"Are you always so ornery?"
She peers at me from under the hood she just slipped over her head. She should look ridiculous, instead, she looks cute as hell.
I don't know if she had a shower, that weird scent of old-lady lavender and toilet air freshener is still there, but the whorls of hair at her temple are damp and a few beads of moisture still cling to her throat.
In a pair of jeans, a clean T-shirt, and sneakers, she shouldn't look as appealing as she does.
I've never appreciated jeans. Not even on the opposite sex. Apparently, the crisis of loss has altered this part of my character too.
Figures.
"Well? Are you?" I repeat, when she makes no bones about replying.
"I'm ornery because I can be ornery."
"That's no answer."
She studies me a second, then does the damnedest thing. Leans over, and with a single finger, traces it over my left eyebrow.
The instant she does, everything in me tightens. From my skin to my senses. The taut twist of my guts, the wrench around my heart from David's loss... for countless seconds, it hurts more, and then it releases.
When it does, a breath gusts from my lips, and I seek her gaze with mine. She looks as stunned as I feel, almost stupefied by the tsunami-like reaction of that one simple touch.
My breath gusted, while hers shudders from her. She takes a shaky step back, then holds up a hand when I make to follow her.
"We need to go," she whispers, her voice anything but snappish now.
Breathy, yet somehow guttural, it hits me right where it counts.
With an erection imminent, I clear my throat. "Okay. Where to?"
"I don't know. We need to follow Casper."
I refrain from asking about Casper until we're heading out the door of her building. I make to hail a cab but she shakes her head. "No, Casper is old. He doesn’t like automobiles."
She starts down the sidewalk, and does something I haven't seen since I was a child—actively avoids the cracks in the cement.
Deciding that not knowing won't kill me, even though she's garnering odd looks when she has to leap from one paved block to the next, I ask, "Who's Casper?"
That has her pausing to frown at me, almost like she forgot I was there. As she answers, she starts walking like a normal person. "He's one of my entourage."
"Yes, I gathered. But who is he?"
"He died at the Alamo."
"He was a rebel?"
"You needn't sound so disapproving. It was a long time ago."
Reddening a little, I shrug. "I'm not disapproving. It's just odd that's all."
"I talk to ghosts, Edwin. Who those ghosts are, are the least of my worries."
"Drake. You can call me Drake."
"Why would I want to?"
Her curtness makes me smile. "I think you know why."
She ignores me, but as we make a left, I watch her eyes widen with pleasure. A food truck is hovering at the side, a small queue of folk waiting to be served.
Jason heads to the back of the line before I can complain about any need to be hasty. Almost like she hears my internal grumbling, she says, "This will take two minutes."
"The minutes add up," I retort.
"Maybe, but I'm hungry."
She isn't wrong about the speed of the service. Five minutes later, she has a quesadilla in hand, and I'm holding her can of coconut water.
The moans of pleasure she makes as we carry on walking have my cock rising to attention. I'd managed to control the erection before, but now, with the fuss she's making, it's difficult. When the cheese drips down, and she lifts the tortilla to bite at it from below, I'm hard-pressed not to groan myself.
Swallowing, and desperate for distraction, I ask, "How long until we get there?"
Her head tilts to the side and I can tell 'Casper' is answering.
"Five minutes." She takes the final bite of her snack and uses the napkin to clean her mouth. "He says to be prepared. Where we're going, David isn't happy and he'll make his presence felt."
"Where are we going?"
"Abandoned book shop over on 4th." She reaches for her drink, and even in my distress at Casper's news, I react to the simple brush of our hands in a way that makes me thankful my sweater will cover the bulge at my groin. Whether the touch affects her as much is a mystery because she murmurs, "It's odd, but they tend to congregate in the same places. Over and over again. The bookstore... I've been there at least six times in the last six weeks. They like the tunnels in the subway too. Especially the inactive ones."
"Is there a reason for them going there?"
