Do I smell like sex now?
Do I smell like roses?
Yes.
Also yes.
”Rachel...” It was supposed to be a warning, but it comes out like an invitation. Her lips seem to plump at the sound. Her tongue moves over them, preparing. Her eyes fix on my mouth. I can’t actually do this, can I?
“You have to,” she whispers. “Please, Milo. Just let yourself go.” The hand locked in my hair pulls back as the other comes up to trace my lips.
“There’s so much you don’t understand,” I force out, hating and loving myself for saying it.
“And so much you don’t.” That playful smile spreads to her eyes. “Which is the worst sin? Ignorance or arrogance?”
I can’t help but laugh.
“You, Milo Marchesi, are the most stubborn man I’ve ever met.”
“Am I?”
“Yes, but lucky for you, I can be stubborn as well.”
Sparks snap against my lips when she leans in, fire of the sweetest kind that burns through flesh to the recesses of my soul. There she is, shining her light through my void, spilling up through sensitive nerve endings and ancient longings.
How long since I felt? Since I craved anything the way I crave this woman? Ever? Impossible since love wasn’t present until now. I’d suffer it all again to have this moment. To share someone’s light, not as a leech but as a caretaker. Because I will treasure her gift, store it in the hole that suddenly feels less empty.
Her other hand threads into my hair as well, holding me against her as if she fears I’m the one who will disappear. Hilarious, since I seem to be the only one in this mess who’s trapped. Still, I understand. My own fingers crush the fabric of her dress, holding on so tight she’d have to take me with her if she left.
“Milo.” She breathes my name, letting it flow out of her lungs and into mine. I take it, transform it into a promise and give it back with my own breath. This is the kiss she meant. This is love transformed by fire.
She tugs at the hem of my shirt, assertive in a way that surprises me. I help her pull it over my head and wait as she decides what to do with me. Her eyes caress my skin. Her hunger is pure, real, lasting, and I nearly flinch at the electricity of her touch.
I try to remain still as she explores my body. It’s almost impossible when her touch becomes more aggressive, more demanding as it moves over my arms and down my chest. But I sense that this has to happen in sequence. I can be patient. I’ve waited forever. I have forever.
“I wish I could hear your music,” she says, running her finger over the outline of the guitar on my ribs. My breath is stilted from the tingles she gives me. I never want her to stop touching me.
“My music wasn’t right for this moment.” I swallow the rest of the confession. She’s seen my visions.
“Your music was beautiful.”
“You never heard it.”
“I don’t have to. It came from the good part of you. The part you are now.”
I blink away the stars that suddenly burn in my eyes. Worse than tears, I think. The stars blind.
I brace my hands against the floor to catch our weight when she shifts to straddle me. Pushing her hands up my chest, she locks them around my neck and sinks down hard on my hips. A groan rises in my throat. Does she know what she’s doing to me? By the glint in her eyes and the subtle adjustment of her body, I think she does. “Do you know what I thought the first time I saw you fully in my room?”
“I’m not sure I want to,” I say with a smirk.
“I thought I was dreaming. You were so gorgeous lying on my carpet, sketching in that notebook. You were like a painting or something. You couldn’t be real.”
She tugs at a lock of my hair, studying it in her fingers. “And your eyes.” Her chest rises and falls as she focuses, searching for something inside me. “I’m not even talking about the color. You know you have beautiful eyes. What you might not know is how they flood with depth and everything you’ve suffered. It’s impossible to look away once you start. I needed you to want me too. I waited so long for you. I needed you to see me, Milo.”
She locks my face in her hands, pleading with me for reasons I still don’t understand. How can this angel want a monster like me?
“What exactly do you want?” I ask, barely breathing.
“I already told you. Everything.” She’s so sure. So fucking confident. My chest clenches.
I can’t give you everything, Rachel.
“Of course you can. Just let yourself go. Let me in, and we can complete each other.”
