My Christmas Spirit

by K. C. Wells

  Copyright information

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  My Christmas Spirit

  Copyright © 2019 by K.C. Wells

  Cover Design by Meredith Russell

  Cover content is being used for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.

  The trademarked products mentioned in this book are the property of their respective owners, and are recognized as such.

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to my beta team, for their wonderful work.

  Special thanks to Parker Williams, without whom so much of this story wouldn’t exist.

  Table of content

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Epilogue

  Other titles

  About the author

  Chapter One

  Twenty Days to Christmas

  Ever woken up in the middle of the night, and you just know something isn’t right? It’s dark, you can’t see a damn thing, but there’s this feeling you can’t get rid of, a feeling of not being alone. What’s the first thing you do?

  Right. You switch on the light.

  So I did just that. I reached over, trying not to knock my glass of water onto my phone—yeah, been there, done that—and clicked on my bedside lamp. I blinked a couple of times to become accustomed to the light, before sitting up to take a look around my bedroom. Everything seemed norm—

  Fuck. Mike was sitting at the foot of my bed, smiling. And naked.

  I did what any sane person would do. I pinched myself, then I closed my eyes and waited a few seconds. Cautiously I opened them and—

  Fuck. He was still there.

  Then I got it. I was dreaming. But God, it felt so real.

  “Aren’t you going to say hello?”

  It was Mike’s voice. Not that this was the first time I’d dreamed of him. The first couple of years after he died, there’d been a lot of dreams.

  Never one like this though. For one thing, the only naked dreams I’d had were of the two of us between the sheets. Mike sitting cross-legged, hands clasped, his elbows on his knees? This was a new one.

  Mike’s rich chuckle was exactly as I remembered it. “You’re not dreaming, sweetheart.”

  “Sure,” I said. “In which case, I’m talking to a ghost.” And didn’t that thought send a shiver down my back? Not to mention icy fingers trailing over my skin, raising the hairs on the back of my neck.

  Mike simply nodded.

  I took a deep breath. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”

  This wasn’t fair. Why my subconscious had chosen to torture me like this, I had no idea. I closed my eyes again, squeezing them tight shut. This time, he’d be gone.

  When a cool, gentle hand touched my shoulder, I almost leaped out of my skin. I opened my eyes, and Mike was standing beside me, and…

  Oh dear God. I could smell him. The same familiar scent that had clung to his pillowcase. I’d put off washing it for so long, desperate to hold onto a part of him. I wanted to inhale him, to fill myself with him. I gazed at his body, as toned as I remembered, not a hair on that smooth, wide chest, his abs still as perfect as the day he—

  This was not fucking fair.

  “Do they have a gym where you are?” I demanded, more harshly than I intended, but I was pissed off. I didn’t ask to be tortured with dreams of Mike. Not after six years. And certainly not with him looking so… perfect. Even his dick was as I remembered it. He used to call it his torpedo, for obvious reasons. That thing was lethal.

  “I take it I still look good.” Mike preened, flexing, his muscles bulging.

  That did it. Despite my initial fear, I started laughing. “Still as vain as ever, I see.”

  He narrowed his gaze. “There is nothing wrong with wanting to look your best.” He peered closely at me. “You haven’t changed much. Your beard’s fuller, and you’ve let your hair grow longer on top. And you’re still hot.” He grasped his dick and smacked it against his palm. “I’d do you,” he added with a grin. “If I was allowed to, which I’m not.”

  I almost choked. “Gee, thanks.”

  If this wasn’t a dream, then what the hell was he doing here? I figured the obvious solution was to ask.

  “Mike… Not that I’m not delighted to see you…” Except ‘delighted’ was the wrong word. Shocked? Amazed? None of them came close. What surprised me was that I was no longer afraid. Ghost or not, I had nothing to fear from Mike. “What are you doing here?”

  “What happened to being delighted to see me?” That grin hadn’t faded. “Aren’t I allowed to pop in on a visit?” He rolled his eyes. “At least this time I get to speak to you.”

  “This time? There have been others?”

  His expression softened. “Every time you dreamed of me.”

  That brought a lump to my throat, and I swallowed hard. I gestured to his body, his erect dick that was so difficult to ignore. “And why the lack of clothing?” I rolled my eyes. “For God’s sake, stop pointing that thing at me.”

  He snorted. “They said I could come back anyway I liked.” Mike’s eyes gleamed. “I chose naked.”

  They? Not that I was about to inquire further. “Okay, so you were just passing through and you thought you’d drop in. Why now? It’s been six years.”

  Mike studied me in silence for a moment, then sat at the foot of the bed. “I’ve been taking a look around the flat. It looks a little different.”

  “I refer you to my last remark. It’s been six years.” Some part of my brain was having severe difficulty coping with the fact that I was talking to a dead guy. And there was still a tiny part of me that was certain this was a dream.

