Haunt Your Heart Out

Chapter 14

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I’d only been to James’s place a handful of times, mostly to pick him up in the driveway. Because he shared the space with Julian and their crew of four others, the space was never empty—and rarely quiet. But Natalie and Julian were keeping the crew busy, providing the ideal opportunity for a change in scenery.

James unlocked the door, and we were greeted by a bounding Lulu. Our ear scratches were repaid with play bows galore. She woofed her little Lulu bark and nuzzled my leg, then zoomed between James’s legs to bounce at the leash that dangled from the coat rack beside the door.

I bent and ruffed up the long hair at her neck, and she woofed again, sat on my foot, and leaned her whole body into my leg so she could look upward at me, tongue lolling.

“You’re ridiculously cute, but I’m not the person you need to ask.” I pointed at James, who put his hands on his hips while staring her down.

“A quick walk, and then I’m off-duty,” he told Lulu. Then, to me: “Get comfy, I’ll be right back.”

After he disappeared out the door with the furry date-snatcher, I checked out the décor around the apartment. I dragged a fingertip along the edge of the entertainment center and walked my fingers along the wall as I examined the space. A corkboard map of the world hung—slightly crooked—on the wall, with a rainbow of pins scattered across the entire display. Most of the markers landed throughout North America, but a not-insignificant number of pins were stuck on other continents as well. A print-out of Pinky and the Brain was taped to a bottom edge, with “1) Film Documentaries, 2) Take Over the World” added in funky bubble letters. Lofty goals.

A few pictures hung on the fridge: Julian and James sitting on a guard rail with a backdrop of cacti and sand; the entire crew on a couch with their cameras and sound gear in laps; Julian high-fiving someone who looked like a member of Fall Out Boy; a much smaller puppy Lulu stretched out on a couch with James sitting on the floor resting his chin on the cushion nearest her face, her tongue lolling.

I was pulled from my perusal when James opened the front door, and Lulu tore into the room, mini snowballs flying off her shaggy coat as she barreled through the space. He held a tall thermos in one hand.

“I see you made a little pit stop.”

“Check out the dessert menu,” James said, gesturing toward a cooler that sat on the counter. I peeked inside to find various grocery store clamshell packages and a bag of marshmallows. The more I pawed at the goodies, the more deliciousness I found: chocolate chips, strawberries, apple slices, and sponge cake.

“Open the bag.” He tipped his head toward a reusable grocery bag beside the coffee table. I peeked inside, wondering how much more dessert the guy thought I could pack in.

“A … fondue pot?”

James nodded. “The forks are in the outer pocket. Candle and lighter, too.” He smoothed a big wool blanket on the floor as I plucked the fondue pot and various accessories from the bag. James arranged them, and I added the ingredients, dessert, and thermos to the blanket.

“Okay, so I have it on good authority that these apples go perfectly with chocolate, but I have some caramel if you’d prefer. The cake might dip, but it might fall apart. We may finish dessert looking like we just learned to eat, but it will be worth it. Dig in.”

Note to self: implement fondue nights at Dog-Eared immediately upon securing a business loan. “You’ve thought of everything,” I said.

He smiled, lit the fondue pot, and dropped chocolate chips into the bowl on top, then turned his attention to the candles that were arranged on the coffee table beside us.

“Oh, so this is probably the wrong time to suggest we brainstorm the next stop?” I settled into my spot, leaning back to stretch my toes far enough to brush the arch of James’s foot. James narrowed his eyes playfully as he poured something dark and steaming from the thermos, then passed me the mug.

“A rich hot cocoa, sourced directly from the bakery on Main Street.”

“You mean the competition?” I smirked.

“We’ll call it ‘research.’ We’re sizing up the octogenarian baker who probably changed your diapers when you were a child.”

Not untrue. Miss Beecher was honorary granny to anyone under the age of forty.

“She said this is the flavor you and Nat always ordered when you were filming the vlog.” He grasped for the remote and the television screen flashed on, a Yule Log video crackling to life across the giant screen. “I actually was hoping the nostalgia of some peppermint hot cocoa might earn me a few extra spooky secrets.”

“Well, the secret was that we tipped a few shots of whipped cream flavored vodka into the cups to really warm us up while we were out all hours of the night chasing ghosts.”

The candlelight flickered in James’s eyes, amplifying the amused sparkle that I’d grown so fond of. “How do you know you didn’t hallucinate the spirits you were chasing, then?”