"I don't think so. You have to understand, most of them are in denial at first. They don't realize they're dead, so they just carry on with their lives. They'll get up, go to work, live like they weren't dead. And then they realize, and they get depressed, and they seek out certain things."
"What things?" I ask, desperate to understand.
"Either peace or noise." She shrugs. "It depends on the person they were and the ghost they are now. Everyone is different."
"Don't they hang around their loved ones?"
Jason bites her lip, actively avoiding looking at me. "Sometimes. But Kenna says it hurts too much."
"Why? Isn't it comforting to be with people who loved them?"
"Ghosts are different, Drake, they're a little twisted."
I'd like to say it skipped my notice she used my name. But it doesn't.
"Twisted, how?"
"When they realize they're dead, they like to see their family grieving. Sounds horrible, but it soothes them. When the family eventually comes to terms with it, they get angry. Jealous. So they wander. If they go back, see how the family has grown, it’s bittersweet. They either stay or they go. Again, it depends on the person they were and the ghost they are."
The idea that David is destined for this painful future rips at my insides. Any latent attraction to the woman at my side has burned away with her comment. She didn't mean to hurt me, but each word felt like it was tipped in acid.
My throat feels tight when I ask, "Do we all come back?"
"No. Not all of us."
"Just people who were murdered?"
"Not necessarily. Sometimes it's unfinished business. Sometimes it's the opposite to what I said—they burn to be with their loved ones. Crave it so much that even death can't separate them." Jason ducks her head. "I've seen that before. It's very sad."
Christ, this is her life. Her world. Every day, this is what she has to endure. Death. Loss, sorrow, and pain.
Unable to help myself, I reach for her free hand and clasp it with my own. When I squeeze, she peeks up at me from under the hood again. She's startled at the simple touch, but she doesn't pull away.
"You mean like soulmates?" I ask, both regretting the need for clarification, but needing it regardless of causing her more upset.
She nods. "Yeah. One time, I had this lady come to me, well into her nineties. Said she was certain her Frank was getting into bed with her at night.
"She was wealthy and had a live-in nurse. Her family kept threatening to shove her in care, and she said she wouldn't have minded, but that had been her marital home for close to sixty-five years. It would have killed her to leave.
"So, the live-in nurse comes to me, asks me to help. Says if I don't do something, they'll shove her in a loony bin because she's seeing ghosts." Jayce's upper lip quirks. The slight twitch is not one of amusement. "I went, and lo and behold, there's Frank. Stood at the old lady's side like a soldier keeping guard. My testimony didn't exactly please the family. They just thought I was loopy too, but I had a high profile case just slipping into the papers. That helped."
Her scorn has bite to it. I can understand though. Her gifts require a leap of faith most can't comprehend. I myself have scorned her.
When Patty came to me, describing the so-called ghost detective who was helping her find closure, I pitied her. Advised her to stay away. That I'm seeking help
from the woman I originally bad-mouthed makes me a hypocrite of the worst order. I know that, but I'm here regardless.
When I'm the one in need of closure, the shoe is on the other foot. I can pull a Hari-Kari over that later. For now, I'm with an intriguing ghost detective on the hunt for my nephew's spirit.
And there you have something I never imagined possible.
Ever.
"I'm sorry so few people believe in your abilities."
She turns to me, a brow cocked in disbelief. "What's your story? You're the type to discredit, not support me."
Though I'm ashamed to say she's right, that shame isn't enough to quell this odd attraction I have for her. Her snarkiness, her bluntness, and her sheer orneriness are magnetizing. The fact she isn't afraid to say what's on her mind is incredibly appealing, and that's only augmented by the glow she seems to exude. Her bright red jacket would be eye-catching on a sunny day, but in the gray if warmish gloom of Fall, with the heavy clouds overhead ready to ditch their load, she's a beacon of light.
The hue highlights the color in her cheeks, brings her diamond-white eyes to life, and with the high collar, augments the sharp jut of her chin and sloping cheekbones.
