by Tate James
“Alright, X,” Dutch says, giving me a huge grin before he whips off his hat and hands it to me. I try not to gape as he slips his jacket off and then tears his shirt over his head. But bouncing baby unicorns, he's freaking gorgeous. Chiseled abs draw my eye up to flat pecs, tiny beads of sweat working their way down Dutch's pale skin. I always tell him he needs to spend more time out in the sun, but … uh, nope. Maybe I was wrong. He's perfect. “Let's nail this one together, okay?”
“You're as white as the ghosts you chase after,” Luke howls, rubbing his palm over his blue hair and shaking his head. “Put a shirt on. Ain't nobody want to see that.” He chucks a black button-up that Dutch catches one-handed, grinning as he slips into it, grabs his faded gray trench, and reaches out for his hat. I give it to him, but not without our fingers brushing together, sending little thrills of excitement shooting through me like stars.
“Did you know each fingertip has more than three thousand touch receptors?” I blurt, and then feel like a total and complete idiot because nobody cares about obscure facts and trivia except for me.
“That so?” Dutch asks, gray eyes sparkling as he pushes his hat down over his silver-blue hair. He's got this wild sort of excitement that bubbles over and infects everyone in close proximity. Dutch is one of those people that, when they enter a room, the entire party stops to watch him. He's looking in my direction now, but not really at me—more like he's staring through me. He technically looks at me a lot, but it doesn't ever feel like he sees me. “Well, let's put those thirty-thousand sensory receptors to work for TCPS, shall we?”
I smile and feel these bright little champagne bubbles popping in my belly. God, I'm like a dog when Dutch reaches down and pats me on the head, panting for attention. It's ridiculous. I'm a modern woman. I don't need to be slobbering after some dude.
And yet … when Dutch turns around, I start checking his ass out.
Typical.
I swing my legs back in the van, shove the rusted old door into place, and we're off.
Rhythm is nowhere to be seen when we get up the hill, circling around the driveway with its magnificent old fountain. It's a little mossy, but a crystal clear stream of water spouts from the open mouth of a demon with huge, stone horns. Honestly … it sort of looks like the face I saw in the window.
There was no face, Alexiah. Get your head checked.
Out of anyone, I should know better than most: ghosts do not exist.
If they did, Dutch, at the very least, would've seen one by now. He acts like he does this job because it's the easiest thing in the world, like he's so confident he'll never see a ghost that chasing after them is like catching rainbows: guaranteed to be impossible.
Nothing could be further from the truth.
I think … he wants ghosts to be real more than anything.
But what do I know?
It's not like we've ever sat down and had a conversation about it.
“Kasselin said to go around to the back,” Tate says as we circle the fountain and head toward the rear of the property. Rhythm is already waiting, leaning against one of the decorative columns with his arms crossed over his chest.
He waits for us to get out, lugging suitcases and bags full of equipment. The homeowner herself isn’t even going to be here today, so we didn’t bother to bring the cats; we’ll do our show the night of the party for an entire crowd. Instead, I help Luke and Tate with the cameras. Rhythm and I both reach out for the same bag, bumping hands, and I scowl at him. I don't mean to be so … well, mean, but it happens anyway.
“Why are you even here? You never come on consults.”
“Salty because you missed out on your usual date time with Dutch?" he growls back at me, and I resist the urge to kick him in the shin. I will not do childish things; I will not do childish things. Although I'd like to. The other night, when we had our big fight, I squirted some of Dutch's spicy mustard into Rhythm's whiskey bottle and shook it up, so he wouldn't notice until he drank some.
I could hear him and his date howling from the next room.
Serves him right.
“Mind your own business,” I snap, standing up and hauling one of the tripods with me. We'll set these babies up, get some good footage of the house, and then put together a game plan. Also, we try to get in-depth interviews with the occupants, so we can find out what their real problem is. You can only con so many people if you leave the 'ghosts' in their house when you're done. Usually, it's a leaky pipe, a hive of bees in the walls, bats in the attic, a shifting foundation, that sort of thing.