  “Andy, Christmas is in three weeks’ time. Not that you’d know it, looking at this place. No cards up. No tree. In fact, the apartment looks like Ebenezer Scrooge lives here.”

  “Hey!” I gave him an indignant stare. “When did I ever put up a tree before the 13th of December?”

  Mike waved a hand dismissively. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Twelve days before, and it has to be down by twelfth night.”

  And so it had always been, except for once. Not that I was about to go there.

  He cocked his head to one side. “You can’t bullshit me, Andy. The tree ornaments are still in the box in the garage. You haven’t been near Garretts. You know, that place you always got your tree from.”

  I blinked. “Have you been watching me? Because that doesn’t sound like I was dreaming at the time.”

  Mike snorted again. “Sweetheart, I’ll let you in on a secret. You know that favourite film of yours, Dogma? When Rufus says that all the dead do is watch the living? He nailed it.”

  I widened my gaze. “Oh, now there’s a creepy thought.”

  “And you’re being evasive.” Mike speared me with an intense gaze. “You were a Christmas nut. Decorations, films, those cheesy Christmas songs on the radio, carol concerts, turning o
n the Christmas lights in London…”

  I didn’t want to talk about this.

  “So, is this a fleeting visit?” The joy I’d experienced at seeing him again had faded into a sharp reminder of the pain of losing him. A pain I thought I’d gotten used to.

  Apparently not.

  Mike got up off the bed. “I’m going to be around for a while. I’m not done yet.”

  There was something in his voice that troubled me. Mike had always been such a carefree, laid-back soul. Nothing ever got to him. This Mike sounded like a grown-up.

  It took dying to mature him? Now there was a strange thought.

  “So you are here for a purpose?”

  Mike nodded.

  “Care to share it with me?”

  “Eventually. Right now, you need to get some sleep. You’ve got work in the morning.” And before I could say a word, he faded from view. No sound to accompany him, just a gentle fadeout, leaving me alone in my room.

  I stared at the spot where he’d stood. Part of me knew why my brain had chosen to inflict me with such a hallucination at this time. The following day would be six years since I got that damned phone call. It was one of those days that I didn’t need to keep marked on a calendar.

  This one would be forever etched in my memory.

  Six years ago

  I smiled to myself, as I liberally added tinsel to the tree branches. He is going to love this. Mike was on his way home from a business course, three days stuck in Oxford. I normally waited until 12 days before Christmas to put up the Christmas tree, but he’d sounded so pissed off on the phone that I wanted to surprise him. I’d even found our new Christmas decoration, and I couldn’t wait for him to see it. It was kind of a tradition. The year we got together, we’d gone shopping for a new tree ornament. The following Christmas, we did the same. Just one new thing. And here we were, five years since he’d moved in, and it still felt fresh and new.

  I glanced at the clock. Mike had taken the decision to drive to the course, after checking up on the train times and discovering it would not be as straightforward as he thought. December was a shit time for the rail company to strike. Of course, the sudden snowfall would make life more interesting, but that was typical of life in the UK. A couple of inches of snow, and it made the news.

  My phone warbled on the coffee table, I picked it up, smiling at Mike’s name. I swiped a finger across the screen to answer. “Where are you? You must be almost home by now.”

  There was silence for a moment, then the distinctive noise of a throat clearing. “This is Sergeant Paul Owens of the Thames Valley police.”

  My heart stuttered. “Oh really?”

  “You’re acquainted with Mike Stubbins?”

  Then I got it. “This is some friend of Mike’s from the course, isn’t it? He’s put you up to this. Well, put Mike on the phone. This isn’t funny.” Except… what was he doing with Mike’s phone, if Mike was driving back to me?

  There was another brief silence. “Sir, I’m calling from the John Radcliffe hospital in Oxford. There was an accident this evening.”

  Oh my God. My heart started hammering. “A traffic accident? Is Mike okay?” I haven’t seen or heard any news of a pileup on the TV.

  “I’m sorry to have to tell you, but Mr. Stubbins apparently had a heart attack while driving, and lost control of the car. He managed to steer it onto the hard shoulder, but ended up hitting the barriers. He was taken to the hospital, but they weren’t able to save him. He’s…”

  Enough. The memory was still fresh. I didn’t want to think about it anymore.

  I clicked off the light, pulled the duvet up over my shoulders, and settled back to sleep.

  Except sleep proved pretty elusive. I closed my eyes, and there was Mike.

  Why did you come back?

  Unless it had all been a figment of my imagination. I knew which of the two options I preferred. I grabbed a pillow, wrapped my arms around it, and buried my face in it. The tears I thought long gone were back, soaking into the fabric.

  “Mike,” I whispered into the soft cotton. “Why did you come back?”

  Chapter Two

  Nineteen Days to Christmas

  I tried not to look in the mirror that morning. I didn’t want to see the bags under my eyes that I knew would be there. I’d drifted in and out of sleep, waking unrefreshed and feeling tired. The last thing I wanted was to see how I looked.

