by Amy Lane
“I was trying to start you off with something easy,” Angel said, thinking of a flowered paperweight in a room three doors down.
Tucker grimaced. “Well, I actually appreciate the thought,” he said on a sigh. “Now can you make yourself useful and get over here? Tell me if there’s anything nasty in the damned drawer.”
Angel waited until Tucker used his shirt to open the drawer wide and then hovered over the contents.
“Letter opener is clear,” he murmured.
“Surprise!” Tucker pulled it out and ran his thumb over what seemed to be a still-sharp edge of a long, tarnished stiletto of silver.
“The fountain pen is clear—but still messy.” Damn.
“There goes my shirt.” The blotch was surprisingly large.
“Maybe wait until I clear the whole drawer?” Angel suggested testily. “Besides, you’re intruding on my space!” This last was absolutely true—if Tucker was any closer, he’d be wearing Angel like skin, and that would be unpleasant for them both. The human fear of ghostly possession was based on an uncomfortable amount of truth.
“Fine.” Tucker huffed and folded his arms. “Keep going.”
“Okay, the scissors are… uh, no. Don’t go there.” Bad things. “The, uh, glass bottle—” Angel’s entire body was washed with heat. “Not relevant.”
“Bad?” Tucker asked curiously.
“No, just, uh, not relevant.”
“Here, let me be the judge of that.”
Oh dear.
Tucker’s long-fingered hand darted into Angel’s vision and wrapped around the bottle. Angel made a little sound of wanting in his throat, and he found he was helpless to resist watching the story as it unfolded in Tucker’s head.
BRIDGET WAS helpless—when she was never helpless. She lay sprawled on her back, naked in the daylight, at her mistress’s mercy.
“Oh Lord, Sophie girl….”
Sophie, who was so lost, so fragile in their lives outside this room, was smiling at her wickedly, the sort of carnality in her eyes that had repulsed Bridget in the men who had taken her, reeking of entitlement, using her body because it was convenient and disposable.
With Sophie it filled her, warm and syrupy, with the kind of desire that women dreamed about when yearning for their prince. Bridget had found it in her princess.
Slowly Sophie dripped raspberry syrup from a slender green glass bottle over Bridget’s bare breast. Bridget gasped as it cooled her nipple and fought a moan and a laugh both as it drizzled down the underside of the pale, freckled swell.
“Oh, my darling,” Bridget breathed. “You have made a mess!”
“Then I’d best clean it up, hadn’t I?” Sophie asked, mischief dancing in her eyes.
“Oh aye….”
Sophie’s tongue, neat and pink as a cat’s, darted out and licked, and Sophie’s shoulders, bare like the rest of her, covered Bridget’s body as she knelt by the side of the bed and followed the trail of the sweet red syrup.
“Oh dear,” Sophie whispered, her voice a guttural purr. “We seem to have run out of syrup.” She was licking the mouth of the bottle, sucking the thick, smooth glass into her mouth and hollowing her cheeks as she cleaned it of everything but her spit.
Bridget’s mouth went dry. “Whatever will we do?” she asked, half serious. Sophie’s laugh, filthy as a dockworker’s, sent a warm gush of fluid from Bridget’s sex, and she writhed, her core swollen and aching with anticipation.
“We’ll find something,” she promised, pushing at Bridget’s thighs until she lay, bent at the knees, legs spread wantonly.
“Oh dear Lord. Ah, Sophie!” Her voice broke as Sophie’s lips, tongue, and fingers began to move in concert within Bridget’s plump folds. Sophie was skilled at this, finding the tiny knob of sensitive flesh with her tongue and tormenting Bridget until her hips arched off the bed.
Sophie stilled Bridget’s flailing body with the flat of her palm right under Bridget’s navel.
And then, with the cool pressure of the smooth glass bottle easing into her sex….
THE THUNK of the bottle hitting the top of the desk broke their trance.
“Oh my,” Angel whispered, looking wildly around the room for the two lovers, expecting to see their plump, pale curves spread across the bed in joyous abandon.
“That was personal,” Tucker said, half laughing. Angel locked eyes with him desperately, hoping to be grounded.
He was sorely disappointed.
