by Lori Drake
He caught up with Joey at the cemetery.
Chris had never wondered what it might be like to attend his own funeral, but he found out anyway. The graveside service was already underway when he arrived. The turnout shocked him. He recognized every somber face, some more surprising than others. Julie was there, and the last words they’d exchanged hadn’t been exactly civil. He still felt guilty for not breaking things off with her sooner. There had never really been any possibility of a future for them, but they’d dated for eight months and she had—understandably—expected some sort of progression from there. It had been over a year since then, and she hadn’t reached out to him since. Nonetheless, she was there to say goodbye. Maybe to get some closure.
Closure. What a novel concept.
He sighed and sank down on his headstone with his head in his hands while Joey traded places with Reginald. When she spoke, he couldn’t help but listen. His head came up, and he studied her profile while she spoke of who he was and who he’d been to her. Her words brought a bittersweet smile to his lips.
When she finished, he looked out on the crowd and offered, “For what it’s worth, the afterlife sucks. Seriously, don’t try it. Just… go toward the light or whatever.”
The confrontation between Joey and their mother once the guests had departed failed to surprise him. What did surprise him was that Adelaide backed down, and that Joey lingered alone afterward rather than going home. He stood beside her as he had in life, putting an arm around her as best he could. He thought she leaned toward him, but dismissed it as a trick of his imagination. He closed his eyes and leaned down until the softness of her auburn locks brushed his cheek.
When the groundskeepers started filling the hole, he heard her sniffle and lifted his head. Tears glistened wetly in her eyes.
Moving in front of her in a futile attempt to block her view, he looked down at her with an intense frown. He put his hands on her shoulders, or at least as close as he could manage.
“I’m still here Joey,” he said, watching her while she watched the laborers fill the hole. Desperation filled him. “God, I don’t know why but I am…”
“Rest in peace,” she said, then turned and walked away.
Shoulders slumped, he went with her.
13
Joey exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding as the key turned in the deadbolt. It would have been just her luck if the lock had been rekeyed already. She made a mental note to ask Sam when the locksmith would be coming.
The apartment was quiet, empty, and exactly as she’d left it. Joey did a quick walk-through, to be sure. She ended up standing awkwardly in the living room afterward, absently rubbing one arm. It was so quiet, and the place felt so… empty.
It wasn’t that she’d never been home alone before, but it was different now. No amount of chiding herself would convince her otherwise. Joey crossed to the entertainment center, put on some music to fill the dead air and called home to let them know she’d made it in one piece. She didn’t tell them she was planning to go right back out again; that wouldn’t have gone over well.
Joey threw together a quick sandwich, then headed down the hall to trade her funeral attire for a short black skirt and a shimmering gold halter top. She wasn’t dressing to impress, but she needed something that would blend in with the crowd and, most importantly, breathe. In the bathroom, she pulled her long red hair up into a high ponytail and touched up her eyeliner before applying dark red lipstick. She could almost hear Chris teasing her about vamping it up for the club.
“This one’s for you, babe,” she said into the empty room, swallowing a sudden lump in her throat. A wave of moroseness made her briefly consider staying in after all, but she pushed it aside.
She was halfway down the hall with dancing shoes in hand when a knock on the door sounded.
“Coming,” she called, wondering who it could be. A neighbor with a casserole? Did people actually do that?
Another spate of knocking followed, louder this time.
“Joey, open up! It’s me!” Ben called from the other side.
Frowning, Joey threw the bolts and yanked the door open.
“What the hell are you—” The question died on her lips as she took in the sight of her brother standing on the doorstep. Another rose in its place. “Is that a dog collar?”
Ben smiled one of his easy smiles, brown eyes twinkling as he struck a pose, flexing a fishnet-sleeved arm. “What do you think? Will it make the boys howl?” The other hand held a bottle of something or other in a brown paper bag.
Joey narrowed her eyes, but stepped aside so he could enter. He did, skin-tight black leather pants creaking.
“I think you’re a lunatic. How did you even know I was going out?” She shut the door and scooped her shoes up off the floor.
“Bitch, please,” he said, smirking as he sauntered toward the kitchen. “Everyone has their own way of dealing with shit. You dance. If you hadn’t figured that out on your own, I would’ve dragged you out anyway.”
Following her brother into the kitchen, Joey leaned against the counter and watched as he pulled a bottle of expensive scotch out of the bag and fetched a juice glass from the cupboard.
“I don’t even like scotch,” she said, brow furrowed.
Smirking, he spilled a bit of the amber liquid into the glass before glancing over at her again. “You deal with shit your way, and I’ll deal with it in mine.” He lifted the glass in salute, then tossed back its contents without flinching. Licking his lips, he poured himself another. “You’re driving. Get your shoes on.”
By the time they got to the club, it was almost 9 o’clock. She had no designs on getting laid, so she’d let Ben pick the venue. It wasn’t her first visit to a gay club with him and was unlikely to be her last. She loved the atmosphere of places like that, where everyone was able to let their hair down and just be who they were, without judgement and unrestrained. The place was packed and the music was loud; the dance floor was so full that the writhing masses spilled out into the walkways between tables. Everywhere, bodies were moving. The air was heavy with the scent of alcohol, smoke and sweat.