Sometimes, Dutch tells them the truth, that their house isn't haunted, and sends them in the right direction to get the problem taken care of. More often than not, we fix the pipe, rehome the bees, and seal up the hole in the roof to keep the bats out. Makes me feel a little better. We might be con artists, but whatever was bugging the family in the first place, we fix it.
“Mr. Wylde,” a woman says, pausing at the back door in a purple satin evening gown. It's like, ten in the morning, but maybe this is what rich people do for fun, dress up in pearls and expensive dresses and hats with feathers. She doesn't bother to come out and greet us, just stands there while we move up the steps with our stuff and into the massive hallway.
I swear, that hall has more square footage than the Ten Cats office and the Fifth Street House combined.
“Dutch Wylde, owner, founder, operator of Ten Cats Paranormal Society at your service,” he says, whipping off his hat and taking a bow. “This is my assistant, X.” He gestures at me, and I smile. The woman smiles back in a very creepy sort of a way, like she has too many teeth crammed into her small mouth. I shiver, but not because of her. It's cold as hell in here. No wonder they think the place is haunted. “Our resident medium Tate, tech superman Luke, and demonologist Rhythm.” He sweeps his hand dramatically across our little group, and I wince.
Pretty sure Dutch notices—he notices everything—so I offer up an apologetic smile, reaching up to rub at the side of my head. I've got a headache coming on; I can tell already.
“Are you okay?” Rhythm asks, but he hardly sounds sincere. He's staring up at the arched ceiling with a half-scowl etched into his beautiful mouth. He might be pretty if he didn't spend so much time frowning, and hating the world.
“Yeah, I'm fine,” I say, shaking my head and sending pink hair flying. I've gotten headaches ever since I was a little girl, and they've only gotten worse as I've grown older. I've even been to the ER over it a few times, but none of my many brain scans showed a damn thing. All I got out of those visits were prescription ibuprofen pills that are three times the regular dose.
“Kasselin said you'd need access to the entire house,” the woman purrs, holding up an old skeleton key on a chain. “This'll do the trick. No room is off-limits, and if you have any questions, you can find me in the ballroom. I'd give you the full tour, but Friday is a very big night for us, and the preparations are killer.”
Dutch takes the key, and then raises his brows as the woman passes over a rolled-up piece of paper.
“Blueprints,” she says with a red smile, her blue eyes sparkling. “As good as a map.” She nods her chin for us to follow, and we start off down the hallway, lugging the camera equipment with us.
It's so flipping cold in here that I'm starting to shiver, little goose bumps prickling along the lengths of my pale arms. Rhythm notices and rolls his eyes, shrugging out of his leather jacket and dropping it over my shoulders.
It's warm from his body, and it smells damn good, like balsam and cloves.
“Thanks,” I mumble, creasing my brows together and ignoring his grunted response. Dutch glances over his shoulder at us, notices me wearing Rhythm's jacket, and raises his own brows in response. There's a flash of something I can't quite read on his face before he turns back around and engages our host with his usual queries.
“While we trust our clients and their paranormal experiences, I do have some questions about the property, just to rule
out any outside influences.”
I stumble a bit, and put my hand to the wall to stay upright as sharp pain lances through my skull. Carefully, I set the tripod on the ground, dig into the pocket on my yellow dress and pull out a handful of pills, popping them between my lips and swallowing. The effects won't be instant, but if I ignore this pain, it's bound to turn into a migraine at some point.
Dutch, Tate, and Luke are disappearing down the hall, leaving me stuck with Rhythm.
“Do you want to go back to the van or something? You look like hell.” He slips his tattooed fingers in his jeans pockets as I glare at him, tilting his head to the side like a dog or a parrot.
“Gee, thanks. You don't look much better, with those big, purple bags under your eyes.” Rhythm smirks at me and then bends down to pick up the tripod, tossing the strap over his shoulder like it weighs less than a unicorn fart. “Hungover, are we?”
