by Amy Lane
“So you are gay?” she asked—not as though she were prying but simply clarifying.
“I swing a lot of ways,” Tucker replied playfully, and Angel could tell he was back on his stride again. It was interesting, the way he recoiled from the idea of being matched with someone, but he didn’t mind talking about his sexuality.
“What’s your favorite way?” Margie asked, bantering more than invading.
“Hm….” Tucker gazed thoughtfully into space while letting Squishbeans abuse his fingertips again. “I think it’s slow. Slow is my favorite way. But I have nothing against fast and hard either. So, you know, lots of ways to swing.”
Margie burst into a peal of delighted laughter. “That’s marvelous. How about you… I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”
“Angel,” he replied promptly, trying to think of a way to answer the question honestly. “And I swing the right way with whoever might be there at the time. That’s how I swing.”
Margie laughed at that one too, and urged iced tea on him.
“I’m sorry,” he said regretfully, trying to decide how to deal with this one. “I’m just not a fan of tea.” As far as he knew.
“Well, you’ve made me laugh, and I think you’re taking one of my babies off my hands. I think I can forgive you.”
“That’s kind,” he said, meaning it. “And we’re really grateful for the kitten.” He looked around the pen, frowning. “Where’s the mother cat?”
“Well,” Margie said, leaning forward. “It was the oddest thing. The mama cat showed up on my doorstep all skin and bones. She looked all the way dead, not half-dead. If she hadn’t been walking in on her own power, I would have buried her. But she came in the house, found a towel on the floor in the washroom, and curled up there, hissing, at about eleven o’clock at night. I just figured she’d either die during the night or leave in the morning.”
“She didn’t?” Angel asked, fascinated.
“Well, she died—but first she had a litter of kittens. I got up that morning and there were seven kittens trying to nurse from a cat that was damned near decomposing.” Margie shuddered. “Creepiest thing I ever saw. I buried the cat under a bush in my backyard, and you know, I think the bush is dying. But the kittens were just as happy and as lively as anything I’ve ever seen. I think I’m going to keep the last two, because they are such good company. And I hand-fed them, you know? I hate to see them go.”
“I bet,” Tucker said. Angel glanced over and saw he was holding Squishbeans up and examining him thoroughly, as though looking for something most kittens wouldn’t have. “So, uh, Margie, do you have any idea where this cat came from? I mean, did anybody in town remember seeing her?”
Margie shrugged. “Well, I told old Bill up at the grocery store about her—I had to, he was the only one who carried kitten formula, and I was desperate. He said he’d seen a clowder up right by your house, Tucker. You know, by the turnout where the old graveyard is?”
Tucker caught his breath and looked at Squishbeans again. Squishbeans responded by trying to eat his (her?) tail, and Angel shrugged. Well, maybe it was a graveyard cat, but like the other kittens, it saw him, responded to him, although only this one seemed to think he was a decent fellow.
It was like Angel’s dream request for a cat—except Tucker had been the one to wake up with the sudden need.
Angel cocked his head at Tucker, who ignored him and continued to banter with Margie.
Roommates. But she’d asked them if they were lovers.
Angel didn’t know what this feeling was in his stomach, but he did know that being Tucker Henderson’s lover would have more benefits than just a fluffy gray kitten named Squishbeans.
They spent a pleasant hour there. Margie was warm and funny, and she talked occasionally about her children—a daughter in San Diego, a son in Portland—but she also talked about the townspeople in Foresthill. She owned one of the boutiques where Rae sold her jewelry, and Tucker seemed to enjoy letting her ramble and gossip. He kept his head cocked and a slight smile on his face while Squishbeans maintained a perma-cuddle in his arms, and Angel got the feeling he was soaking up the human contact—and the discussion of other humans—like a flower in a drought soaked up water.
Finally, though, Tucker finished both their iced teas and then stood gracefully. He stretched, careful not to disturb the kitten in his arms, and offered his hand to Margie.