Hers is an unusual beauty. Rather than classic, every feature has character of its own.
For a man who has always appreciated classic beauties, Jason Ventura shouldn't be as beautiful to me as she is.
She'd stopped when she'd asked me about my story, and I hovered too. But starting up again, I murmur, "Come on. It's going to rain."
“I thought you said I didn't need a coat,” she snipes, but though her words say one thing, she doesn't look too mad. If anything, when she looks up to the sky to study the clouds, the tension around her eyes seems to lessen.
Ignoring her comment, because she's right and I was wrong, I tell her, "When David died, things changed. I need help. This isn't going to go away."
"You're a shrink. You know how grief works."
"Yes, I do. And I know everyone thinks they're unique in their grief, but David was..." I pull in a deep breath, seeking calm. "He was an honor student. He had scholarships lined up, prestigious ones. His future was bright. Brighter than our family could have ever dreamed. All that potential was lost. Coping with that was easier than realizing I'd never be able to meet him for corned beef subs at our favorite diner, or hear him bitch about his mom over a sneaky beer at my place."
"Losing someone younger than us is always hard."
I shrug that off. "Yeah, but this was more than that. He wasn't my son but I treated him like he was. Only, I have no real rights. His mother made the funeral decisions, took the decision to cremate him when the tradition is burial in our family. Being cut off is just as hard."
"I'm sorry," Jason replies, her voice soft.
"Thanks." I suck in another gulp of air. "That's why I needed to know what happened to him. He had so much going for him. I just found it impossible to believe that he could do something to jeopardize it all. I know my nephew. He wasn't the sort to use drugs as a crutch."
"We always think that about the ones we love. But they always manage to astound us. You need to prepare for the fact it might not be as cut and dry as you think."
"We do. I know we do, but at the same time, I don't have to. David's vices weren't the regular kind. He was more likely to create some program, a damn app or something, to calm down, to relax. Drugs, alcohol, they weren't his style."
"I thought you said you drank beer together?"
"Yeah, I gave it to him though. He never asked, and it wasn't like he looked forward to it. He was the man of his house, so I saw no harm in his having one beer.
"In many ways, he provided for his mom and sister too. The apps he built, they were selling well. If the scholarships hadn't been in line to pay for most of his degree, his products would have paid for a huge chunk of it. As it was, he was only at his high school because of his brilliance. All of that's just gone to waste, and I can't deal with that, or the fact I'll never see him again when we caught up every day."
She pats my back and the awkward gesture of comfort, even in my misery, makes my lips twist.
"We're here," she tells me in a low voice.
It's only then I realize we've walked close to a dozen blocks without my knowing it.
Shoving a hand through my hair, I look up at the building David has chosen as his lair.
It comes as no surprise to see an old video store sits side by side with a battered used books store.
The windows are covered in boards, and those boards have been tagged and butchered by the local kids. The sign died a death a long time ago.
As I look around the neighborhood, I grimace. Sometimes, in my own little bubble, it's hard to remember places like this exist in the city.
I live and work close to Madison Avenue. Roughing it isn't something I'm used to. But, I grew up in a burrough not unlike this one...it's amazing to realize how far I've come since then, because this feels like a distant memory.
"Rough neighborhood," Jason remarks, looking around too.
Directly opposite the store, there's a tenement building. A group of kids are hanging around at one corner, and at another, sat in a low scarlet car, are a group of gangbangers eying us like we're dinner. Hell, maybe in this part of the city, we are.
"We need to go in there," she tells me, noticing the direction I'm looking at.
"How? It's boarded up."
"There’s an entrance around the back. This isn't my first time here, don't forget."
Nodding rather than replying, I just follow her, but as we round the corner and look into a back alley that most junkies would probably avoid, I grab her arm and ask, “Is this the only access point?”
“Yeah. Not my first rodeo, Drake.” Her nose curls as she peers down the fifty-foot passageway, and I'm relieved to note she's as displeased with the notion of crossing the perilous path as I am.
