by T. L. Martin
It takes me a moment to find my voice. “You should do that more.”
“What?”
“Laugh. It suits you.”
His expression turns thoughtful. “I don’t think I’ve ever done it before.”
“Never?”
He shakes his head, sticking one hand into the pocket of his jeans as he spreads his legs.
“Wow.” I don’t like seeing the way verbalizing that realization makes his face fall, so I let myself smile coyly, trying to lighten the mood. “So I’m the first girl to ever make you laugh, hmm?”
He angles his head toward me, looking at me long and hard. There’s nothing ‘light’ about the way he slowly says, “You’re the first girl to make me do a lot of things.”
A shiver runs down my back, and I’m pretty sure my heart actually skips a beat. There are so many things I can say to that, but I have no idea what direction to take this in.
The knock at the door makes me jump, before quickly filling me with relief. I’m off the hook. For now. “Just a second.” I push myself up from the loveseat and cross the room, already missing his warmth when I reach the door and pull it open.
Claire’s big, blue eyes meet my gaze, and I know something’s off. Even her smile can’t hide the broken look behind her expression. “Hey,” she says softly, “mind if I hang out here for a little bit before heading home?”
Shoot. I glance over my shoulder to see him watching us. He squints, rubs his chin, then motions to let her in. I arch a brow, and I mouth, You sure? After what happened last time I had a guest while he was present, I don’t know if this is such a good idea. But the corner of his lips tip up, eyes glimmering with something—amusement?—when he mouths back, You won’t even realize I’m here.
I snort aloud and roll my eyes, knowing just how unlikely that is, and his mouth curves deeper until his dimple shows. There’s something wolfish in that crooked smile, giving me the urge to swallow.
“Lou?” Claire’s gentle voice pulls my attention back to her, and she peeks around me, trying to get a better look at my apparently empty room. “Sorry, did I interrupt? Do you already have company?”
“Oh—no, sorry. Of course you can hang out here.” I step aside to let her enter, then lock the door behind her. Just a crazy person laughing at an empty room, that’s me.
I turn back to face her, trying my best to avoid looking over at the 6’4” man lounging on my loveseat. Not easy to do when, out of the corner of my eye, I can still see him observing me, sitting back comfortably like he’s at a drive-in and I’m his entertainment for the evening.
“Mmm, it’s nice and cozy in here,” Claire murmurs, already unbuttoning her coat.
“Yeah, just turned off the fireplace,” I lie, before narrowing my eyes accusingly at him. Won’t even realize I’m here, my ass. Not that he can do anything about that, I suppose.
He just smirks, stretching his legs out further.
Claire drapes her coat over the rocking chair, then closes her eyes and heaves a deep breath. A second later, she opens them again and curves her pink-glossed lips upward, but it’s forced. “Thanks. I should’ve called first, I know—”
“Hey, you can always drop by. Okay?”
Her entire posture relaxes, and she gives me the first genuine smile since she showed up. “Thank you.”
I step toward her, my brows furrowing. “You all right?”
“Of course I am.” Her eyes dart to the ground before coming back up. “Just, Dylan’s been so busy. He just took on an extra job, and . . . anyway, he’s a hard worker and I totally support him, I do.” She pauses, chewing on the inside of her cheek and shuffling her feet. “But this is the third time he’s cancelled on me this week and, well, obviously I’m the kind of girl that does better around company, huh? Hello, I’m Little Miss Chatterbox over here.”
She chuckles weakly at that, and I hate it. I hate how that jerk’s actions are making her talk about herself as though some of the best parts of who she is might actually be faults. I want to tell her that, too. That she deserves better, and Dylan doesn’t deserve to feel the warmth of her constant sunshine. He’s a leech, and leeches suck you dry until there’s nothing left to give. But something about the way her kind eyes are wide and vulnerable, it makes me think maybe the quieter side of friendship will be better for her soul right now.
“Loners like me need people like you in the world, Claire. Otherwise we’d spend all day talking to our invisible friends, never leaving our room.”
She laughs, a full-hearted belly laugh that makes me smile.