Tucker’s cheeks were unevenly pink, his skin blotchy with arousal, and his eyes were fever bright. Angel’s gaze raked the flushed skin of his throat and chest, then down his rippled stomach to his….
Angel heard a faint moan, and realized he’d made it.
Tucker looked at the swell in his cargo shorts, lying fat and unapologetic along the side. “Uh, yeah,” he said, grinning cockily through what looked to be a combination of embarrassment and desire. “That was pretty damned hot.”
“It was private,” Angel squeaked. “I didn’t know—”
Tucker shuddered and adjusted himself, hips undulating in excitement. “Well, now we do!” He looked around the room and sighed. “You know what? I’ll get back to this place tomorrow. Right now, uh….” He smiled at Angel sheepishly. “If you could maybe give me fifteen minutes alone in my room.” His hips moved again, and he let out a breathy moan. “Maybe half an hour.”
And then he disappeared out the door and down the stairs, leaving Angel staring at that green glass bottle.
He closed his “eyes” and tried to find his center, but instead he heard Tucker’s noises reverberating through the boards of the house. Tucker was joyous and unashamed, and instead of locking himself away from the uncomfortable surges of human emotions that rocked his energy matrix, Angel found himself going adrift.
Tucker moaned, and Angel was lost in the sound, lost in the vision of Tucker’s body, naked and exposed, while Tucker stroked his own erect cock in a long-fingered fist.
Would one hand be on his chest? Angel was fascinated by his chest, by the dark hair against the pale skin, by the nipples that were such a delicate pink. Would he be pinching his nipples? Would he tease himself?
His moans escalated, and so did Angel’s imagination. Would he cup his testicles? Angel had been a voyeur more than once in this place, and even Ruth had stumbled upon some sexually charged artifacts. Angel had seen men do this, had seen them roll the tender balls delicately under the skin of the scrotum. Would Tucker touch himself underneath? Would he—
Another moan, this one deep and soul-ripping, and Angel let out a little moan of his own, closing his eyes and appearing on Tucker’s dresser. He kept his head, stayed invisible, but he saw, and it was just as he’d imagined, except he hadn’t thought of the sweat shining from Tucker’s flushed skin or the scent of semen and perspiration that saturated the air.
Or what it would do to Angel to see Tucker’s legs spread lewdly while he tried to penetrate himself with a spit-slickened finger.
“Oh yes!” Tucker cried out, and Angel took another breath, disappearing again and reappearing on the kitchen floor, close enough to hear Tucker scream, “Oh hells yeah!” but not in the room, not seeing him spurt seed all over his hand and his abdomen and chest.
But he imagined it. And he wrapped his imaginary arms around his imaginary knees, rocking back and forth and wishing, wishing, oh, wishing…
For that part of being human he’d assumed he could never have.
HE WAITED another half an hour and then went back to sitting on top of the dresser.
Tucker had turned out the lights in the kitchen and the bedroom by the time Angel got there, and had visited the tiny adjoining washroom as well. But he hadn’t bothered to put on pajamas, and in spite of the blanket wrapped securely around his shoulders, Angel had no doubt that he slept naked. Angel watched him for a while, picturing every sweep of skin, every mole, every imperfection under the bedclothes, until he realized that he’d started timing the breaths of hi
s imaginary body to the breaths of Tucker’s real one.
He finally conceded to exhaustion and closed his mental eyes to sleep.
When he awoke, Tucker was already up and dressed. He’d left the sheets in a predictable tumble on the bed, but he’d cleaned up in the bathroom after he shaved. He’d shoved his clothes in the drawers, but the suitcases were still standing open in the middle of the floor.
Angel narrowed his eyes and sighed. He’d rather suspected Tucker wasn’t the kind to clean up after himself—but then, if he was waking up with someone new a lot, why would he get into the habit?
“Angel!” Tucker called from the kitchen. Angel appeared before the echoes of his name stopped ringing through the house.
“Yes?”
The pan Tucker had been holding clattered into the sink. Breakfast had been french toast this morning—Angel thought of Tucker eating french toast with that sort of decadent enjoyment he poured into everything and regretted not waking up sooner.
