Must Love Ghosts (Banshee Creek Book 1)

by Gonzalez, Ani

  "Don't worry, I stole some for you. They're in the truck with the pizza."

  Abby clapped her hands in glee.

  "The Botánica was practically cleaned out, which is incredible because Yolanda had ordered three times her usual inventory."

  "How did she know to do that?" Mike asked.

  Abby rolled her eyes.

  "The orishas told her, I bet."

  "Hey, don't joke," Zach interjected. "She made so much money, she's going to expand her business. And I'm thinking of doing the same. Caine may have come up with something good."

  "You're going to expand the pizzeria?" Abby asked, excited.

  "Maybe," Zach shrugged. "Or at least do a complete remodel." He paused. "But, first, I'd have to get my dad to agree to it." He looked thoroughly daunted by this prospect.

  "Anyway," he went on. "Your pizza's in my truck and it's getting cold." He looked down at his injured arm. 'Unfortunately, I'm going to need some help."

  "I'll bring it in," Mike said, happy to be finished with a conversation about people he didn't know in a town he wasn't familiar with.

  "Don't forget the donuts," Abby shouted, as he followed Zach out of the house.

  They crossed the street and walked towards an old truck.

  And Mike fell in love.

  The love of his life appeared to be a light blue 1967 Chevrolet C10 short bed truck. It looked in mint condition and it had a Virginia Vintage Motors license plate holder.

  "I don't suppose you're selling this baby," he said. "You know, to pay for the pizzeria remodel?"

  Zach's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Have you been talking to my mom? She's been trying to get me to sell my truck all year." He patted the chassis lovingly. "But I'm not getting rid of my baby. Never."

  "You got it restored here?" Mike asked, remembering the body shop he'd seen on Main Street.

  "Yep. Rafe at Vintage Motors is a gee-nius. He's the car whisperer. And it's not just restored. It's fully customized. This baby has a brand new V-8 engine with turbo transmission and dual exhaust."

  He opened the driver's door.

  "Check that out."

  The interior was spotless, with light gray leather seats and a gleaming wood steering wheel. This was one gorgeous vehicle.

  "Does it ever break down?"

  Zach snorted.

  "Every day of the week and twice on Sundays." He looked at the truck fondly. "You're a high maintenance lady, aren't you, Bessie?"

  Bessie? He'd named a vintage Chevy truck Bessie? What kind of name was that for a piece of automotive art?

  "You know, Rafe has a sweet Jeep in his lot now," Zach continued, extracting a large pizza box from the passenger seat.

  "Does he?" Mike said, unable to hide his interest.

  "Yep, it's not old so it's not a restoration. It's more of a custom job. Call of Duty model with all the options and a pimped up interior."

  "Sounds nice," Mike said, struggling to maintain a nonchalant tone to his voice.

  "Yeah, well, I'm sure he'll sell it soon." Zach handed him the pizza. "Here you go. Oh, I almost forgot." He took out a six-pack of beer and a cellophane bag tied with a pink and orange ribbon. The tag on the bag read, "Banshee Creek Bakery."

  "Here." He handed the beer and the bag to Mike. "Abby will kill you if you forget her donuts." He nodded at the six-pack. "Those are freebies. You don't strike me as a sangría type of guy."

  "Thanks," he said with undisguised sincerity. He could really use a beer right about now.

  "No problem." Zach walked to the driver's side and climbed in, rather clumsily.

  "Um, are you sure you should be driving this thing?"

  "Sure." He slammed the heavy metal door. "This thing practically drives itself."

  He turned the key in the ignition. The engine grumbled but didn't turn over.

  Zach slammed his hand on the steering wheel.

  "Damn it, this is what I get for flirting with other cars." He turned the key again. "I didn't mean it, baby. Really, I didn't. I was just trying to convince Private Ryan here to buy Rafe's Jeep. I swear."

  The engine finally started, and Zach patted the dashboard lovingly.

  "Good girl," he crooned.

  "Um," Mike cleared his throat. "I hate to interrupt you two, but how much do I owe you?"

