by Amy Lane
Well, Tucker’s entire life had become the inescapable knowledge, the pull under his breastbone, the pressing weight of being some sort of karmic tool. Quite literally. Leaving downtown Sacramento—where he didn’t even have a car because he never knew when he’d get the call and stopping when walking or riding his bike was so much easier than driving—had been beyond him for a couple of years. Aunt Ruth didn’t ask, and he didn’t insist.
They’d barely spoken about the reasons—but she knew. He was very aware that she knew.
“I’d come to visit, Auntie, but I’ve got… uhm, things. Things I can’t explain.”
A sudden electric silence on the telephone. “Oh, honey. I’m so sorry. I know those… things. I have them living in my house. You be careful. Those things can be difficult on the soul.”
“Folks are going to miss her,” the pretty woman said in the here and now, her smile going melancholy. “Most of us played in her garden at one time or another.”
Tucker remembered his own time there, stalking imaginary lions in the jungle of domesticated flowers that ran riot over what must have been ten acres of property. All of the people wearing strange clothes, walking through the benches and over the lawn. He was pretty sure he was the only one who had those memories, though. He’d eventually figured that seeing ghosts was part and parcel of the whole empathic gig. It had taken having a lot of “imaginary friends” until he’d been about thirteen and figured it out, but whatever. His parents had only visited Ruth a handful of times when he was a kid, but she’d always had cookies—the good kind, with chocolate. None of that persimmon crap either.
Ruth had been sweet—if eccentric. He’d always had the feeling that she had a particular ghost of her own to keep her company, but if so she hadn’t mentioned his name.
“I didn’t know the garden was a whole-town thing,” he said. A town the size of Foresthill probably had a lot of close-knit traditions.
“Well, my grade school class anyway,” the girl said with a shrug.
The skinny high school kid with spots and an outsized nose who was waiting the few tables in the place came up to them. “Hiya, Miz Fisher. Can I get you anything?”
She smiled again, but it didn’t reach her eyes this time. “A diet soda, Jordan.” She gave one of those courtesy smiles to Tucker. “Ruth Henderson’s nephew seems to have taken care of my meal.”
Jordan nodded, gazing at “Miz Fisher” with nothing short of adoration. “I’ll get you the soda for free,” he said, like he was desperate for her approval. “It’s not every day your English teacher just strolls in on your watch in the middle of July.”
Poor Miz Fisher. Her courtesy smile crumbled, and what was left made Tucker’s heart wobble. There was a reason he hadn’t quit on life after his second attempt to ignore his empathic gift had backfired so horribly. This woman was part of it.
“Former English teacher,” she reminded Jordan gently. “Remember? They had to cut the staff this year.”
Jordan’s smile disappeared. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “Sorry, Miz Fisher. I’ll go get your soda.” He wandered away, the dispirited droop of his shoulders telling Tucker everything he needed to know about how much this woman—homegrown by the sound of things—had been appreciated by her community.
“Lost your job?” Tucker prompted. “Miz Fisher?”
“Dakota,” she said, taking another fry. “Dakota Fisher. And yeah.”
Tucker knew that wasn’t all there was to the story. He cut her hamburger into bites and handed her a fork. He might not have known squat about this town, but he was on his own turf now.
BY THE time they left the restaurant, he knew how much Dakota loved teaching. By the time they got to her tiny cottage and got their clothes off, he knew how much she loved her hometown and her parents and the kids she’d grown up with. And helping people.
By the time they fell asleep, sated and naked, she knew what she had to do. It wasn’t what Tucker would have predicted, not at all, but it was right for her.
That’s what Tucker did—what was right for other people. Because the results of doing what was right for him were too awful to face again.
WHEN THE simple white-walled room was still gray with predawn chill, he opened his eyes and blinked.
Damie?
No. It couldn’t be.
But the young man sitting cross-legged on the foot of Dakota Fisher’s bed looked like Damien Columbus. Dark blond hair, freckles, full lips, green eyes—so many superficial details were there that Tucker could be forgiven for the quick gasp of breath.