“Thank you for a lovely afternoon, milady.”
“Anytime, young sir. If you and your ‘roommate’ ever wish to come by just to visit, you are very welcome.”
Angel frowned to himself as he followed Tucker out. “Why doesn’t she believe we’re just roommates?” he asked, thinking they were out of earshot.
“It’s in your eyes, Angel!” Margie called out. “Stop looking at him like that.”
Tucker startled and looked at him, and Angel studiously looked away. Behind them, Margie burst into a delighted cackle of laughter, and then Tucker got in the truck, saying loudly, “Let me get the door—it sticks.”
Angel stood obediently and then made a show of climbing into the cab while Tucker reached across him and slammed it shut.
Then Tucker put Squishbeans on the seat between them and looked at him apprehensively. “Is he going to stay there, you think? Because I didn’t bring a crate, and you can’t…. Seriously?”
Oh…. Angel could touch him. The cat curled into his cupped hands with the ultimate of trust, and Angel gathered it to his chest and let that purr vibrate through his incorporeal body.
“Damn,” Tucker said, blinking hard. “That’s… that’s really fucking weird.”
A peace Angel had never known emanated from his soul. “Tucker, this cat… this cat was the best idea. I’ve never felt about anything the way I feel about this cat.”
Then Angel remembered that bittersweet look on Tucker’s face when he’d been holding the cat while sitting on Margie’s carpet. “Is that bad?” he asked, hoping not, because that might ruin it. “Do you want to go in and get a cat that’s just for Tucker?”
Tucker reached across the seat and ran a finger down the cat’s nose. “Naw, Angel. We might as well share this one. I do not know the deal with these graveyard zombie baby cats, but this one here seems to have been tailor-made for you.”
Angel’s feeling of well-being remained, but he was able to disengage his mind from it for a little. “That was a very strange story,” he said, searching his memory and intuition. “Do you think the cats are evil?”
Squishbeans purred some more, and Angel hunched his shoulders around it—wait. Her. Angel wasn’t sure how he knew, but he knew. Her.
“I doubt it,” Tucker said, rubbing his chest. “At least that’s explained.”
“What’s explained?”
“The sudden urge I had to get a cat. It really wasn’t for me.” He sighed a little. “But that’s not a bad thing either. I saw some curry and coconut milk in the groceries you bought. Thai chicken, here I come!”
Angel managed to fully pull himself away from Squishbeans. “You’ll find something,” he said quietly. “Something yours.”
Tucker’s mouth twisted a little. “Are you kidding? I’ve got my own pet ghost and a cat who can move through dimensional space. And Thai food. I’m good.”
But Angel heard the bitter covered up by the bright. He’s not, Squishbeans. There’s something in him so hurt he’s trying to forget it by keeping busy with food or projects or cats.
“Will you be missed back in Sacramento?” Angel asked.
“Well, it’s only an hour down the road,” Tucker said, shrugging. “And no. Most of my college friends drifted away after school. I don’t work, so, you know. No work friends. The folks at the gym might, but they’re used to people dropping out all the time. The bookstore maybe?”
Angel frowned. “Why didn’t you work?”
“For the same reason Aunt Ruth didn’t work,” Tucker said shortly. “And the same reason graveyard cats are born j
ust in time for you to get one. The same reason I just had to get up this morning and get a truck and supplies and a cat.”
Oh. “None of these things are coincidental,” Angel hazarded. “And your aunt Ruth didn’t work because the things she did with her talent were necessary.”
Tucker touched his nose, and then, before Angel could ask the obvious question, said, “Hey—there’s the turnout for Daisy Place. Do you think I should pull all the way up to the side of the house?”
Angel shook his head—he knew this one. “See how the driveway slopes up and then levels off? And then turns into the garage, with the paved space in front of the house?”