  "It's on Abby's tab," Zach said, releasing the parking brake. "You guys can pay it at the end of the month. Great to meet you."

  Mike watched as Zach drove off. "You guys"? That was a weird choice of words. He and Abby weren't a "you guys."

  But, as he walked back to Abby's colorful Victorian house, carrying pizza and cold beer, he had to admit one thing.

  He wanted them to be.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ABBY LIGHTED the candles and stepped back to admire her handiwork. The dining room was clean, which was no small feat, and she'd scrounged up a vintage tablecloth from the linen closet and pair of silver candleholders from the mantle. The plates were mismatched and she had mason jars instead of wineglasses, but, with the lights dimmed down and soft candlelight, her plain wood table and mismatched chairs looked almost romantic.

  True, the tablecloth was embroidered with pastel-colored fairies and the candleholders were shaped like tentacles, but, hey, romance.

  Maybe too much romance?

  She bit her lip, suddenly uncertain. Wasn't this kind of fast? Then again—she glanced stealthily at the living room rug—that had been kind of fast too.

  She was about to chicken out and put the tentacle candlesticks back in the cupboard when the front door opened. Mike was back. The intoxicating smell of Franco Pizza's Marinara Apocalypse special with extra garlic spread throughout the room and her stomach growled loudly.

  So much for romance.

  Mike laughed and set the pizza box on the table. She frowned at the six-pack he placed next to the container. That was Zach's handiwork. He had no faith on her ability to make sangría.

  "Your place cleans up nice," he said, sitting down in front of a gold-edged porcelain plate with yellow roses. He fiddled with the pizza box, trying to open it.

  "We try," Abby answered, joining him at the table. "So, did you try to buy Bessie?"

  He jerked guiltily and dropped the cardboard lid.

  "Don't feel bad," Abby said, laughing. "All the guys fall in love with Bessie, but she's a one-man truck."

  "So I'm told." He smiled ruefully, opened the box, and reached over for her plate. "So that was your guitarist?"

  "Yep," she said, accepting a warm slice of pizza smothered in toppings. "We hoped he'd be able to play again..."

  Her voice trailed off and Mike looked at her, his blue eyes serious. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it quickly and focused intently on transferring an extremely gooey slice of pizza onto his plate.

  Abby's heart lurched. She poured out the sangría into the mason jars. "But that doesn't seem to be in the cards."

  Mike just looked at her, his eyes dark and serious, and she drank down her sangría, fighting back tears. Crap, she should have added more brandy.

  Like maybe the whole damn bottle.

  "But you're in a new band, now, right?" he said, opening a beer bottle.

  "It's not about me." She wiped a tear away. "I'm going to be okay. I just feel so horrible for him. I don't know what I would do if I couldn't sing." She looked down at her pizza glumly.

  "He's going to be fine." Mike's voice was gentle. "Now, eat your pizza."

  "You don't even know him," she said mulishly. But she picked up a fully loaded slice.

  "I know guys like him." He took a sip of beer. "I know a lot of guys like him. Way too many."

  His voice was bleak, and Abby instantly regretted starting this conversation. She had one friend who'd had a tragic accident and survived it. But how many friends had Mike lost, or seen crippled? She knew of at least one.

  Cole.

  She shied away from the thought. Zach, they were talking about Zach.

  "You can tel
l when someone's gonna make it," Mike said firmly, shaking off his gloom. "Zach's one of those people."

  "Really?" she asked, feeling a spark of hope.

  "Yep. He's looking forward, not back. Although," he pondered, frowning thoughtfully. "He really shouldn't be driving that truck."

  That made her laugh.

  "Right, he should sell it to you, right?"

  "Yes," Mike said, joining in her laughter. "He totally should."

  She smiled at him and took a bite of pizza. It was spicy and delicious.

  Mike, however, stared at the pizza slice on his plate. He took a cautious sniff, turned the plate around, and squinted at the crust.

  "What's wrong?" she asked.

  "This looks... different." His voice oozed disappointment.

  "It is different. It's Argentinean pizza. Take one bite. You'll love it."

  "This doesn't look like pepperoni," he said.

  "It's chorizo," she replied. "And it's better than pepperoni."