He blinked hard, then got hold of himself and took in the nuances.
No—this person had a slightly more delicate jaw, a pointier chin, and his eyes were… well, Tucker had never seen eyes the actual shade of bottle glass outside of contacts and anime cartoons.
And whereas Damie had worn skinny jeans and tank tops—looking as twinky as possible for a guy who’d professed to be straight until… don’t go there, Tucker—this guy was wearing basic 501s and a white T-shirt. He looked like a greaser or a Jet, right down to the slicked-back hair.
Although—and this had been the thing that had first terrified Tucker to his marrow—this guy was also dead. Or astral projecting. Or something. Because his body wasn’t depressing the frilly yellow-and-pink coverlet on Dakota’s bed even a little. He just sat/hovered there, tapping the bottom of his red Converse sneakers with his thumbs, scowling at Tucker as if Tucker had somehow disappointed him.
“Can I help you?” Tucker mumbled, squinting at him some more. Oh yeah. The more Tucker looked, the less this guy resembled Damien. Which was good. Because he wasn’t sure how to deal with… Damien. Watching him sleep naked.
Not after all this time.
But then the penetrating gaze of this stranger, this not-Damien, wasn’t doing him any good either.
Tucker hadn’t been with anybody of his choosing in a long time, and he’d assumed the part of him that did choose had been killed off by grief. Imagine his surprise when he felt his stomach flutter.
“You were supposed to be at the house last night,” the young man said. “I waited up.”
“I found something better to do,” Tucker replied, rolling his eyes and keeping the flutter to himself. “I’m sorry. Nobody told me there would be a ghost at the house waiting for me.”
The ghost did not look appeased. “You need to come with me as soon as—”
“Mm… Tucker?” Dakota stretched, her tank top coming up under her breasts and her frilly white drawers dropping right below her neatly trimmed pubic hair. Tucker had been with women—big, small, short, tall, sophisticated, and plain country girls—and he never seemed to get over how the slightest changes in grooming or shopping or a perfume or a hair product could make such a difference from one woman to the next. He didn’t actually have a preference—not anymore—but he sure did have an appreciation for what Dakota did, personally and to herself.
“Hey, hon,” he said softly. “You go ahead and sleep. I’ve got some stuff to take care of at the house this morning.” He bent over and kissed her cheek. “I’m so glad you got that whole career thing sorted out,” he said, stroking her lower lip with his thumb. “You know where I’ll be if you ever want to talk again.”
He saw the familiar emotions pass over her heart-shaped, animated face. Disappointment at first, because he wasn’t going to stay, and for whatever reason, he’d helped this person feel better the night before. Then there was the “Oh my God, what have I done?” recognition—very often, the person he was with was as much a stranger to one-night stands as they were to Tucker himself.
And finally—oh, there it was—relief.
Yes, definitely relief.
She realized that she didn’t know Tucker, didn’t know him at all, and he was leaving her, but he was doing it respectfully, and he was letting her know any future contact would be fine.
But he wasn’t going to be in her bed anymore.
Then Dakota did him one better. “T
hank you,” she said, her eyes growing a little sad again. “You really did help me figure some stuff out.”
Tucker smiled slightly. “That’s what I’m here for, darlin’. Can I use your shower?”
NOT-DAMIEN FOLLOWED Tucker into the shower, and Tucker shook his head. It was like this ghost or whatever hadn’t learned the rules of being a ghost yet.
“Hey, do you mind?” he muttered, shedding his boxer shorts quickly and jumping into the water before it had completely heated. California had been in a drought for years—every drop counted.
“I don’t mind at all,” the ghost said, appearing right in front of him as the cold water pounded his neck.
Tucker choked back a yelp. “Man, get out of the goddamned shower or I’m calling the state and donating the house!”
The ghost gave Tucker’s body what was supposed to be a contemptuous look, but somewhere between Tucker’s face and his knees, it paused and grew a little heated. With an effort, not-Damien met Tucker’s eyes. “I am above lust,” he said with the dignity of a desperate lie.