“Nah, too busy with my new girlfriend to bother with sleep.” I wrinkle up my nose and scowl at him, pushing off from the wall and starting toward Dutch. I'd so much rather be spending my time with Dutch.
I hardly make it three steps before the pain in my head amps up, white-hot agony spiking behind my eyes as I gasp and fall back against the wall. I end up on my ass on the floor before I even realize it. That, and my teeth are still chattering like crazy.
Rhythm drops down to one knee beside me and reaches out to brush my hair back from my forehead as I squeeze my eyes shut tight.
“You need a hospital or something,” he says, his voice tight with concern I didn't expect. What does he care if my head is hurting? He once said my getting hired at TCPS was the worst thing that ever happened to him.
“I don't need a hospital; I get these headaches all the time.”
“Sure, but not this bad,” Dutch says, appearing beside me. I'm so out of it, I didn't even hear him come back this way. All I can see behind my eyes are bright flickers of color, a rainbow of pain splashed against the insides of my eyelids.
“Is she a sensitive, too?” our host asks in that Lucullan smooth voice of hers. It gives me shivers. Well, either that or I'm still slowly freezing to death in here. It's creepy though, how excited she seems about it.
“Every person on our staff has some sensitivity,” Dutch lies, as smoothly as he breathes. His silver eyes take me in with concern, and I feel a little spark of warmth deep down. He does care about me, even if it's not in the way I want him to. “Claire House must be so infested with spirits, that X is picking up on them already. She's not trained to block out ambient energies either, so that explains the headache.” He winks at me, but I don't wink back. He wants me to play up my very real pain for the sake of our act.
That little warm flame in me gets snuffed out cold.
“I'll be okay,” I say, even though my head feels like it's about to crack open like an egg. I move to stand up, but quickly find myself on my ass again. My grandma would’ve said bottom, but I’ve outgrown some of her training, at least.
Something shifts in Dutch's face, and he reaches out to me. But then his eyes flick over to Rhythm's, and he stops himself, snatching his hand back like I'm on fire and he doesn't want to get burned. Appropriate analogy, considering all the flames I’ve jumped through to survive.
“Rhythm, can you take Miss Harcourt home for me?” he asks as Rhythm returns Dutch's strange look with one of his own. The two of them look like they're warring over something that the rest of us just aren't privy to.
Finally, he nods, and passes the equipment he was carrying over to Tate. Luke tries to intercept and grab some, but our resident psychic is at least twice as strong as our blue-haired tech expert. Apparently, Tate did junior body-building competitions in high school. She still refuses to show any of us the pictures, but she's got the muscles to prove it.
I reach out my hand for one of Rhythm's, but he ignores it, sliding his arms underneath my legs, and around my waist. He hauls me up against his chest as Dutch watches on with a frown.
“I'm perfectly capable of walking, you know,” I grumble, but my head is still spinning and I'm freezing not one but two butt cheeks off in this ice-cold mansion. Yeah, we get it: air conditioning is the greatest invention since coffee, but come on, turn it down. It's January, for ghost's sake.
“Do you think you can hold onto my waist while I drive?” he asks, and I realize he's referring to his bike. Of course he is. We can't very well take the van and leave the rest of the team stranded here with all of their equipment. “If not, I'm throwing you in the back of Lorraine.”
“We can't take the van,” I choke out, but I swear on spirits and specters that as soon as we cross the threshold to outside, the pain recedes, and a surge of warmth filters through me. What the hell? Rhythm carries me over to his bike and sets me down on the sun-warmed leather seat. “We don't need the van,” I repeat, blinking into the sunshine and looking askance at the old house.
If I wasn't damn near certain that ghosts didn't exist, I'd think this house were haunted for sure.
“You're positive?” he asks, putting his hands on his hips. “Because I don't give two craps about stealing the company van.” I force a smile, studying the upstairs windows before turning back to Rhythm. He really does have a nice face when he's not scoffing or smirking or scowling. His lower lip is full, his mouth pink, his brown eyes bright.
