarded comparison.”

  “Because it’s a comparison that’s relevant.”

  She finally shrugged his hands off her shoulders with a shake. “Why do you care how I end up, Clyde? What goddamned difference does it make to you if I end up in a rocking chair at a state-run nursing home and die with the title Crazy Dog Lady?”

  “Because I like you. When you like someone, you want good things for them. See? That was easy to say. Now you say it, too. I—like—you—Clyde.”

  Poof, her anger was gone. Just like that, and the bubble of a giggle formed in her throat. “No.”

  “Then at least admit it was hasty to call me a liar, and answer the question. Am I right when I say you’re afraid to be shot down?”

  She giggled without thinking, her anger ebbing. “Look, this blank you’ve drawn—or claim you’ve drawn—is pretty suspicious. If you were me, what would you think?”

  “That wasn’t the question. Don’t avoid the answer.”

  The sigh she expelled was exaggerated and ragged. Cool air blew from her lips in a puff of irritation. “Fiiiine. I’m afraid I’ll get too attached to you because you understand me and my life and my stupid, traitorous dogs. But I’m also afraid to mistake those qualities for something more than what they are and what this is. It would be stupid of me to think that, just because you acknowledge I can see ghosts, you’re the missing half of me. So get the proverbial grip. We’re about as different as two people can be thus far. You shovel the most offensive crap into your body—dead or not. I’d rather die than drink a banana Slurpee. You’re passionate about percentages and the square root of five, and I’m passionate about herbal remedies and ghosts and dogs who have no homes and no one to love them.

  “Okay? Yes, it’s damned hard to be rejected and called crazy. Yes, it’s hard to put yourself out there when you know most people think you’re a cracker. My shot at all the things Satan wants to see me trashed over lessens all the time. But my shot for those things isn’t any greater with you because you’re outta here in a couple of weeks. Yes, you get it—you get what goes on in the madness of my communication with the dead—but you don’t know me and I don’t really know you. Letting you in won’t make a difference one way or the other because a few weeks is hardly enough time to know someone.” Right?

  “And you like me. Given the chance to spend some time with me, if
you weren’t such a chicken, and we had more time, you’d do it.”

  And? “But we don’t have more time.”

  “Now who’s the logical one?”

  When your heart’s at stake, logic can be your BFF. She’d had enough. Hurling the obvious in her face had become tired. “Aren’t we supposed to be eating?” She pushed off on her heel, turning to head down the sidewalk. Her fears were hers—kook that she was. Talking about them with Clyde would only mean she was allowing herself to be exposed. You didn’t do that with someone you’d never see again. There’d be no bonding over her supposed isolation.

  He caught up to her, grabbing her hand once more. Against her will, her fingers curled into his. Clyde leaned down and chuckled in her ear. “Avoid, avoid, avoid. And if you’re taking me to one of those places that specialize in goat’s milk and seaweed, you’re dining alone. I’m up for a greasy cheeseburger or some pasta. How about you?”

  There went the Souper Salad buffet. “Oh, definitely—color me all in. With a banana Slurpee on the side,” she scoffed, then mentally slapped herself. Clyde should be able to enjoy whatever the hell he wanted. She didn’t know if they had banana Slurpees where she hoped he was headed, or cheeseburgers or whatever, but if they didn’t, she had no right to deny him simple pleasures. “That was catty. Sorry. You should have whatever you want to have, as much of it as you want, before you . . .”

  “Go.”

  Jesus, he was all about the making his point tonight, wasn’t he? “Right. Go.”

  “Something you don’t want me to do. Even if you did call me a liar.”

  “I didn’t call you a liar.” Not out loud.

  “Well, technically, no. You didn’t. But it’s what you were thinking. I’m still working on not being offended.”

  “You do that. And while you’re at it, let’s go stuff your mouth and clog your arteries so you’ll have something to do besides psychoanalyze me and air my dirty laundry in a public forum—”

  “Don Henley, 1982—”