“I don’t care if you lust after me,” Tucker lied back. His attraction to this not-Damien creature was super irritating when he was naked in the shower. He grabbed some flowered body wash from the shelf and sniffed. Not bad—women did know how to smell. He dumped some on a sponge and continued, “I’m not afraid of finding a man in my shower. I’m pissed off. My entire life is a supernatural sexual violation. But I’d rather not have one looking me in the face while I rinse my cracks!”
Not-Damien’s mouth opened slowly while Tucker sponged his pits. “I am not a violation! I am a guide!”
Tucker soaped up his member, which—probably befitting his karmic mission or whatever—was of a gratifying size. “Guide this,” he said crudely. “If you’re not out of here by the time I soap my hair, whatever you want to use me for, I’m not doing it.”
Not-Damien scowled. “I’ll be waiting outside the bathroom,” he muttered.
“I’m not going to try to escape my fate,” Tucker promised bitterly. “Believe me, I’ve learned the hard way. Whoever is in charge doesn’t like us to have too goddamned much free will.”
The ghost’s scowl softened. “What happened to you?” he asked, looking like a wounded choirboy. “Your aunt said you were such a sweet boy.”
“None of your business. And quite frankly, she never mentioned you.” Dammit. He looked so much like Damie, the wound opened again, fresh and bloody and bright. “Just go.”
There was a faint breeze, carrying with it the odor of new sneakers and indigo dye—and the faintest scent of citrus and lavender—and Tucker was alone.
But not for long.
Not-Damien was not actually waiting for him outside the bathroom, as Tucker feared. Tucker had a chance to wash, dry, and even shave using the kit from the suitcase he’d left in the kitchen.
Dakota slept on through it—probably pretending, but Tucker didn’t mind. Sometimes when you woke up with a stranger, faking sleep was just courtesy.
Or that’s what he thought until he walked back to the kitchen to grab his luggage and make his exit out the front door.
She was awake, barely, yawning through coffee and blinking through the morning-after mess of her hair. She’d kept the tank top on and put on cutoffs this time, and she still looked sort of delicious and sexy. Tucker had a moment to regret that he wasn’t a real person to her, because if he’d had a life of his own, he really would have chosen someone exactly like Dakota Fisher.
“Heya, darlin’,” he said, kissing her cheek. “I thought you’d sleep in.”
“I really could have,” she mumbled. “Then I remembered—I live down three miles of dirt road, Tucker, and it’s already eighty-five degrees outside. It would be really frickin’ rude of me to let you walk that hauling your two suitcases.”
Tucker hadn’t thought of that, and the kindness made him blush.
“Thank you,” he said in a small voice. “That’s really nice of you.”
He had a cup of coffee with her, and then she grabbed her keys and the smaller suitcase. She went first, bumping her way across the porch and down the steps of her little house, and he followed. Not-Damien was standing outside the door.
He frowned at Dakota and then turned his glare to Tucker as Tucker maneuvered his big old suitcase over the threshold.
“I thought you said—”
Oh my God. “It’s over ten miles away, asshole,” Tucker hissed. “I’ll meet you there!”
The self-recriminatory look on not-Damien’s face was almost worth the aggravation of knowing the dickweed would be waiting for Tucker once he reached his destination.
“Sorry,” the ghost said and disappeared, leaving Tucker feeling the faintest bit sorry for being such an ass. But not enough to worry about it.
“OH MY God, Tucker, are you sure?”
Tucker looked at Daisy Place and swallowed. “Yeah,” he said weakly. “I’m hunky dory.”
Peeling mint-green paint adorned the window and door frames, but the rest of the house was a collection of rotting shingled siding and rusty tin roofs. Was it Tucker’s imagination or did the entire house slant at odd angles so that the west wing dipped down and the east wing tilted up, and the middle seemed to loom bigger and smaller with each of Tucker’s deep, steadying breaths?