Ben headed for the bar while Joey melted into the crowd. There in the dark, with the strobing lights and pulsing techno beats, she let her body move. This was not the precise, controlled dancing she did for a living. It was more primal. Raw. She moved through the club, dancing out her grief. Sometimes by herself, sometimes with a partner. Male, female, it didn’t really matter. She wasn’t there to make a connection; she just wanted to move.
She danced until her skin glistened with sweat, and then danced some more. For a while, she forgot everything else. There was a certain peace that came along with thinking of nothing but the music, of moving one’s body to the rhythm. She dove head first down that rabbit hole, and didn’t come up again for quite a while.
When she finally decided to belly up to the bar, she was well and truly parched but felt more alive than she had in days. There was no guilt. Chris would understand. More than anyone, he would understand. Turning away from the bar with her club soda, Joey let her eyes rove the club in search of Ben. It was difficult to see much on account of her diminutive stature. Maybe that’s why her eyes lifted to check out the second floor balcony.
It wasn’t Ben that she found there.
A chill went down her spine. Standing there on the balcony, looking down at her, was the man from the cemetery. Their eyes met, and she quickly looked away, sipping her drink under a pretense of scanning the crowd. When she glanced up again, seconds later, he was gone.
Alarmed, Joey abandoned her glass beside a few other empties on an unoccupied table and started searching for Ben. Her eyes scanned the crowd urgently, but unless she stood on a chair or something she didn’t have a whole lot of hope of finding him.
“Ben!” she called, but her shout was swallowed by the music. Halting, she turned in a slow circle. The crowd pressed in around her. Her heart thumped in her ears. H
er lungs struggled to draw breath, and her control slipped. The noise, the smells, it all started to overwhelm her.
Then she saw him. Not Ben, but the stranger. He was headed through the crowd, toward her. Their eyes met. It was now or never. Fight or flight.
Her nails bit into her palms as she clenched her fists, turning to meld into the crowd once more. Moving toward the back of the club, she found the back door under a clearly marked exit sign and spilled out into the alley behind it. It wasn’t well lit, and stank of urine and refuse.
She filled her lungs with the night air, stench and all, and looked up at the moon. It wasn’t full anymore, but it was still damn close. Her body tingled as she positioned herself beside the door, counting the seconds until it opened again. If he thought she’d be easy pickings, he had another think coming.
Fifteen seconds later, the door opened. The man in the leather jacket stepped out into the alley and looked around, but didn’t see her already behind him. Using that to her advantage, she grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back. He cried out in surprise as she pivoted gracefully, swinging him around and shoving him against the building, face first.
“Who are you?” she growled.
“Dean!” he exclaimed, not even requiring her to twist his arm further. “My name’s Dean.”
“Why are you following me? What the fuck do you want?”
“To help! Christ, lady!”
“Help? With what? How?” she asked, her skepticism plain.
“There’s a spirit attached to you!”
Joey blinked slowly. “What?”
“A spirit. A ghost,” he said, twisting his head to try and look behind him. “You lost someone important to you recently, right? I think they’re still hanging around.”
There was a moment, a brief moment, when she almost believed him. “I saw you at the cemetery, asshole. Is that what you do? Hang around cemeteries looking for marks? That’s disgusting.” She released him and stepped back, eyeing him warily.
He turned around slowly, holding one hand up where she could see it while the other carefully slipped into his coat pocket. “Just getting you a business card. No sudden moves here, okay?” he said, eyeing her as warily as she eyed him.
“Business card?”
“Yeah. Here.” He held the small white rectangle out to her, standing there quietly while she stepped forward and snatched it from his hand.
Frowning, she glanced down at the card. It read: DEAN TORRES, SPIRITUAL CONSULTANT. There was a phone number printed on it too.
“Spiritual Consultant?” she scoffed, stepping back again.
“I know it’s hard to believe,” he said, keeping his hands where she could see them. “But sometimes I can help them cross over. Be at peace, or whatever.”
Joey shook her head. “Right.” Her voice dripped with a combination of sarcasm and skepticism.
“I get it, you don’t believe me. Most people don’t. That’s fine. But if you change your mind, give me a call.”
Joey glanced down at the card again, then back at the stranger.
“Stay away from me,” she said, starting to move farther away, toward the mouth of the alley. “Seriously, if I see you again, I’m calling the cops.”
He nodded and lingered there by the club’s back door, rolling his shoulder and grimacing as she turned to go.
Chris witnessed the whole encounter. Hope had flared as soon as Dean had revealed his “gift” to Joey, enough so that he’d begun making a pest of himself trying to get the man’s attention. He thought he’d caught Dean looking around once, but otherwise the man hadn’t reacted at all.
It wasn’t until after Joey walked away that Dean finally answered.
“I can hear you,” came his quiet, tense reply. “Are you always this annoying?” His eyes were locked on Joey as she moved off. A muscle in his stubbly cheek twitched.
“Oh, thank god,” Chris said, sagging against the wall. “You have no idea how good it is to talk to someone. Hey, where are you going?”