“I do. I thought I’d—”
“The property line—the one that’s marked with all that metal—starts at the line of the slope. If you park on that level place, you’re good, but if you turn right to sit next to the house or, heaven forbid, try to park in the garage—”
“The car starts having problems,” Tucker deduced. “I see. Well, good point. Thank you. So why do the internet and cable—”
“I have no idea,” Angel said shortly. “I think it was to make me look bad in front of your aunt, but that’s just supposition.”
Tucker’s gurgle of laughter startled him. “You were against it.”
Angel scowled. “It should have been a disaster. It wasn’t. I was glad for her, and very glad for you, but nothing about Daisy Place points to something so obviously technology-based surviving.”
“Hm.” It was a pondering sound, and Angel waited. “So we need to add the graveyard, the ghost cats, and Margie, who can see you, to our list of… quirks. And we still have ghosts that need clearing out. I say we stay focused on the ghosts.” He waggled his eyebrows lasciviously. “Because finding that bottle led to one of the best moments I’ve had in a while.”
Angel’s jaw tightened, and he had to make a conscious effort not to transfer some of the pressure to the kitten. I doubt that, Squishbeans. “You could always date your friend’s son, Andover.”
And like that, Tucker’s forced ebullience fell flat and leaden in the front seat of the truck.
“I don’t date,” he said, voice cold and still. “It’s bad for everybody.”
“But that young lady—” Angel was so confused.
“Let’s just say that’s how my talent works, okay?”
It had been such a good day—with the kittens, with the friend who could see Angel, with the conversation that hadn’t seemed to hurt—Angel didn’t push it.
“Okay,” Angel said. He was still confused, but Tucker’s anger seemed to lighten a little. Squishbeans went back to being the center of the universe once more.
Ghostbusting a Nut
DINNER WAS great, and Tucker made extra so he could have some the next day. He decided that home improvement should probably wait until the morning, but he was determined to have another crack at the room.
“You could always take a rest,” Angel said. He was still carrying the cat, and Tucker was still wondering how that was possible.
He hadn’t wanted to make too big a deal out of it, but the timing seemed very suspicious. So did the zombie ghost cat giving birth. He loved the kitten—not even Tucker was that hard-hearted—but he could still remember that urge to go get a cat.
It was the same urge that had propelled him to get a truck, to meet Josh and Rae, to meet Margie, who could see Angel, and to go get a cat that was, apparently, the best thing to happen to Angel since he’d gotten trapped here at Daisy Place—something he still wouldn’t talk about.
Tucker had picked up Squishbeans, and he’d felt the little pop in his chest, the one he usually felt when he was sitting across from a girl or a boy he was about to do the wild thing with.
Making conversation with Margie had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done after that. A part of him was trying to get over feeling used—the karmic forces had actually driven him into the world at large to find a cat for Angel.
A cat.
But a part of him was relieved. It was a relief to know that those forces he’d served all these years, the forces that had pretty much ruined his life—those karmic forces—were actually capable of compassion in a wholly nonsexual way.
For the cost of some cat litter, Tucker’d had his faith renewed.
But that did not mean he was ready to rest on his laurels. It was time to empty some drawers, to strip some wallpaper, and to see what was under the bed.
Except he might want to wait until Angel was ready to set down the kitten, because it was important they both be on task.
“Do I have to?” Angel asked plaintively. “It’s a big house. She could get lost.” This form, with the narrow green eyes and the reddish hair, looked way too tough for the vulnerable curve of his lips. For whatever reason, Angel could touch this animal—and after fifty-five years of being a disembodied ghost or whatever, Tucker would probably not want to give that up either. Okay, fine. Tucker sighed and tried not to be a driven asshole now that Angel had given up the role.
“Tell you what. You hang out on the bed with the kitten, and when I need you, you put her down and come do your thing.”
“Why put her down?” Angel asked suspiciously.
“Angel, do you really want her to feel what we do when we hit something bad?”
The dismay on his face was sort of heartening. So Angel could be human, and not just in a charming, “Oh, this is new and wonderful!” way. Compassion was something Tucker believed in very much.