  I kept expecting him to appear out of nowhere. I ate my breakfast, listened to the radio, showered, all the usual morning habits, but the whole time I was on edge. Finally, I gave myself a hard mental shake.

  It was a dream, okay? Nothing but a dream. What came to mind next had me chuckling out loud. Maybe he was a bit of undigested beef. Yeah. I’d watched way too many versions of A Christmas Carol way too many times.

  Yet the first thing that stirred my senses on awaking that morning had been the scent of Mike’s cologne. Today of all days…

  I didn’t need this.

  Forget it. Just… forget it. Your mind was playing tricks, that’s all it was.

  I headed for the train, ready to tackle the morning rush-hour and the Tube’s version of a sardine can. Getting a seat was an impossibility but I was used to that. I grabbed hold of the nearest pole to steady myself, my earbuds in place, and shut out my surroundings, letting my favourite songs take me away from the press of bodies, the overpowering mix of sweat, aftershaves and perfumes, and the usual morning gloom.

  “What about him? He’s cute.”

  I swear, I almost jumped out of my skin. Mike was standing next to me, still naked. Judging by the lack of reaction from my fellow passengers, I guessed I was the only one who could see him. “For God’s sake,” I muttered.

  That earned me a glare from the guy nearest to me. “What’s your problem, mate?”

  Shit. I had suddenly been reduced to the loony on the train, the guy who talks to himself, the one everyone tries to distance themselves from.

  “Sorry. Just talking out loud.” I gave him an apologetic glance, but the guy had already gone back to ignoring me.

  You don’t have to open your mouth, you know. I can hear if you just think the words. Mike was grinning. Like this.

  I wanted to glare at him, but figured the sight of me glaring at nothing would attract more attention. Now you tell me.

  Mike shrugged.

  Well, you could have mentioned it. Like, before I started talking out loud like a complete lunatic.

  His eyes gleamed, and his lips twitched. Nah. It was much funnier this way.

  I gave a surreptitious glance downward. I take it you’re not cold. Not if that hard-on was anything to go by.

  Mike narrowed his gaze. When I told them I wanted to be naked, I didn’t even mention the torpedo. This is someone’s idea of a joke. He raised his eyes heavenward. You wait till I get back. He pointed to a guy standing on the other side of the train carriage, who was busily engaged in reading his Kindle. But he is cute, isn’t he?

  I suppose. Then a thought occurred to me. Is that why you’re here? You want to fix me up with a cute guy? That was all I needed. A ghostly matchmaker. Look, I don’t need any help in that department. Where the hell did he get off, turning up the way he did? And six years to the day since he died.

  Mike folded his arms. Sure you don’t. Just answer me one question. When was the last time you went on a date?

  That wasn’t fair, especially when I had the sneaking suspicion that he already knew the answer. To test my theory, I tried lying. It’s been a while.

  Mike arched his eyebrows. Seriously? You’re gonna try that bullshit with me?

  I closed my eyes, as if blocking out the sight of him would somehow block out his voice too.

  Andy. Mike’s voice was gentle. It’s been six years. Who said you had to give up men? Just because I was—

  I opened my eyes, and my throat tightened at the compassion in his face. I didn’t give up exactly. The words came out as a weak protest. It was
more a case that nobody made that much of an impression. Not that I’d really looked.

  What about Pete?

  I blinked. Pete Thorpe? Pete worked in my office, and about two years after Mike had gone, he’d plucked up enough courage to ask me out for a drink. I knew he was gay, and he was nice enough, but it had felt too soon.

  It was just a drink. Mike sighed. It wasn’t like he was asking you to go to bed with him. Except you haven’t been to bed with anyone, have you? There was that intense look again. You weren’t made to be celibate, sweetheart. I know you, remember? You were meant to be touched, and I mean by more than your own right hand.

  I use my left occasionally, I quipped.

  He rolled his eyes. And joking about it doesn’t change anything.

  The train jolted to a halt, the doors opened, and I fled, lost in the swell of commuters as the train disgorged its contents onto the platform. I didn’t look back. I didn’t want to see him.

  And I certainly didn’t want to think about my sex life or the lack of it.

  Six years. Six years since I lost him, and he thinks it’s okay to waltz back into my life and point out the fact that I haven’t dated, I haven’t got laid, I—

  Then it hit me. I was getting angry with… What exactly was he? A ghost? A figment of my imagination? What was the point in getting stressed about something that was in my head?

  By the time I was at my desk, the snow already melted from my boots, a cup of coffee next to my monitor, and the swirl of morning chatter all around me, the world had been restored to its natural balance.

  Until something firm hit me on the shoulder.

  I whirled around, expecting to see one of my co-workers, only to be confronted with Mike’s dick. I glared up at him. Would you be careful with that thing?

  He grinned. I know. I could put someone’s eye out with it. He glanced around the office. So anybody new on the scene I should be aware of? Anyone around here who gets your heart pumping?

  If I could have snorted out loud, I would have done.