“You startled me!” Tucker laughed. “Look—someone is going to come pick me up so I can buy his truck—”
“I beg your pardon?” Fast! So fast! Ruth’s time had been so much slower, but Tucker, born to this time, in a city not that far away, seemed to move so quickly.
“I looked him up this morning, told him I’d just moved in, and he said that was fine. Computers, Angel—they really do make the world go faster.”
Angel clearly remembered Ruth getting internet. At first Angel had worried that the strange metallurgy of Daisy Place would render the entire operation moot, but apparently Daisy Place had the best internet in the hills. Go figure. And he had to admit, he’d made frequent use of it, even before she’d passed away.
“You should say a prayer of thanks to your aunt,” Angel muttered, remembering an entire day spent trying to convince the old woman that it would be a pointless expense. No, Angel’s grasp of the future had always been a little weak for a supernatural being. Ruth had accused him of being an old man in a beautiful ghost’s clothing, an insult that had provoked Angel to dress in neon clothes and sequins for the next month.
He and Ruth had really enjoyed irritating the crap out of each other. He missed her so.
“I will, just as soon as I get my hands on a truck and get to the nearest home improvement store.”
“There’s an Ace in town for the basics,” Angel supplied, hoping that’s all they would need.
“Excellent. If I need anything bigger, I’ll go to Auburn.” Tucker frowned. “After that, an animal shelter. I need a kitten.”
Angel felt his eyes go wide and his eyebrows go up, and Tucker suddenly noticed him.
“Your eyes are still green,” he muttered. “And still the same shape. But your hair is sort of reddish—your entire face has changed.” Tucker pulled in a big breath. “And Angel, your chest is broad as a barn!”
Angel looked down at himself in shock. “I, uh….”
“You have stubble! Oh my God, do you have stubble on purpose?”
Angel tried desperately to remember what he’d been thinking when he’d pulled power from the aether around the house and surged. Tucker had been deep into his own pleasure, and Angel had….
Oh Lord.
Angel had wanted to inflict that pleasure upon him.
And this form he was wearing—apparently, he’d thought that would be the perfect form to pleasure Tucker in.
“Do you find this form pleasing?” Angel asked, his mortification complete.
“I usually like my guys a little skinnier,” Tucker said, shrugging. “But it’s the person inside the body first, okay?”
Angel nodded helplessly. “I shall await your return,” he said, dispirited. He’d wanted to spend more time with Tucker this morning.
You wanted to see if he’d touch himself again.
Yeah, that, but Angel wouldn’t admit it!
“You could come with me,” Tucker said with a wink; then he frowned. “Right? I mean, you met me at Dakota’s house—”
“I’m bound to the house and to you. Yes, I could definitely accompany you.” For a moment, Angel perked up, but then Tucker sort of deflated.
“Yeah, but I wouldn’t be able to talk to you in public, and that would be rude.”
Angel swallowed—even though it was something he didn’t have to do, his mouth and throat worked in concert like that. Living people do these things. What is happening to me?
“Maybe after you get the truck. Why a truck, though?”
Tucker ran his hands through his messy hair. “Usually I walk. It’s why I took the train to Colfax and then a bus here. I get… well, sometimes I need to stop and eat or have a drink on my way home. It’s hard to explain.” He scowled and then took a deep breath and seemed to let something go. “Anyway it’s easier when I’m walking. But up here, it’s all so spread out. I figure if I’m going to be renovating the place, I’ll need to haul stuff. So yeah. Truck, supplies, kitten. If I’m stuck here like Aunt Ruth, I might as well enjoy it.” He grinned and then turned his head, responding to a honk from the front of the house. “Gotta go, Angel. See you in the evening!”
He went running out the door, leaving Angel trying to remember why he’d felt the urge to swallow and imagining sitting in the front of the truck while Tucker drove, windows down and breeze ruffling his imaginary hair.
The Shape of the Thing
“TUCKER HENDERSON?” The guy in the truck was a burly forty-fiveish, with graying brown hair, weathered lines at his eyes, and battered knuckles. He was dressed in faded jeans and a clean T-shirt that read Straight but not Narrow.
“Josh Greenaway?”