I glance over at my own personal invisible friend and quirk my head at the soft expression that’s taken over his face. His eyes are still observant, but they’re also warm, gentle, and his lips tilt up when our eyes connect. A flock of butterflies take flight in my stomach at such a sweet look, and I give him a little smile back before returning my attention to Claire. “So what’s it going to be? Dance party or sing off?”
Her mouth opens, and she shakes her head. “Uh-uh, no way. I’m actually a terrible dancer, and I only sing in the shower.”
“Hey, you’re the one who knocked on my door, and it just so happens I’m in a dancing mood now that I finally got my music back. You’re welcome to sit and watch but . . . that might get a little awkward.”
She lets out another laugh. “Okay, fine. Can I borrow some of your clothes, though? These jeans are way too tight to dance in.”
“Yup, right over here.” I take her to my dresser and let her pick out a pair of shorts and a top, then lead her into the bathroom.
When I turn back around, Death is standing. One hand rests in his pocket, the other rubs the side of his sharp jaw. “It was good seeing you, Lou.”
My heart flutters at the simple words. For a second, it sounds like he’s a normal guy, just hanging out with a girl. For a second, it feels like whatever this is between us could be real. For a second, I even believe it. I have to close my eyes briefly to shake the thought away. When I open them again, he’s taking a careful step toward me.
“Can I see you again? Would you . . .” His gaze flicks down, then slowly rises back up. “Would that be okay with you?”
My chest. It’s about to burst. I nod for a moment as I try to find my voice, tension thickening the air around us. When I finally respond, my sarcasm coping mechanism kicks in before I can stop it, “Anytime, Grim.”
“Grim?”
I glance up at him and bat my lashes innocently. “Yeah. You know, as in the Grim Reaper.”
A look of confusion crosses over his handsome face. “Who?”
“Seriously?” I feel my shoulders relax, almost forgetting the tension as my mouth falls open. “Death himself doesn’t know who the Grim Reaper is?”
His eyes narrow, brows pucker. “Should I?”
I chuckle softly. “I guess not. It feels weird calling you Death, though, so I thought I’d try it out. You don’t like it?”
The crease in his brows deepens, and he looks like he’s genuinely considering it. “I don’t know.”
“No, you’re right. It’s still way too morbid. How about if I drop the ‘rim’ and just call you G?” His nose crinkles. “Ghost boy?” He shakes his head, a smile toying with the corner of his lips. “Gumdrop?”
“Goodnight, Lou.” His dimple flashes, head still shaking as he fades.
It’s quicker this time, the way it starts, a translucent shimmer of color until there’s nothing at all, and his sudden absence hurts me in a way I’ve never experienced before. I feel the light in my eyes die down, the pounding strum in my chest quiets, the air around me returns to its natural cool chill, and I just want him to come back.
I want him to stay.
It’s not until the bathroom door clicks and Claire steps out that it hits me: Tonight, he had a choice. He was able to leave at will. He wasn’t here because he had to be.
A rush of air pours out of me at the realization, like my lungs are being released from a hold I didn
’t even know they were trapped in.
He was here, with me, because he wanted to be.
Chapter 27
Sometimes all it takes are the little details to make us step back for a second, look around, and realize . . . Hey, I’m okay. For me, it started with the way I dressed this morning. Not what I wore, but how I went about selecting the outfit. While I’d usually just throw something together based on the weather or practicality, today I took my time flipping through my jeans and tops, even stopping to check their fit in the mirror. Next was my hair. Instead of just a quick brush and dash, I did a full blow dry. I glossed my lips and added mascara, just for the hell of it. It didn’t matter that it’s a cleaning day, I did it for me, and damn if it didn’t feel good.
The nightly visits with my Death might have a little something to do with it. Or a lot. Wait, what? Whoa there, Lou—not my Death. Just Death. The Death of the people. Nothing to see but equal Death opportunity rights here.
I’m smiling as I stroll up Main Street, unable to push him out of my mind, and not wanting to either. I haven’t commented on the fact that he’s coming over on his own accord now, but he has to know I’ve figured it out. It’s not as though he’s trying to hide it. It’s Wednesday and he hasn’t missed a single night.