I grabbed his hand and pulled him in for a kiss—partly because I craved the taste of his lips, but also to stop the unintentional guilt-tripping. Joking about hallucinating the ghosts was a little too close to the truth—even if I’d known they weren’t real, the act of creating them and sharing their stories had helped me feel less alone—and now it turned out that their continued existence was my key to business ownership. I needed those ghosts—always had. “It wasn’t that much vodka. But I think I’ve got something for you.”

I pulled out my phone and brought up a photo of Dog-Eared—before it was Dog-Eared. The building had been standing as some form of business since the mid-nineteenth century, and this particular photo featured a hardware store sign and a handful of Ford Model Ts. “So, it’s not the oldest building in the town. It’s not even the most haunted. But it is haunted. You saw the vlog: we’ve called her Mary, and the rumors of her existence started when books by authors named Mary started disappearing or ending up in mysterious places. And I want to tell you all about her.” So what if it was fake? It supported James’s project—and gave me the upper hand when it came to buying the store.

“Charles was hesitant to let us film at the store.”

“Not a ghost guy. Doesn’t even like to stock ghost stories. Someone donated a Magic 8 Ball once, and he hurled the thing like Pedro Martinez gunning for a career record.”

James smiled. “Don’t think you can derail me with a baseball reference—did you get the okay to film there?”

“Sort of. You can film an interview with me—with one exception. He reserves the right to have you cut it from the documentary at his request if my bookstore purchase falls through.”

James ran a thumb along his jawline as he thought.

“But if I get the business loan, it’ll stay in—no question.” I swallowed, hard, and held in the guilt. It wasn’t just my life I was messing with here—his documentary was at stake. But if I played my part well enough, we’d all win.

“I’ll run it by the group, but chances are good they’ll be on board.”

I stabbed cake with my teeny fondue fork and dunked it into the melted chocolate, plucked it off the fork, then washed it down with a tiny sip of hot cocoa. The combination was damn near perfect and a tiny moan escaped.

“Just wait until I take your order for the next course.”

“Oh, there’s more, is there?”

“It’s an off-menu item, for VIPs only. And if there’s anything this establishment prides itself on, it’s the fact that we aim to please. No matter the request.”

“ Anything I want?” I asked, tapping my fondue fork against my lower lip.

“You’re the boss.” He leaned back, supporting himself by resting on his hands behind him, one leg hitched over the other. Cool and casual.

I stabbed a strawberry, dunked it, and devoured the chocolatey treat.

“I’m thinking we should move this meeting to a more private venue. Bedroom?”

“And on that note.” He blew out the fondue pot candle and quickly gathered the leftover desserts into their respective containers.

I dipped my finger into a gob of melted chocolate that had dripped onto the blanket, then swiped it across James’s nose. Ignoring the direct assault, he closed the last container, wiped away the chocolate, and slipped a bit of an apple to Lulu, who took it politely between her teeth before sneaking off to her bed to nibble the treat, then wrapped his arms around my waist and hoisted me over his shoulder.

“Something about that absolutely did it for me, and I don’t want to unpack it at this moment.” I grasped at the back of his shirt, tugging it from where it was tucked into his perfectly fitted jeans and fisting the loose hem in my hands. “Right now, all I want is this shirt on the floor.”

“Can do,” he promised. When we were concealed in his bedroom, he flopped me onto the mattress and finished untucking his shirt, then moved to sit on the bed beside me. As he unfastened his buttons and shed his collared shirt—but kept on the white T-shirt beneath—I eyed the space to see what I could learn about the man getting naked beside me. Everything was in perfect order: The dresser top was spotless, his sheets were pulled up and tucked neatly, and he had a pair of bookshelves that stretched floor to ceiling—jam-packed with books, organized by size. He could have run his own used bookstore out of his bedroom.

I scooted to the opposite edge of his bed and leaned in to examine the titles. For a guy who made an effort to appear indifferent to literature, he’d amassed quite a collection. Everything from Lord of the Rings and The Wheel of Time to the top sellers from the Business section—name a title, it was here. He even had an eReader on one of the shelves, but a thin layer of dust showed it had been resting there a while. Analog fan, intriguing. I dragged my fingertip along the shelves and stopped at The Chronicles of Narnia , aligned in the current publication order.

“This won’t do,” I said, before plucking Narnia from its place and rearranging the books—no matter what the spines said, they should be displayed in the order they’d been released. No excuses. James grunted at my fiddling but didn’t object. He knew to let a professional do their job.

I finished my reorganization, then scanned the spines to further catalog his preferences. Wide, leatherbound books and hardcovers and trade paperbacks, nonfiction and classics, poetry anthologies and biographies, some fantastic romance novels from recent years. They were in perfect order—if you count an arrangement by book height an acceptable sorting technique, which I did not. Everything fit in his strange sequence, except for a handful of books that appeared out of place. Why were those books important enough to mess up his clear and deliberate organization technique?