Tufted weeds have broken through decades-old concrete, used needles litter the walkway, and the brick wall lining the back is crumbling down in places, and covered in barbed wire in others. It's a public safety hazard, and never have I felt more lucky to live where I do.
God, this city, for all its brilliance, has areas that make me ashamed to be American. I've been to Mexico, for Christ's sake. They have fewer homeless dogs than we have homeless people. What that says about our nation, I'm not sure, but it makes me grateful for my position in this world.
It also pisses me off that my nephew, in all his brilliance, is spending his afterlife in this dump.
Call it elitist or whatever, I didn't bust my balls paying the fees his high school scholarship didn't fund when his mother would have been content for him to go to public school, for him to end up here.
The notion fills me with a regret so deep, it's agonizing. I'd wanted so much for him. So much more than his father or I ever had, and now, that's gone. It's just disappeared. The throw of dice somewhere up high, and that's it. My nephew, a boy who was more like my son than anything else, is no more.
Feeling tears well in my eyes, I step forward, intent on finding David, and doing whatever necessary to help him pass on. If it's in my power, I'll do it. And if it isn't, I'll pull whichever strings I can to sort it out. I've been looking after that boy all his life, death isn't going to change that.
Jason shuffles forward with me, and both of us are careful to traverse the garbage strewn floor. As we walk, I ask, “What should I expect in there?”
“Well, it's less of a dive than out here, so that's something.”
“I didn't mean the interior decoration,” I snap, then wince at my stupidity. The woman's helping me, she doesn't need to bear the brunt of my anger. On the brink of opening my mouth to apologize, she shakes her head. A minute shake, the tiniest of gestures that tells me my faux pas is forgiven.
“It depends on how much he loved you and how much you loved him,” she tells me, immediately changing the subject to the matter at hand.
&nbs
p; “What's that supposed to mean?”
“It means what it means,” she retorts. “If he loves you, he'll want to contact you. Touch you. The only way they can, well, unfortunately, it's painful for most humans. Still, he won't know that, or even if he does, he won't care because like I said, ghosts are selfish. They consider their wants and their needs alone. He'll touch you if he wants to and you'll just have to deal with the aftermath.”
“And that's if he loves me?” I ask, slightly incredulous at the notion.
“Yes. Only love can give a spirit enough power to touch solid mass. If he doesn't love you, then he'll be indifferent. He obviously has a message, otherwise he wouldn't still be hanging around. He'll pass on the message to me, and one of three things will happen. If I manage to resolve the loose ends that are keeping him here, his spirit will pass on. But, if he's bitter, he'll never pass and will be destined to live this half-life for eternity. That's what happened to the ghosts who follow me around. They were too bitter to forgive and they're still paying for that.”
“You said there were three things. What's the third?”
“If I don't resolve it, then he'll never be able to rest.”
“We have no choice then. We have to resolve it.”
“Easier said than done, Drake.” She sighs, steps around what looks like a bag of used condoms—who the hell would put them in a trash bag and dump them out here?—and pushes her hands deep into her pockets. “We're not miracle workers. Sometimes, justice doesn’t work. And even if it does, there's no guarantee the result will be good enough for David. But, let's not focus on that. Let's just focus on getting inside this dump.”
As her words draw to an end, she stops by a door and peers up at the two story building. As ramshackle at the back as it is the front, she astounds me by pulling out a key for the door which opens with nary a squeak. The damn thing has been oiled.
“Why the hell didn't we use the front door?” I demand.
She cocks a brow at me. “I prefer for people not to know my business. If they see me coming here, often, then they'll follow me. This place would be like a tourist trap within twenty-four hours of it going viral on social networks.” She shakes her head. “Too many ghosts come here for me to make it public. I bought this place a while back. I have a few properties like this one, makes it easier to come and go.”
Ghost Whisperer Page 3