“No, I'm okay. Actually, I feel a lot better already.” Rubbing at my forehead, I can't help but search for a logical explanation for my sudden lack of pain. Did the pills really kick in that fast? “And thanks for the jacket: it was freezing in there.”
Rhythm nods, grunts. That's about as much as I ever get from him.
“Well, I'm still taking you home. You should probably lay down or something.”
“I get these headaches all the time; I'm used to them.” I stand up off the bike and feel a wave of dizziness take over me. Rhythm catches me as I stumble and helps me stand upright. I can feel the pressure of his fingers through the leather of the borrowed jacket as I glance up into his eyes, like melted chocolate over strawberries.
“I'm taking you home,” he repeats, rolling his eyes, and grabbing the helmet that's dangling from the handlebars of the motorcycle. He tucks it onto my head and gestures at the jacket. “Put your arms in the sleeves; it'll protect you in case of an accident.”
“What about you?” I ask, studying two full sleeves of tattoos on his arms.
“I'm not worried about me,” he grunts, climbing in front of me and waiting while I scoot forward. I gingerly put my arms around his waist, and he grabs them, pulling me so close to his back that I can feel his warmth on my thighs, my stomach, my breasts.
He smells just like his jacket, too, like balsam and cloves.
“Off we go,” Rhythm grumbles, kick-starting the engine and taking off down the driveway with a spray of white gravel. I make the mistake of glancing over my shoulder as we leave and see Dutch watching us from the back porch … and something else watching us from the window.
I blink, and turn back around, burying my cheek against Rhythm's back.
Clearly, my headache really is getting to me.
There is nothing in that upstairs window.
Nothing.
3
“Dutch Wylde’s Potted Fern”
The Fifth Street House is big, drafty, and intimidating with its narrow hallways, servant staircases, and myriad tiny bedrooms. The only rooms that stay truly warm are the living room … and Dutch’s room. He lets me sleep in there when my own bedroom gets too cold. Usually, he takes the couch that sits against the far wall, but once or twice, I’ve managed to sneak in there and crawl in bed beside him with the fire roaring.
“You’re sleeping in here?” Rhythm asks as I shed my shoes and crawl between the covers. I tried starting the fire, but he took the lighter from my shaking grip and shooed me away with tattooed hands.
“It’s warmer in here,” I hedge as I wrap Dutch’s old quilt around me and bury my face in
his pillow. It smells like sunshine, basil, and bullshit. Like Dutch motherfucking Wylde. He’s a one-man show, that’s for sure. “And I’m f-f-freezing.” My teeth chatter dramatically, but I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried.
Stepping outside of Claire House, I felt instantly better. But the cold and the headache came creeping back as we rode home. Now, all I want to do is sleep. I’m upset about missing the consult, but I can use the pictures and footage the team catches today to help plan later. We have a whole week before the party at Claire House, so there’s plenty of time. Tomorrow is Sunday, and our overnight at the Nowakis, then school …
“Stop thinking so hard,” Rhythm says, the orange flames reflecting off his black hair as he gets the fire roaring and stands up, brushing his palms off on his jeans. He comes over to stand beside me, the muscles in his arms drawing my attention. I mean, he’s a good-looking guy, I’ve never denied that; he’s just a jerk. “My brain hurts for you.”
“You’re sure you even have one?” I retort automatically. I’m still wearing Rhythm’s jacket, but he hasn’t asked for it back. I’m too cold to offer it up, so I don’t bother reminding him, although I’d much rather be wearing one of Dutch’s.
Rhythm rubs a heavily inked hand down his arm as he stares at me. This is probably the longest interaction we’ve ever had without tearing into one another. Oh, and the other night when his date knocked her beer onto my laptop, I thought I might kill him. Not her, because she’s just one of a million girls I’ve seen him bring into this house, him. It was his fault, and the only apology I got was snarky and misguided.
It’s weird, living here with the entire TCPS team, mixing teammates with roommates.
“You’re sure you won’t die if I pop out and grab something to eat?”