Her lips meet mine again, insistent this time. Maybe I can let go, this once, give her what she thinks she wants so when she learns the truth it’ll be easier.
I push up from the floor to flip her over, pressing against her hips until her eyes are wide with anticipation. Wonder, curiosity, all the things that prove she’s too good for me. Am I really going to do this? Are you, Milo? Are you still a monster?
Anger bubbles in my chest as I stare down at her. What a cruel joke, tossing innocence in front of the starving wolf. Here she is, open and begging to be my love. My light. My lie. And it’s then that the truth drops hard in my stomach. Maybe I love her too. Maybe she’s right. Maybe she is here for exactly this moment when I realize that love isn’t taking what you want; it’s letting go of what you shouldn’t have.
“Milo?”
I shake my head, considering her astronomic gift. How can I accept it? She doesn’t even know. Maybe I do love her, which is why I push off to land on the blankets beside her. My exhales expel in a staccato, matching the pounding rhythm of my heart.
Rachel, I have to tell you something.
I feel her reaction and can’t look at her.
I’m so sorry, I just…
WAIT, NO! Not now—
The vision hits before I can finish.
A skyline of empty bottles decorates the edge of Sinclair’s desk in the office that doubles as the green room of his notorious club. Green room, heh. There’s no color in Sinclair’s entire realm. Not real color, anyway. I study the glass structures from my place on the couch across the room. How many of those did I empty? At least three tonight. The show went fine despite the fact that the other guys hate me now and split the second we finished. They even left me to pack up on my own—assholes. Whatever. What do I care anymore? Sinclair wanted me to bring someone back tonight, but I didn’t. Not because I couldn’t bring myself to do it, but because I’m done with him, with everything. This is it, and tonight I’m telling him I don’t give a fuck about him or his connections or his lame-ass promises to get me out of Dump Town. I’m done with all his bullshit. Tonight he knows it, which is why I needed to be well-armored with booze first.
Footsteps clap outside the door, and I push myself up to a less vulnerable position. I don’t stand, though. No, he needs to know I don’t respect him. That I’m not afraid of him. Because I’m not. You have to care about shit to be afraid of losing it. There’s nothing I care about.
He stops cold when he sees me alone.
“What the hell, Milo? I thought I was clear you were supposed to bring a friend.”
I shrug and push higher on the cushion. Maybe the drinking wasn’t such a great idea I think as the room spins and Sinclair splits in two. Deep down the truth screams at me: You didn’t lubricate for courage. You lubricated to dull the pain of what’s coming. Because what’s coming is the one thing I’ve wanted for so long.
His gaze goes cold, lips pressing into a firm line that barely separates for the growl he pushes out. “Then get your lazy ass off my couch and find me someone.”
I brace myself against the armrest to stay up. “No.”
“Excuse me?” He takes a step forward, eyes bulging red. “I must not have heard you right.”
“Nope you got it. I said no. I’m not doing it anymore. In fact, I came here tonight to let you know I’m done. I’ll go back to pushing drugs and stealing shit from old ladies if I have to
, but I’m done with you and this twisted empire you have going here.” Now’s the hard part. Getting to my feet so I can walk away.
Somewhere in the distance I hear sobs. They can’t be mine; I’m solid in my standoff with Evil Incarnate. From another room? Maybe. Certainly wouldn’t be the first time this hell-hole has known tears. Still, these feel personal. I have to shake them off to focus back on my present. Walking away is my goal. Walking away because I know I can’t walk away. Sinclair will never let me which is how I’ll get free. I pull together everything I have left inside and start moving.
“Don’t you dare turn your back on me!”
Too late. My back is already turned, blind to the gun leveled at my head. But not blind, because I know it’s there. I always knew this is how it would end.
“Milo, stop. Don’t you take another step. No one walks away from me. No one, you bastard!”