“Yessir, pleastameetya. I understand you’re looking for a truck.” He grinned, revealing a slightly crowded if pleasing smile, and Tucker found himself liking the guy on sight.
Tucker backed up and walked around the truck, taking in the buffed-out dents under the primer and Bondo and listening to the purr of the thing in idle. A Chevy half-ton, the online ad had boasted power steering, power brakes, AC, and a newly refurbished transmission, and Tucker didn’t see a rust spot or untreated flaw in the body, which had originally been painted electric blue.
Yeah, it had been battered and even bruised, but it wasn’t broken.
Tucker grinned back at Josh. “Looks great! How’s it drive?”
Josh winked, unhooked his suicide-closure lap belt, and scooted to his right. “Hop in and see. Anywhere you need to go?”
“The hardware store,” Tucker said. “But I was going to wait until I bought the truck.”
“Forgetaboutit. Sit down, let’s take her for a ride, run your errand, and you can see how you like it. I told the missus I’d be gone until lunch. As long as I bring sandwiches home at one, I am doing no harm to anybody, right?”
“Not a soul,” Tucker said, nodding. This guy elicited no tug in his gut, no karmic pull, and Tucker breathed a small sigh of relief. For a morning, anyway, he could have a friend.
A friend who didn’t float in midair and try to tell him how this supernatural gig worked.
He shoved away his irritation at Angel—and his curiosity too, for that matter. He was getting out of that spirit mausoleum and spending some of his inheritance, a thing he didn’t do often, actually.
He slid behind the wheel, remembering the power of driving a car, soft and comfy like a handknit pair of socks. His father had taught him before he and Tucker’s mother passed away, back before Tucker had figured out that life really wasn’t fucking fair.
But he’d learned to drive in his dad’s modest Toyota sedan, and this? This was a truck! Tucker was higher off the road and in charge of a metal behemoth, and backing the thing out of the driveway proved that the steering wheel was as sensitive as a baby’s tickle spot. He swung the thing around and stomped on the gas, and the V-6 roared into action. He let a low, evil chuckle of joy escape.
“Oh man. This thing is like driving a jetliner! I’m getting chills. Why, oh why are you letting this baby out of yo
ur sight?”
Josh laughed in delight. “Well, we’re selling her because our oldest son needs something that gets better gas mileage so he can drive down the hill to go to college. It’s a helluva commute—this thing sucks gas like water. I’ve got a smaller truck for everyday stuff, and my wife has the minivan for the other three kids, so Brutus here is the one to go. And it’s a good thing you like driving it because you just turned toward the forest and away from town. There’s a turnout in about half a mile—it does a loop around your property, actually, if you want to take that way. You’ll end up about a mile from town.”
Tucker giggled. “Well, I wanted to know more about the place.” He enjoyed driving for a moment, keeping the window rolled down and smelling the pine and red-dirt dust and enjoying being someplace besides the city. Josh kept up a steady stream of commentary on the truck and his kid and how Josh needed his kid to get out of Foresthill so the boy could find a boyfriend and leave his mom and dad alone. Tucker nodded in understanding and studied the road ahead—and the property to his left. He’d just noticed that the tree line was drastically different in the property around Daisy Place than it was for the whole rest of the area when he spotted the turnout, right before Sugar Pine National Forest.
“Why is Daisy Place all willow and oak instead of pine?” he asked, thinking it was significant.
“I don’t know. But then, if you haven’t noticed, your entire inheritance is sort of wonk-fuckit, right?”
Josh had a way with words.
Tucker slowed down, turned into the side road, and about caught his breath.
“Now that,” he said, remembering Angel’s discussion of the strange metals buried below the property of Daisy Place, “is just fucking creepy.”
Josh let out a low whistle. “Yeah, well, it’s gotten worse since I was a kid. You don’t really see it until someone points it out.”
On the left side was darkness; on the right side was light.
Sugar Pine Lake rested in a valley, and the forest from Highway 49 was almost a spacious one. The underbrush was sparse, the trees far enough apart for sunshine to get through. Off-road dirt bikers and mountain bikers liked the spot because it offered challenge and visibility. That was the forest on the right of the dirt track that connected the two main roads.