The stragglers at the end of the middle shelf, directly beside his desk, were paired two-by-two. The same titles, different covers, matched up. Closer investigation revealed names I knew well: George Orwell. Philip K. Dick. Jane Austen. Joseph Heller. Mary Shelley. Toni Morrison. My favorite authors, standing like columns against a slew of other books without pairs.

If I hadn’t recognized the sticker on the spine of Dracula , I’d have assumed he was a serial classics collector. I stashed books with inscriptions from perfect strangers, so collecting multiple copies of the same books wasn’t unheard of. But I knew the titles he had stashed away. All books that I’d recommended. And he had multiples.

James climbed farther onto the bed and crawled over to meet me where I sat. He moved my hair out of the way and kissed me at the curve of my neck.

“Has another bookstore employee been forcing good literature on you?”

“You’re not the only collector,” James said, resting his chin on my shoulder.

“How many of these have you read?”

James sucked his teeth, then tilted his head to look me in the eye. “All of them. Multiple times.”

“No! Why did you pretend you hadn’t?”

“Because it’s sexy when you lecture me about literature.”

I shot him a stern look.

“Okay. At first, I was trying to judge your taste in books. But then, you were so into giving me recommendations that I couldn’t ruin it. I dual-majored in humanities and teaching, so most of those were required reading. The ones that weren’t just spoke to me.”

“My short-lived experience attempting a degree in Library Science and Media means everything has a chance to become a learning experience, so recommendations are part of the deal.”

“Why short-lived?”

I shrugged. “Dropped out. I worked too hard, stressed myself out, went down an anxiety spiral, and didn’t have a support system beyond Nat and her family—but didn’t want to be a burden, so I hid the worst of it. The college health center wasn’t equipped to help. Not that it was their fault, they just didn’t have enough staff, and there wasn’t enough support to go around.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It was a dream I had, but it didn’t work out.”

“Would you go back to school?”

I shrugged. “I think the time has passed. My anxiety and I have learned to coexist; biweekly appointments with my therapist are an incredible help. But I think I’m exactly where I need to be now. Besides, the thing I need least right now is school loans. I’ve only just paid mine off—with no degree to show for it—and I’d like to keep my debt to a minimum. How about you? How’d you end up filmmaking instead of teaching?”

“I got tired of providing free labor for Julian and the crew and demanded a cut.” He rose his eyebrows and flopped backward onto the bed. “We’d been traveling together, and usually I’d stop in to apply for open positions at local businesses. I’d work wherever I could get hours, save what I could, pitch in for rent, help pay for gas for that soccer mom van that Julian and the crew rides around in. But there’s also something about committing things to film that piqued my curiosity. It’s like committing words to the pages of a book—I like creating something that will persist, whether on film or on paper, bringing ideas to life. It’s the way the ideas grow and change with each person who encounters them that I love about film. Don’t get me wrong: I’m not a filmmaker, and I don’t see a future in this, but thanks to Julian’s storytelling, these ideas all have a life of their own once they’ve left his curation.” He shook his head. “Sorry, that sounds silly, I guess.”

He may have thought it was silly, but it made perfect sense to me. I may have created my ghosts to surround myself with whatever comfort I could conjure, but they’d become something bigger than me. They left my immediate control and became something to other people. They became something to James and Julian, who crossed an entire country to research the phantoms I’d set free from my imagination.

“Anyway, you know that this specific documentary is a contest submission. The prize money is the real draw.”

“You mean it’s not the ghost hunting that you love?” I bumped him with my knee.

“If I could win the prize money without the ghosts, I would jump on that chance. They’re, uh, more willing to come out and play than we expected, honestly. I was hoping we’d get away with debunking the stories.”

“Debunking my ghosts, James, really? Rude.” I leaned back to lounge beside him.

“They’ve made it clear that they’d prefer to remain … bunked … I thought I’d be teaching literature or history by now, not intentionally scaring myself so I can win a contest. But, turns I wasn’t cut out for teaching after all—my weeks spent student teaching proved that I would have been terrible at it.”

We sat in a moment of comfortable silence, his fingers flirting with the sensitive skin at my wrist and palm. The conversation had moved beyond reflection, and my thighs pressed together as I imagined his hands elsewhere on my body.

There was something I hadn’t had the opportunity to try until exactly this point in my life, and I had an inkling that James would be a willing participant. I scanned the room until my eyes landed on the camera and tripod I knew he had. What better time to try out a longstanding fantasy than right now?