“No,” Angel whispered, stroking the cat’s whiskers. Squishbeans purred, and Tucker secretly plotted how to get the kitten away from Angel so he could have her in his bed. For one thing, she was warm. For another, that purr was pure comfort.
“Okay. Now set her down, and let’s clean out that drawer.”
Angel did as he asked, looking thoughtful. “Do you want all the stuff in the drawer, or do you just want the things that pertain to the women and their adventure?”
Tucker had read enough mystery suspense novels to know this one. “Everything,” he said grimly. “You never know what’s going to come in handy later.”
Oh, he’d learn to regret those words.
For one thing, the stuff in the drawer, put there for whatever reason, was sometimes the most boring stuff in the world.
“The hole punch almost stopped my heart with mundanity,” Tucker said with a yawn. “I want you to know that. If I die in my sleep, it’s because I had a dream where I had to use that thing again and again and again and again and again and again, and I bored myself to death while I was asleep.”
“Yes,” Angel agreed, “but it was better than the snuff box.”
They both shuddered. The silver snuff box seemed so innocent, sitting there in the corner of the protected drawer. But Angel had reached in to touch it and gasped, saying, “No, Tucker, don’t—” just as Tucker had reached in to bring it to light.
Tucker had forgotten to cover his hand with his T-shirt, and they were both touching the object when wave upon wave of violence, hostility, and a pathological hatred poured into their souls. Tucker could only identify the source as male, and every use of the box had been tainted with addiction.
“Not snuff,” Tucker gasped when they’d managed to let go. “That was not snuff he was snorting!”
“No, it wasn’t.” Angel let out a little whimper and drifted back to the bed, and Tucker let him.
“Well, now we know what it’s like to be addicted to cocaine when you’re crazy as a shithouse rat and a horrible person.”
“That was a bad man!” Angel burst out. “How could such evil… oh, Tucker. I don’t want to touch that man again!”
Tucker eyed him with compassion. “You didn’t get a lot of those?” he asked quietly.
Angel shook his head. “We got some people who were unpleasant,” he admitted. “But… but I liked Ruth. And she was so sweet, so fragile at the beginning. And then she got stronger, and I realized how she was imprisoned here, and—
”
“You saved her,” Tucker said, sinking onto the bed next to him and running his hand through his sopping nest of hair. His whole body was still shaking in reaction. “You tried to keep her from the worst of it.”
Angel grimaced and held his hand out for the kitten in an obvious bid for comfort. “I didn’t realize I’d be saving it for someone else. It just all seemed so unfair.”
Tucker’s mouth twisted, and he hated that this was the expression he was giving Angel, but it was all he had. “That’s the truth. Are we going to have to tell that guy’s story too?”
Angel regarded the kitten sadly, holding his fingers up to get her to play. “Yes,” he said. “But he seems to be connected with this room too. Maybe if we tell the story of the women—”
“Well yeah—that’s why I said check everything, remember?”
Some of Angel’s dispiritedness faded. “You’re very smart,” he said, and the sincere admiration in his voice made Tucker’s stomach turn over.
“I’m not,” he said stiffly, putting on the cotton gardening gloves he’d bought that day. “Here—I’m going to put everything out on top of the desk, even stuff I find under the bed and in the closets. What we need is a rating system. You’re going to hover over the thing and give me a scale of one to five. Ones are the hole punch or the letter opener—so boring it almost stops my heart. Fives are the snuff box—so awful it makes me want to stick an ice pick up my nose for a DIY lobotomy. Everything else—”
“Wait!” Angel said, surprising him. “What about the good things?”
“What?”
“You know… the….” Angel blushed. Color actually washed across his face, and a faint sheen of sweat appeared on a forehead that was, for all intents and purposes, a psychic oil painting.
Tucker was so fascinated watching something that shouldn’t happen that it took him a moment to realize what Angel was talking about.