There are a lot of things we haven’t discussed yet, and I realize I should use his visits to ask important questions; I even plan on doing that very thing every day before he shows up.
But then . . . well, he shows up. With those smoky eyes fixed on me, and that elusive dimple making an appearance here and there.
I can’t suppress another smile when I think of the few laughs I’ve pulled out of him, each one mentally recorded as the clearest and most addictive reel in my mind. I’m still the more talkative one, but I don’t mind. Not when I see the way he hangs onto every little thing I say. His expression reveals more these days than it ever has before. The way one corner of his lips slowly curves up when he quietly watches me, or the way he presses them together when he’s trying not to laugh at something ridiculous I’ve said.
But sometimes, at random intervals when we’re talking, I see these fleeting moments where his expression goes serious. He’ll get quiet, face falling and eyes darkening, and I know he’s thinking about the stark reality of our situation.
I know this because it hits me in spurts like that, too. The fact this shouldn’t be possible. That we both know nothing good can come of it. That we come from entirely different universes and shouldn’t fit together as well as we do. And that something must be terribly wrong in order for any of this to even be occurring. My throat thickens at the thought, a wave of nerves rolling through me.
But just when I think he’s going to be the first one between us to voice these thoughts aloud, he seems to do the same thing I do—shove it away into the furthest corner of his mind.
Just until tomorrow.
It’s always just until tomorrow.
Mr. Blackwood isn’t home when I arrive at his place, which seems to be a bit of a theme for him lately. The moment I step past the front door, I notice he’s actually organized his papers for once. There are still a few scattered notes here and there, but there’s also a new accordion filing system tucked right beneath his coffee table.
I get right to work, and it takes extra effort today for me to avoid the guest room. I decide to skip that room again and instead focus my time on cleaning the main living areas. It’s not because I don’t want to dig around that particular bedroom some more, but because I do. I want to yank that manila folder from the bedsprings, pour out all of its contents, and find out what the rest of the messages say. Then I want to unclasp the accordion filing system sitting not ten feet away from me and flip through every piece of paper tucked inside. But, I won’t. I won’t because I need to give Mr. Blackwood a chance to clear this up with me himself. I won’t because I don’t want to put a dent in our already paper-thin relationship.
But he better get back soon because the curiosity is scratching at my back and I can’t take much more.
Just then, the sound of keys jingling pulls my attention to the front of the room, the door swings open, and in walks Mr. Blackwood. Well, not so much walks as stumbles. And I’m not talking about his usual limp either; this is a full on drunken stupor type of stumble. A loud clank fills my ears as he tumbles right into the coffee table, grunts, and wobbles in place for a second as he tries to get his bearings. I’ve dropped the rag and spray bottle and am already rushing his way, reaching him just in time to pull his arm over my shoulders for support before he loses his balance completely.
“You stink,” I mutter, carefully setting him onto the sofa. I’m used to the faint scent of whiskey lingering on him, but today he smells like he dumped a full bottle over his head and then rolled around in the dirt.
“Good morning to you, too,” he slurs, “you ray of sunshine, you.”
I snort and place a hand on my hip. “What would you know about rays of sunshine, Mr. Doom and Gloom?”
“I know more . . . I know more than . . . hey, where’s my drink?” He shoves his right hand inside his coat, digging around the inner pockets, but I beat him to it and snag his hidden flask before he even knows what’s happening. His white brows furrow, his thin body swaying as he takes a moment to center his eyes on me. “Give it back,” he grumbles. “I’m thirsty.”
“Oh? Would you like me to get you a glass of water?”
He scoffs. It’s loud and exaggerated, and I’ve never seen him in quite this state. Not only is he far more inebriated than usual, but his brows seem glued downward, his eyes distant and bitter. I go into the kitchen and pour a glass of water anyway, setting it in front of him when I return.
“Mr. Blackwood,” I begin, keeping my eyes trained on his as I settle into the recliner beside him, “where have you been going lately? You taking a break on your research?”
The look he throws my way is hard and cold. “None o’ your business.”
So that’s how we’re playing this.