  Mike looked doubtful and who could blame him? "Better than pepperoni" set the bar pretty high.

  "C'mon," she crooned. "Give it a try. Mr. Franco's special sauce is amazing."

  He grimaced but picked up the slice and took a small, cautious, bite.

  Abby waited. This wouldn't take long.

  "Wow," Mike said, taking another bite. "This is amazing. Maybe he should expand that pizzeria."

  And that was the last thing he said for a long while. Abby smiled and set down to devour the pizza in reverent silence. A Franco pizza dinner was not conducive to social intercourse, the pizza was simply too good. It was an immersive culinary experience.

  After she'd happily ingested the last bite of delicious crust, she reached for the bag of donuts.

  But her companion snatched it first.

  "Hey," she said, stretching her hand. "Those are mine. Get your own donuts."

  "There's a whole bag," Mike replied, trying to pull the bag out of her reach. But he was too slow. She snatched it out of his hands and sat back down, cradling her warm, cinnamony prize.

  "Right," she said. "Half for tonight, and half for tomorrow morning."

  He looked at the bag, looking as if he was trying to gauge its holding capacity. He did not seem pleased by the results of his assessment.

  "You know," he drawled. "I run in the morning. I could, conceivably, drop by the bakery and pick up hot donuts."

  "What time? Patricia runs out of donuts pretty early."

  His eyes narrowed. "I'm an early riser, you know that."

  "Ha," she scoffed. "How early? You have no idea how far people will go for hot apple cider donuts."

  "Really early." He extended his hand for a donut. "Deal?"

  Abby considered it. She knew Mike's schedule like the back of her hand and he really was an early bird. Moreover, he had provided her with multiple orgasms, extremely high quality orgasms at that. That had to be worth something, right?

  Sure.

  But was it worth a full donut?

  She opened the bag, took out a powdery treat—damn, today was rum-glaze-with-cinnamon-sugar day—and grudgingly handed it over.

  Multiple orgasms were worth one rum-glaze-with-cinnamon-sugar donut.

  But just one.

  She savored her donut slowly, enjoying every single spicy, sticky bite. Delicious. This night was perfect—sex, pizza and apple cider donuts. She had to savor it slowly. It simply didn't get any better than this.

  Mike, however, ate his donut in one bite.

  Amateur. Should she reward his impulsive behavior with another donut? She pondered the pros and cons lazily.

  A loud bang, sounding very much like a gunshot, interrupted her reverie.

  "What the hell is that?" Mike asked, practically leaping out of his chair.

  Abby ignored the noise and continued eating her donut. But Mike ran to the window and looked out. He looked really worried.

  "Don't worry," she said, trying to reassure him. "It's not a gun. It's probably just a car backfiring. I don't know if you've noticed, but we have a lot of old cars in Banshee Creek."

  That was one part Rafe Ortega's shop and one part the crappy local economy. But the end result was the same—loud explosions were pretty common in this town.

  "I know it's not a gun, Abby," Mike replied crossly, looking out into the street. "I know what a gun sounds like."

  Abby crept up behind him, trying to peer out the window. Unfortunately, his rather large shoulders blocked the way. She couldn't see a thing.

  "This is something much worse," he said darkly.

  She stood on tiptoe, expecting to see an elderly vehicle with an incendiary muffler. But she didn't see a car, just a large group of people in costumes, milling around, and looking up at the skies. Another loud bang rang out and a group of girls in Sailor Moon cheered loudly.

  Mike's face was grim.

  "I think your friend Caine found some fireworks."

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  "CLOSED UNTIL Further Notice."

  Mike smiled as he read the pink and orange sign hung on the door of the Banshee Creek Bakery. A sticky note with a large smiley face taped to the bottom explained that the shop "will reopen at nine today, after a good night's sleep."

  The Halloween party had exhausted Banshee Creek and the bakery was not the only shop that was closed. Everything was shuttered, the pizza place, the Chinese restaurant, the library. The place looked like a ghost town.

  He chuckled. The place was a ghost town, after all.

