by Morgan Brice
I liked the first guy better. A burst of laughter came, right on cue, from where the stranger had gone to catch up with his boyfriend and their buddies. Fuck. No use crying over spilled milk. He’s already taken. And if that’s the sort he goes for, I’m not even in the running.
Back when he had helped infiltrate art theft rings, Erik had never bothered to try to pretend to be a tough guy. He’d taken martial arts classes because the work was dangerous and he wasn’t an idiot. He’d gotten good with a gun, but hated to carry. But never once did he need to try to come off as tough. It had been to his advantage to play to the nerdy professor stereotype that people expected, overeducated and high-strung. “Poncy” one of his Brit colleagues had called him, managing to insult his orientation and his masculinity, all at once.
Erik tuned back in as David sparred with the bartender over what beer was available, settling on one that even Erik knew tasted like piss. He paid in cash, with no tip. “So, you been in town long?” David asked, finally turning his attention to Erik after he’d taken a long pull from his beer. He smelled like Axe and stale cigarettes.
“Couple of weeks. Getting settled.” Erik tried not to sound short with the man, but everything so far had been a turnoff for a friend, let alone anything else.
David looked him up and down. Unlike the stranger’s gaze, which had sent a jolt right to Erik’s cock, David’s appraisal held an air of disapproval. “You’ll get the hang of this place. I’ve lived here all my life. You find out real quick there are the tourists and the townies. Tourists come here to drop a bundle. Townies can squeeze a buck tighter than a nun’s knees.”
He laughed at his own joke. “So whaddya do for a living? Me, I have a boat, and I take people out to fish. I usually catch some dinner, too.”
Before Erik had a chance to answer, David barged on. “Let me guess. Professor? Teacher? You kinda got that look.”
Erik felt his eye twitch. He’d met guys from the Russian Mob with better manners. “I handle antiques.”
David shot him a sidelong glance. “What do you mean, ‘handle’? Like, fence?”
Erik closed his eyes and counted to five. The bartender seemed to pick up on the tension, because he brought Erik’s bill without being asked. “No. Nothing like that. Nothing at all.”
David raised his hands like Erik had pulled a gun on him. “Geez. Don’t get your panties in a twist. Can’t a guy make a joke?”
Erik paid in cash, not wanting David to see the name on his credit card. He made sure to add a high enough tip to cover what his boorish “date” didn’t.
“I don’t think this was a good idea,” Erik said, standing. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time.” His voice automatically took on the chilly note he had once reserved for thieves and forgers.
“No kidding,” David muttered. He turned his back to Erik. “Hey, bartender! Gimme another.”
Erik squared his shoulders and held his head high, although inside, he felt utterly embarrassed. He dared to shoot a glance to where the stranger and his friends had been, but they were, mercifully, nowhere to be seen.
He could have walked home, but David’s whole manner squicked him out, so Erik called a ride-share, and took the driver the long way, although David had been far more interested in his second beer than in following Erik for nefarious purposes.
“Well, that was a disaster,” Erik murmured as he let himself into his apartment. The charm and personality of the big Victorian house that had originally entranced him eluded him, and the old house now seemed dark and empty. He locked the door, turned on all the lights, and went to change clothes. Erik came back out in a worn sweatshirt and track pants, and then stood in the kitchen, debating whether he wanted ice cream or scotch to soothe his wounded pride.
In the end, he decided on both. He carried his consolation prizes to the couch and flipped on an action movie marathon.
Erik’s phone buzzed. He thought about ignoring the call, then noticed the caller’s name. “Simon?”
“Got the feeling you were having a rough time, and I thought I’d check in with you.”
“How—?”
“Hello? Psychic here.” Simon’s fond exasperation suggested an eye roll. “I got a vision of scotch and ice cream. And since you’re the only person on the planet who considers that pairing to be comfort food, I knew something was up. Spill.”
Despite his mood, Erik had to smile. Simon knew him so well. “I had a shitty date, and I’m home licking my wounds…instead of anything else.”
“You had a date?”