I stare at the fractured wooden door before me. Splintered shards protrude from the surface in various places, testifying to the age and violence of this room. Stains paint a grotesque picture down the length of it, and for seven seconds I get to picture how my own blood will complete the mural. Fitting, I suppose. Will he clean it up when it’s over or leave it as a trophy? Serial killers love trophies. Do demons?
Seven.
Six.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
I take my last step.
Into death.
Chapter Fourteen:
Miracles
I wake from this vision to a new kind of nausea. This one extends from my soul, pulsing in wave after wave of agony. Rachel doesn’t touch me as she watches. Horrified, she just stares. When I regain my breath, she studies me, fists clenched.
“Tell me it’s not true.” Her voice is only a whisper. “Tell me you’re not…”
I close my eyes, sucking in the little air that’s left in here.
A sob rushes from her lips, and she covers her mouth with both hands. “No. No! You’re… dead?”
I can’t look at her anymore. I’m more than dead. I’m dissolved particles in her world, a trapped spirit in mine. “I’m not like you, Rachel. I don’t know why we were put together. A sick joke I think. Probably another punishment for my sins.”
Her fists ball in an angry blockade between us. “And what about me? What did I do to get this punishment?”
I have no answer to that. Haven’t I wondered the same thing? “What did you think was happening?” I manage instead. Not to comfort her of course; we’re beyond that. Just... I need something to make sense.
The dam breaks on her emotions. “I thought you were like me. We were soulmates. I thought I was in your head and your heart because we were supposed to find each other and finish life together. Then we were going to move on and—”
Suddenly she’s flying at me, screaming curses and swinging furious limbs. “You let me fall in love with you! I love you, Milo.” Her palms smash into my cheeks; her fists beat at my chest. But the blows are nothing compared to the pain of her tears, her sobs searing my heart. “You let me believe we had a future, and this whole time you’ve been dead? You’re not even real!”
I swallow and remain still as she bears down on me. What defense do I have? She’s not wrong. Which is the worse sin: ignorance or arrogance? How about both. I let her lash out. Over and over her pain gushes out in an onslaught of rage. She must have really loved me to hate me so much now. And so I let her hate me, despise every awful thing I am. Secretly, it’s a relief, freeing me to return to my prison without the guilt of dragging this beautiful creature with me. For minutes she screams, rages, until finally, she stops. Broken, she melts against my chest and clings to me. I can’t even prevent my arms from enveloping her and holding her there.
“What do we do?” she asks through tears I let sink into my skin. I hope they stay with me long after she decides to leave.
“I don’t know,” I say quietly. “I never loved in life. I don’t know how to love in death.”
Her fingers run over my arm as she holds on. “But you feel so real.”
“I am real. Just not the kind of real that matters.”
She doesn’t respond. Each brush of her soft skin on mine shatters me a little more. When will she rip off the bandage? It feels like forever and not nearly enough as she traces my outline, as if memorizing me. I don’t dare to do the same.
“Milo?” Her voice is like balm, covering my open wounds.
“Yeah?”
“What if this isn’t a cosmic joke?” She pulls herself up and studies my face.
I’d laugh if I had any humor left in me. “A living girl of the light falling for a dead boy of the dark? That’s pretty messed up, don’t you think?”
She nods. “Yes, exactly. So what if it’s not a joke. What if it’s more than that?”
Like what?
A plan.
My fingers play along Rachel’s forearms as she sits tucked against my chest. My back is to the wall, and there is nothing about this moment I’d change. We haven’t said much since the reality of our situation settled in, but the fact that she’s still here, still holding onto me is a miracle I never thought I’d see. Every so often she releases a soft sigh that tickles the nerves throughout my body. The scent of roses fills the air, and I find my nose inching ever closer to the dark tresses of her hair. In this moment, I don’t hate the prospect of forever. I force away the sudden clench in my stomach.
“Tell me something about you,” I murmur against her ear. I love the way she shivers, and her fingers sink into my thighs.