Dean had started to walk down the alley. A glance toward the street showed Joey had already turned the corner. “Home,” he said.
Chris hastened to follow. “Can I come?”
“No,” Dean said firmly, scrubbing his fingers through his curly hair while he walked.
“Can you see me?” Chris waved a hand in front of Dean’s face, undaunted by the rejection. “I think Joey saw me once.”
“She could be spirit sensitive. I don’t think you’re very strong.” Dean paused at the corner, glanced left and right, then turned right and started walking along the sidewalk. Away from the club. His next words were quieter, lips barely moving. “I can’t see you at all.”
Frowning, Chris kept walking with him, keeping pace easily. “Damn. Well, you said you help spirits, right? I definitely need your help."
“With what?”
“I—I don’t know,” Chris admitted. “But I need to talk to Joey. There’s something I have to tell her. You can help me talk to her, right?”
“Can’t tell her anything if she won’t listen. If she doesn’t believe.”
“Just give her another chance, she’ll come around.”
Dean grunted, shaking his head. “No, she said she’d call the cops and I believe her. Plus, I kind of like my joints in the socket.” He rolled his shoulder again, rubbing it absently with one hand. “If anyone’s going to convince her, it needs to be you.”
“Me? She can’t hear me. What can I do?”
“Get your spook on. Move things. Make moaning noises. Convince her you’re there and she’ll call me. Then I’ll do what I can,” Dean explained. “In the meantime, shoo. I don’t want anyone to see me talking to myself.”
Chris fell back, watching Dean walk away, with a newfound sense of purpose. Dean’s words echoed through his mind.
Get your spook on.
“Okay, Chris. You can do this.”
Instead of going back to Joey, he went back to the apartment to practice some more.
14
Joey did her best to put the weird guy from the club out of her mind. The next morning, she got up bright and early to go for a run. Ben was sacked out on the couch, sleeping off the previous night’s excesses. It took a lot of liquor to get a wolf drunk. If he’d been human, alcohol poisoning would have been a definite concern. As it was, he probably wouldn’t have so much as a hangover.
It’d been a few days since she’d had a chance to run—in human form, anyway. Joey tried to enjoy the fresh air and exercise. Normally, running was a great way to clear her head but today there was no running from the troubled thoughts crowding her mind. She was on alert. Her eyes flicked around, watchful and wary. Just because evidence pointed away from a hunter didn’t mean that she wasn’t in danger. Whoever killed Chris was out there, and she had as little clue about their motive as she had two days prior.
By the time she got home, her shoulders ached with tension that hadn’t been there when she left. She was drained, physically and mentally, so the comforting aroma of coffee, eggs and toast that greeted her when she opened the door was more than welcome.
“Honey, I’m home.” She toed off her sneakers and set them on the rack beside the door before following her nose into the kitchen.
Ben stood in front of the stove, stirring some scrambled eggs. He still wore his club attire, but at least he’d left the collar off.
“Breakfast is almost ready. Or, at least what passes for breakfast around here. Did you know you’re out of… everything?” He glanced at her, lifting a dark brow.
“What about that everything there in the pan?” Joey said, angling for the coffee pot.
“Well, there are only three eggs to split between us so I hope you’re not too hungry. Thank god I didn’t have to scrape mold off the bread, but there’s no orange juice, no bacon… I can’t work in these conditions.” He huffed playfully.
Snorting, Joey poured herself a fresh cup of coffee and looped an arm around her brother
’s waist on her way past him to the fridge, lingering long enough to give him a squeeze.
“You’ll make someone a good wife some day,” she teased, slipping away. He laughed and swung the spatula at her ass but she sidestepped gracefully, grinning.
“What’s on your agenda today?” Ben asked, once they’d settled at the table with their meager repast.
“Not sure. Need to talk to Sam.” Joey freed her phone from her armband and sent her eldest brother a quick message to check in. His reply was prompt but unsatisfying.
I’ll be in touch.
Frowning, Joey set her phone aside and tucked into her food. “What about you?”
“Dunno. Boss gave me the rest of the week off, but I might go in for a little bit today anyway. Getting back to routine might be a good thing, and my assistant is probably overwhelmed.”
Joey grimaced. Getting back to routine was out of the question for her, for a variety of reasons.
“I’m sure your customers can manage to pick out their own glasses for a few days,” she murmured between sips of coffee.
He gasped dramatically, but smiled. “Shut your mouth, heathen.” Ben was an optician, and a damn good one. His methods may have been overbearing at times—Joey had seen him snatch a pair of frames off a customer’s face and go “Nope” more than once—but he knew his business and had an eye for picking out the right frames for the right person. Once his customers got used to letting him drive, they usually enjoyed the results enough to keep coming back year after year.
“What day is it anyway?” she asked, lips drawing down in a sudden frown.
“Thursday.”
“Thursday? Damn, I missed the Bachata workshop.” Joey reached for her phone again to check her calendar, thumbing through it while she ate. Friends were graciously covering her classes, but it did mean lost income and the studio only refunded workshop fees if someone canceled in advance. “Maybe I can get a refund for the workshop, extenuating circumstances and all that.”