“You don’t need to sound so surprised,” Erik muttered. “I’ve been on dates before.”
“Uh-huh, but not since the incident. Unless you’ve been holding out on me.”
Erik sighed. “No, I haven’t been withholding juicy stories. This was the first time I stuck my toe back in the dating pool, and it was a clusterfuck.”
He and Simon met during graduate school at the University of South Carolina, when Simon had been working on his Ph.D. in Folklore and Mythology, and Erik had been pursuing the same degree in Art History and Preservation. Some of their required classes overlapped, and they had ended up best friends. Over the years since then, while other college and grad school friends drifted away, he and Simon stayed in touch. Despite how well they got along, there had never been anything between them except friendship, which made it easier to talk about bad dates.
“Fill me in. Vic’s working a case, so we won’t be disturbed.” Simon’s partner, Vic D’Amato, was a homicide detective.
Erik told the whole tale, complete with the mistaken identity of the sexy stranger. “And then I walked out,” he concluded. “God, that’s so pathetic.” He was tempted to knock back the scotch all at once, but a good bottle of Glenmorangie didn’t deserve to be treated like that.
“It’s not pathetic, and neither are you,” Simon replied, after having listened in silence. “It took a lot of courage to set up a date, even if you weren’t really expecting it to go anywhere.”
“That’s the problem,” Erik said. “That first guy—I wouldn’t have minded things going somewhere with him. I haven’t had a reaction like that to anyone since…in a long time.”
“Have you actually looked at anyone closely enough to have a reaction to them?” Simon asked.
“Not really. But this guy pressed all my buttons—and he’s taken.” And just here temporarily.
“You don’t know how taken,” Simon pointed out.
“Aargh. That’s almost worse. I’m not looking for a player. If I do this again, get serious about someone, I want there to be a good chance from the start that it can last. I did my jet-setting. I’m ready to settle down.” Erik really wanted the kind of relationship Simon and Vic had: honest, committed, and strong.
“If that’s what you want, then keep looking,” Simon urged. “He’s out there.”
“Well, he wasn’t in London, New York, Rome, or Antwerp—or Atlanta,” Erik said, a hint of bitterness coloring his tone. “What are the odds he’ll be in Cape May?”
Simon laughed. “Maybe the same as they were that I’d find my forever guy in Myrtle Beach. You know what I wreck I was when I moved down here.”
Erik remembered. Back at the university, they had mourned bad grades and broken hearts at the bars catering to broke grad students. In the years since then, email, phone, and texts had kept them in touch. Simon had lost his teaching position when the zealot father of a student falsely accused him of teaching “witchcraft.” His tenure-track fiancé had broken up with him, afraid of damaging his own prospects. Simon had gone to the beach to get his head together and never left. Now he owned Grand Strand Ghost Tours, had a home, and a great partner.
“Do you see anything? I mean, about me?” Erik didn’t ask his friend questions like that often. Simon was a psychic medium, and his talent was strong enough that he now worked as an official consultant with the Myrtle Beach Police Department after having helped solve several high-profile cases.
“Other than the whiskey and ice cream?” Simon was silent for a moment. “I see an antique clock, and an impressive brick and stone building. It looks old. Everything else is blurry. That usually means there’s too much in flux to get a solid read. Sorry.”
“That’s okay,” Erik said. “Thanks. Did I tell you about the TV thing? Or do you already know?”
Simon took the change of subject for what it was, and let Erik fill him in, commenting enthusiastically at all the right spots.
“It sounds like a fantastic opportunity. You’ve got a lot on your plate right now, getting the blog and the shop up and running, planning the TV show. Why not put dating on the back burner and see what happens?”
Erik had already come to that decision, but it helped to have his old friend provide confirmation. “Yeah. You’re right. There’s a lot of good stuff coming together.” He paused. “And despite tonight’s disaster, I like the town so far. More than I thought I might.”
“Isn’t Cape May really haunted? Run into any ghosts?” Simon asked.