“Okay.” I keep my voice nonchalant. “You don’t wanna tell me where you disappear to, that’s fine.” I press my lips together. “But I do want some answers.”
His eyes narrow. “Answers to what.” He barks it out like a statement, not a question.
“That’s up to you. You can either tell me how you knew Grams . . .” I pause, looking for a reaction from him, but he doesn’t give me one, “or, you can tell me why there’s a hidden folder in your guest room with messages that say ‘Save me.’”
His face goes slack for only a second before his jaw, buried beneath a scraggly beard, shifts from side to side as he grinds his teeth. I fold my legs beneath me, curling into the cushion, and let out a loud sigh that tells him I’m not going anywhere until he dishes.
“And how in the hell would you know anything about what’s hidden in a house that is not yours?” His words are tight, controlled, as though my comment alone was almost enough to sober him up.
“I wasn’t snooping, Mr. Blackwood. I dropped something under the bed and bumped into the folder when I went to grab it. A few pages came tumbling out, but that’s it, okay? That’s all I saw.”
For a minute, he just stares at me, eyes stone-cold and unmoving in a way I’ve never seen from him. But then, his gaze drops to the ground. One wrinkled hand scrubs down his face. He leans back against the padded pillows and eyes the flask still in my hand. “If we’re gonna do this, I need that back.”
I have to force my jaw not to drop. He’s really going to talk to me about this? He’s going to answer my questions for once?
“The damn whiskey, child,” he snaps. “Give it here.”
“Oh. Right.” I lean forward, hand him the bottle, then settle back into the recliner. I realize I probably shouldn’t just hand the drink over to him when he’s already so wasted, but if that’s what it’s going to take to get him to talk, so be it.
Several seconds pass while he twists the thing open, gulps it down,
and seals it back up with a satisfied sigh. After tucking it securely back into his pocket, he pushes up from the sofa with his fists, knees shaking for a moment before he steadies himself into a standing position.
“Mr. Blackwood, what are you doing?”
Ignoring me entirely, he takes a few short steps toward the cane resting against the armrest—the one that’s always there even though he never uses it, ever—and grabs its brown handle. He leans onto it, adjusting his weight, then turns around, limps his way past me, opens the front door, and walks right out. Not a word. Not a glance in my direction. He just shuts the door behind him, leaving me dumbfounded on the recliner.
Dammit. I should have known it wasn’t going to be so easy.
Chapter 28
Where’s he going anyway? I pop up from the seat and dash toward the front window, shoving the curtain aside just enough to peer out. Mr. Blackwood is stumbling down the winding pathway, inching toward the enormous iron gates. Huh. At least he didn’t try to drive in his condition. Still, he can’t expect me to just let him walk away on his own like this, can he? There’s a steep dip just on the other side of those gates, and I don’t know if a cane is going to be enough to keep him steady through it.
Without another thought, I push past the front door and jog after him. “Wait! Mr. Blackwood, wait!” He slows but doesn’t stop or turn around to face me. “At least let me help you down the hill. Please.”
He pauses just as I reach him, but he keeps his chin toward the gates. “What ever happened to ‘I keep to myself, you keep to yours?’” He quotes my words from the first day we met, and guilt surges through me.
“Look . . . I just want to make sure you get to the bottom safely, okay? I’ll keep my mouth shut.”
He turns then, full circle, so he faces me head on. “Listen, Lou, and listen good. I hired you for Tallulah. You got that?”
My eyes widen at the unexpected mention of Grams, but I keep my mouth shut as promised and give a simple nod.
“The least I can do is give her granddaughter some work.” His expression hardens, and such a look reminds me of someone, but I can’t place the familiarity. “But I’m no one’s charity case. I’m not a project to figure out. I’m not some ridiculous, superficial means of getting closer to Tallulah. And we, you and I, are not friends. I’m your employer. Now, if what you stumbled upon in my house bothers you so much, by all means quit. Won’t make a damn difference to me.” He quiets, letting those words sink in before adding, “Otherwise, I’m paying you to clean my crappy house, meaning what you will do while you are here is clean my crappy house. Nothing more, nothing less. Do I make myself clear?”