“Like what?”
“Anything. It’s not fair that you get to be in my head and I can’t be in yours.”
She quiets for a moment, and I almost wish I could see the way her forehead creases when she’s thinking. Almost, because that would require shifting from this position. “Why is that do you think? Because I’m alive or because you’re dead?”
Wow, the questions we’re going to have to consider… “I don’t know. Maybe both? You’re stalling. Tell me something. Hmm… maybe how old you are?”
I love how I can feel her entire body smile. Is mine smiling too? “Twenty-one. You?” She stiffens I bit. “I mean… when you… you know… died.”
“Twenty-four.”
The silence is less awkward, but I don’t like the tone change in her voice when she says, “Milo?”
“Yeah?”
“What was it like dying?”
It’s an interesting question. Expected even, I guess. Still, how do you answer something like that? “I think it’s probably different for everyone. For me”—I close my eyes, picturing the splintered door, hearing Sinclair’s warnings behind me, the click of a safety, the shout of a man who’d lost. Despite it all, a smile plays on my lips—“For me it was a relief. I didn’t know about the rest.”
“The rest?”
“This.” I release my hand just enough to motion around us.
“Your basement.” She says it with the same finality I feel. My basement. My death. My penance. My prison. My hope. My freedom. My miracle.
My. Basement.
“The visions. Are they a part of your afterlife?”
“I think so. There aren’t any instruction manuals, believe me, but from what I can tell we relive the past.”
“Good and bad?”
Hmm. I’d never thought of it before. I don’t remember any good visions, but I’m not sure there was much from my life to reflect.
“I don’t know. I always assumed it was just the bad. Like, a way to purge it from your soul to free it.”
“Except you took it too far.” She burrows into me.
“Maybe.” All I know for sure anymore is that I know nothing. “But we’re talking about you. Tell me something else.”
“Like what?” She’s suddenly shy, and I can’t stop my fingers from digging into her side, eliciting a giggle.
“Like anything.”
&
nbsp; With a sigh, she settles back when I stop. “I love music,” she says finally. “Like really love music. I’ve always wanted to play, but…” She shakes off the thought and starts tracing the fabric of my jeans. “Anyway, I wish you’d play. I think you’d be magnificent.”
A weight sinks through my chest as I consider her words. “I’ve heard you sing. You have a beautiful voice.”
She twists around, startled. “I sang to you?”
“Of course. You don’t remember? After I fell from the window. You were here when I woke up.”
“Yes, I remember that. I’ve never been so scared in my life… I sang?”
I’m starting to get unsettled by her confusion. “Yes. You really don’t remember this?” Because I’ll never forget it. “It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever heard.”
She doesn’t look convinced as she turns the rest of the way so she’s facing me. Her eyes, blue crystals searching my face.
Maybe she starts to believe me when her expression softens. “What did I sound like?”
I smile at the wonder in her voice. “Like a summer breeze over the ocean.”
She laughs and balances her palms against my shoulders. “That doesn’t sound very beautiful.”
“Well, it didn’t sound like that. It felt like that. To me anyway,” I add.
Her lips part as her eyes scan my features, and for once I’m not afraid. She’s seen the worst. If she’s still willing to look, I’ll let her. Delicate fingers lift to my cheek, slide down to my jaw and rest on my mouth.
“Will you sing something for me?” she whispers, watching my lips.
Sing something. As if it were that easy. “I have a better idea.”
“What’s that?”
I absorb her weight as I pull her into me. Our kiss is gentle at first, the tentative spark of the unexpected. She even flinches before melting into me and pushing her hands into my hair. I grip her tresses, cup her cheek. Our lips move in lazy arousal, then more urgently when that’s not enough. She frees her hands to shove me away from the wall. My muscles constrict with sweet tension when I learn it’s to make room for her legs to lock around my back. She comes down hard on my hips.
Haunted Melody: A Ghost Story Page 9