Erik’s abilities differed from Simon’s, although their shared “weirdness” had been part of what had bonded their friendship. Simon was a true medium: he could summon and dispel ghosts, speak to them and hear their replies. His psychic visions revealed glimpses of things in the present and future. Erik could see ghosts, but he’d never been able to actually communicate with them. And while his touch magic let him see through the “eyes” of an object, it certainly didn’t provide any predictions of things to come.
“There’s an old woman who shows up on the third floor of my house. I call her Millie. Nobody seems to know who she was. I hear her walking around, and I saw her near the window a few times. So maybe she’s watching for her husband’s ship to come back,” Erik replied. “And I spotted a man on the beach who looked like he might have been from Victorian times. But honestly, I haven’t been many other places in town yet to see any other ghosts.”
“I never knew how haunted Myrtle Beach was until I moved here,” Simon replied. “But I guess it’s good for business.” Simon did psychic readings and séances, as well as leading ghost tours. “Speaking of business, if you ever need any help with your touch magic, don’t forget that my cousin Cassidy down in Charleston can do that stuff.”
“Thanks. I might take you up on that once I get settled in.” The visions he received from antiques with an “interesting” history had grown stronger and more detailed over the years. Erik chalked it up to improving with practice like any other talent, but he’d never really had anyone but Simon to talk to about it. Certainly no one in his old life.
Erik already put the ice cream back in the freezer and sipped at the scotch. He yawned, and Simon chuckled.
“Sounds like you’re done for tonight. Go get some sleep. Things’ll look better in the morning,” Simon told him and said good night.
Erik ended the call, tipped his head back, and swallowed the last of the whiskey. Simon’s call had helped him get his priorities straight. Sort out the business, and then worry about everything else.
He went to bed, resolutely refusing to think about the dark-haired stranger at the bar. But the dreams that woke him, sweaty and hard, desperate for release, made it clear his subconscious had a different agenda.
Four
Ben
“I had forgotten about the ghosts.” Ben followed Sean into the fourth rental house that morning.
Sean clucked his tongue and shook his head. “Benny, what are we gonna do with you? This is Cape May. Ghosts cost extra.”
Personally, Ben wasn’t a fan, but he knew many other people—including well-heeled tourists—felt differently.
“Do you remember the time mom had us doing the move-out clean-up on the big gray Victorian, and that man with the top hat popped through the floor, right in front of you?” Sean started laughing at the thought. “You shrieked so loud. I didn’t think a guy could hit those notes after puberty.”
Ben remembered a heart-stopping moment of terror. Nice to know that, even now, it was on Sean’s mental gag reel.
“Yeah. I remember. And I also remember that you just about wet yourself when that pervy old lady ghost slapped your ass.” Ben had plenty of cringe-worthy memories of Sean if they were going to play that game. All in good fun, of course.
“Oh. My. God. I thought you were messing with me until—”
“—She smacked your butt, and I wasn’t even on the same floor,” Ben finished for him, laughing.
“We cribbed some of Dad’s beer that night,” Sean recalled. “I think we absolutely deserved it. Hazard pay and all, you know.”
They had been sixteen, and Ben had been up for the summer, happy to make some extra cash and get out of his mother’s hair for a few months. Looking back, it seemed like a cheesy coming-of-age movie. Pilfering beer from the fridge, sneaking a smoke, staying out late on the beach with Sean and his friends, setting off illegal fireworks and outrunning the cops who tried to catch them.
“We were almost juvenile delinquents,” Ben replied, but he couldn’t keep the fondness out of his tone.
Sean made a dismissive noise. “Fuck, no. Come to Wildwood—I’ll introduce you to some real juvenile delinquents. We were just making the most of a slightly misspent youth,” he replied with a grin.
They hadn’t actually done anything too bad, nothing malicious or dangerous. At the time, he and Sean thought they were putting one over on Aunt Meg. Now, he was pretty sure his aunt knew and figured it was safer to let them blow off a little steam than crack down and send them looking for real trouble.
“I always wished we’d gotten up the nerve to explore that big old abandoned hotel,” Ben said wistfully.