“It looks like a cult of Satanists lives in the basement,” Dakota said frankly. “You could always room with me for a few weeks. I’m going into the sheriff’s department today—my uncle said he could get me a job as a deputy. You know, in a month I might even be able to use a gun.”
Tucker tried not to stare at her. Of all the unexpected outcomes of his magic sexual karma, he had not expected the former English teacher to scream “I’m gonna be a cop!” in the middle of orgasm.
And yet she had. And apparently she also had follow-through.
Tucker thought seriously about her offer and then about what a live-in girlfriend with a gun would do if he asked her to drop him off in town so he could sleep another random stranger into a life epiphany.
“I’m pretty sure the only Satanists in there are the rats,” he said with a toothy grin. “I think a gun would be overkill.”
“Okay,” she said doubtfully. “If you’re sure.”
He kissed her cheek. “Darlin’, I’m good. And I can’t thank you enough.”
With that, he swung out of her little green Ford Ranger and hauled his bags from the back. He took a few steps away and waved so she could leave and then peered through the red dust up the walkway.
Sure enough, the ghost of not-Damie was waiting at the door, arms crossed and a sort of resentful apology on his pouty-mouthed face.
Tucker sighed. Maybe the Satanic rats would eat him alive tonight and he wouldn’t have to live with whatever fresh hell the karma gods had planned.
Not-Damie. Also, Not-a-god
AS ANGEL watched Tucker haul his suitcases up the broken cement pathway, he tried not to bang his head through the support post for the porch.
So much for his resolutions not to push the resident empath again.
He’d promised—he’d promised—Ruth Henderson that he would try to be a friend, a companion, to her nephew, but dammit! He’d been so excited about meeting Tucker Henderson, so prepared to be kind, to welcome him with open arms and gratitude, that finding out the jackass had spent last night catting around had really ticked him off.
Although Tucker hadn’t seen it that way. What had he said? His entire life was a sexual violation?
That hadn’t sounded like a man who’d been happy to wake up in the bed of a beautiful woman. Not at all.
And seeing Tucker sex-sated, sleepy, looking warm and human and mussed…. Angel pushed that thought away. He didn’t feel things like this. He didn’t have human reactions or feel warmth or attraction. He just… he didn’t.
But that didn’t change the fact that Angel had kept pushing Tucker’s buttons.
Damn. When would he ever learn?
“Did you at least have time to eat before you got laid again?” Angel snapped, and then he really did try to thunk his head on the support post, only it went through it instead.
“Augh!” Tucker dropped both suitcases. “Oh my God. Do you have any idea how weird that looks? Stop that!”
“I’m sorry,” Angel said, a contrite, sincere echo of Tucker’s sarcastic apology. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be an ass. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I’m sorry. I really was asking if you’d eaten.”
Tucker stood on the porch, holding his hands to his eyes. “Is your head out of the post now?”
Angel double-checked. “Yes. Yes—all body parts accounted for.”
Tucker sighed with relief and took his hands away from his eyes. “Better. Did you say food?”
At that moment, a grocery van pulled up the long, slanted driveway and swung around to the front of the house. A low three-layer brick wall marked the edges of a concrete parking lot that faced what appeared to be overgrown gardens. A decrepit toolshed marked the corner. The space was huge—it had made Dakota’s job easy when she’d backed her truck out—and this guy had no problem, even in the oversized van.
Angel smiled hopefully. “Supplies and sandwiches,” he said, hoping that as offerings of contrition went, this was a good one.
Tucker swallowed and then smiled.
Angel had noticed this when Tucker was naked in bed, but somehow seeing that smile in the sunshine made it so much more apparent—Tucker was really a very handsome man. In his early thirties, with careless dark hair and blue eyes, he had a strong chin in a rectangular face that highlighted some stellar cheekbones. His mouth was full, with a good-humored curve, but Angel hadn’t noticed that until he smiled. Some of the bitter care fell from his face then, on his forehead, in the lines of his mouth. For a moment he looked innocent and, as his aunt had maintained, sweet.