  The only signs of life were the sanitation workers, busy hauling bags of trash into their truck and the guy from Virginia Vintage Motors, who was working on a Tang-colored Honda del Sol.

  The black Wrangler was still in the lot, sitting in a corner like a puppy waiting for a new home. But Mike turned away from the metal-clad succubus. He didn't need a souped-up Jeep with a customized motor, no matter how gorgeous it was. He needed a sensible car, something reliable with good gas mileage.

  Something solid. Something dependable.

  Something that didn't have eighteen-inch rims.

  He turned resolutely away from the car lot. It was a gorgeous fall morning, perfect for running. The air was cool and crisp, and he could get a couple of miles under his belt before the bakery opened. He'd planned to pick up some donuts, drop them by Abby's house and go for a run after, but the closed bakery mandated a change of plans. He'd go for a run first, then pick up the donuts.

  And he'd avoid the car lot like the plague.

  He set off down Main Street at a steady pace, checking Abby's house as he passed Hooded Owl Road. It was dark and quiet. Abby, like most of the town, probably wouldn't get up until noon.

  He kept running, increasing his speed, and Main Street quickly turned into Stuckeyville Parkway. Damn, this town was small, but Stuckeyville was gorgeous, a long, winding road flanked by well-kept farms, with the occasional horse or cow to break up the landscape. In less than thirty minutes, he'd already counted half-a-dozen abandoned silos. That was the likely explanation for the barn owl epidemic. No wonder the town was called Banshee Creek, there must be hundreds of screeching owls in the area.

  But it wasn't a bad place for settling down. He could tell why Abby liked it here. She'd found a good community where people looked out for one another. True, they were also looking for supernatural critters, but, hey, no one was perfect, right?

  He could come up with another reason why Abby would stay in Banshee Creek, but he didn't want to think about that. He picked up speed and ran until he hit a highway, then turned around. This was a tougher run because he was now jogging uphill. It was going to take him longer to return to town.

  Which was good because he wasn't looking forward to getting back to town.

  Oh, he wanted to get back to Abby. That wasn't the problem. He was dying to get back home and argue with her about donuts, or about organizing her music sheets, or about the mythical gremlin that supposedly lived in her attic and turned off the breakers whe
never she sang a D flat.

  He wanted to do all those things, and he wanted to do them for a very long time. He finally had the girl of his dreams, the question was, could he keep her?

  He very much doubted it. He'd never been good at long assignments. A childhood spent moving from home to home with all your belongings in an old plastic bag wasn't conducive to long-term planning, which, come to think of it, was something Abby should understand. After all, his first conversation with Abby had turned into an in-depth discussion of the eternal cardboard box vs. plastic bag dilemma. Abby was a staunch box fan, not surprising for someone whose most precious possession was a secondhand guitar covered in My Little Pony stickers.

  So where did that leave him? Nowhere.

  Nowhere with something he still had to do, a delivery he should have done when he'd first arrived. He'd failed in his duty. He'd gotten distracted.

  No, that wasn't quite it. He'd wanted to be distracted. He'd embraced the distraction.

  And now he was in big trouble. His easy-peasy, just-get-it-done delivery was now awkward as hell.

  Awkward and dangerous.

  He finally had a chance with Abby, a real chance. But the tiny package carefully stowed in the front pocket of his duffle bag could destroy that.

  He made the run last as long as he could, including an unscheduled detour to check out a couple of silos, but all good things have to end and his run was no exception. In short order, he found himself back on Main Street jogging toward Lavender House.

  The house looked less spooky in the early morning light. Or maybe it was the half-torn party banner hanging from a window and the eclectic collection of cans and bottles that littered the porch, not to mention the large signs on the porch that read "Mothman Rules" and "Virginia Welcomes Its New Alien Overlord." The place looked more like an eccentric frat house the morning after freshman rush, Gamma Warlock Gamma or Phantom Omega.

  A dark shape crossed the porch, triggering Mike's suspicions. The town was empty, everyone was fast asleep, and the house was locked up for the day. Who was wandering around Lavender House?

  He crossed the street and neared the house, but he didn't see anything. He walked around the yard, stepping carefully around the discarded cans.