“The Commodore Wilson? No thanks. The place was cursed, I shit you not,” Sean replied. “I knew some older kids who broke in there one summer. Bad stuff happened to all of them.”
Sean gave him the grand tour of the rental house, noting selling points and things that were likely to break. “This house usually stays rented all summer,” Sean told him. “But watch out—there’s something about the garbage disposal that seems to break at least once a month. I used to think it was the renters, dropping in bottle caps or some shit like that. Now I just think it’s a crap unit. But expect a call.”
“Great.” Ben added it to his notes. He had to admit that it impressed him how Sean could rattle off the selling points and candid problems of each property. “You’re really good at this. Are you sure you don’t want to keep your options open?”
Sean had been walking across the large upstairs game room. He stopped with his back to Ben. “You don’t think I can make it, with the truck?”
Shit. “No. That’s not what I meant at all. It’s just, seeing the business here with fresh eyes, as an adult instead of a teenager, I see what your mom and dad built. Assuming I decide to stay…what if you and I worked out some kind of partnership? You’ve already put in a lot of sweat equity. I need a job and a place to live. Maybe we could figure something out where you wouldn’t have to be here full time—so you could run the truck—but you could cover for me sometimes, help with some of the maintenance stuff you’d always done. You’d have a backup income, to get you through dry spells and invest in your business.” And I wouldn’t be in this all by myself.
Sean turned, a questioning look on his face. “You mean it? You’d do that?”
Ben shrugged. “Sure. Why not? It only seems fair. We can draw it all up, legal and official. If I decide to stay.”
Sean’s eyes narrowed. “Would that cute blond with the nice ass at the bar last night have anything to do with getting you to stay?”
Ben sighed. “I wish. We were having a great chat, and then it turned out he’d mistaken me for his hookup…from an app.”
“Ouch,” Sean commiserated loyally. “You mean that loser who sat down after you left?” He shook his head. “If that’s the kind of guy he’d pick over you, you’re better off without him. On the other hand, if it really j
ust was a hookup, he’s probably still available.”
“Not really what I’m looking for,” Ben replied, not planning to admit the same thought had crossed his mind, and he’d squashed it. “If that’s all he wants, it’s not going to work out.”
“Or, he could help you get over Butthead, and then you could move on to someone who might be a keeper,” Sean suggested, then went into an exaggerated—and off-key—rendition of Marvin Gaye’s Sexual Healing.
“My ears! My ears are bleeding!” Ben protested although he couldn’t stop laughing. Sean had gotten him through the aftermath when Caleb had packed his stuff and moved out, and they’d taken to calling his ex “Butthead.” It was completely immature—and satisfying, nonetheless.
“I mean it, Ben. Sometimes a fuck buddy is all you need. Or if it makes you feel better, friends with benefits.”
“Ugh. I hate that phrase,” Ben said, knowing he should be paying more attention to hardwood floors, crown moldings, and kitchen appliances as they walked through the house. “I’m pretty sure that one person in that arrangement really wants more and just goes along with it.”
“Who knew that beneath that tough Newark cop exterior lurked a true romantic?” Sean’s tone was snarky but not mocking.
“It’s not like I watch the Hallmark Channel,” Ben protested. “I just don’t want to play games anymore. Look at it this way—if I’m not playing, there’s less competition for you.” His smile said he knew he was poking the bear.
“Oh my dear, slightly confused cousin,” Sean said, shaking his head with mock pity. “There’s no competition. Not everyone can be…me. Just accept it and move on.” He grinned, falling right back into the banter they perfected in high school.
Sean went into his practiced patter about the house, and Ben resigned himself to making notes. Still, he couldn’t help that his thoughts strayed to the handsome blond at the bar. Ben bet the man would be a few inches shorter than his own height, nice to tuck against him standing up—or in bed. He’d rocked the academic look, but Ben wondered if he could also rock a bit of “hot for teacher” role-play. Something told him that in the right setting, for the right person, that nerdy professor might be fun between the sheets.