He’d waxed poetic about committing moments to film—which tracked for a guy who seemed to be on the road a lot. It might be too personal for him. But, maybe …

“Maybe there’s a different subject you’d like to teach,” I suggested. I dragged my fingertip along the curve of his collarbone. “I mean, it’s been an awfully long time since I was on camera. Maybe you could give me a few tips. Isn’t there some advice about picturing the audience naked to relieve nerves?”

James’s eyes widened, and he licked his lips at the scandalous recommendation. “That’s for public speaking, and actually significantly creepier than ghost hunting.”

Good lord, he wasn’t wrong. “Okay, shit, sorry. How about we’re both actually naked, instead? We can do a test-run on film, then check the footage later to pinpoint my best angles.”

He cleared his throat, leaned closer, and in a deepened tone said, “Are you … suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”

“I mean, only if you’re open to it. Zero pressure. Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked, it’s totally—”

“For your eyes only?” he asked.

“Absolutely. My eyes only. We can even delete it right after. Immediately. If you’re into it?” I chewed my lower lip, waiting to see where it landed on the weird-requests scale.

“I am completely into it.”

“Yeah?”

He flipped himself over to pin me to the mattress and leaned in for a kiss. The growl he let slip had me melting into the mattress. Using both arms, he hefted himself back off the mattress and turned to retrieve the camera and tripod. The muscles in his whole arm tensed as he twisted the knob to raise the tripod, knocking my vision out of focus at how much I wanted to trace his bicep with my tongue.

“How much are we documenting?” He curled a finger in my direction to beckon me nearer, pointing at the viewfinder to indicate that I should take over. I joined him beside the camera, and he gently guided me with one hand at my hip to have me take control.

“Anything you’re comfortable with. And we can stop at any time. Safe word is ‘That’s a wrap!’” I giggled, but cut the laughter short as he slid up behind me—his erection measurable through his pants.

He leaned in to press a button on the camera and the viewfinder flashed to life. “You’re the director. Set the scene.”

“I have to line up the shot first.” I turned toward him and grasped his chin in one hand, then pressed a line of kisses along his jawline and down his neck. “Set’s hot, we just need the star of the show.” I used two fingers to press him away from me, toward the bed.

He lowered himself onto the mattress, hitting the eyeline perfectly before aiming his fervent gaze directly at the lens. Even through the viewfinder, it hit me like the heat pouring out of a woodstove. Warmth pooled low in my belly as I adjusted the camera to capture the whole bed—the pristine comforter wasn’t going to be wrinkle-free for long. I pressed record .

“You’re a mysterious scholar, visiting my library to quench your thirst for knowledge.” Biting a thumbnail, I moved toward him until my thighs touched the mattress, then I slid one knee between his legs, savoring his sharp intake of breath. I slipped my hands beneath the bottom edge of his T-shirt and slid his shirt up and over his head to expose his broad chest and solid build. With a hand on each bare shoulder, I dragged the tip of my nose along the soft, exposed flesh of his neck and chased it with a playful nibble. Goosebumps cropped up along his biceps. The tiny bumps were glorious under my fingertips, multiplying my want by ten, ten thousand, ten million. I grasped his wrist with one hand, turning his palm up, then seized the opportunity to tease each curve and dip along his arm, whispering my fingertips from the dimple of his shoulder blade, down the smooth skin of his arm, and across the inner crook of his elbow before raising his hand to my mouth to kiss along his palm and wrist. I leaned back again and bit my lip while perusing his body, appreciating his stocky-but-tall frame—more subtle muscles from hefting camera gear and playing fetch with his dog, rather than lifting weights. I was torn between the desire to drink it all in and the thirst for more than simply looking.

“I like where this is going,” James said, leaning forward and grasping my belt loops to tug me into his lap and shifting his weight until I straddled him. Deft fingertips undid the button-up front of my shirt. With an eyebrow rising toward the ceiling, he pulled the placket open and admired my curves before leaning in to kiss the skin my lacy bra didn’t cover—following the slight curve of one cup, then the other—before slipping his hands underneath the back of my shirt and plucking the clasp open.

We hadn’t even begun, and I was going to come undone if he kept his eyes on me like that much longer. I hopped off his lap and shed the shirt and bra but maneuvered his hand to let him free the button of my jeans. The intentionally slow unbuttoning and unzipping process had me shifting on my feet, counting the milliseconds until he stripped me bare and explored all the places that could make me shake. Eventually, thankfully, mercifully, the denim dropped to the ground, followed by my lace underwear, freeing me to lunge at him. Impatient, insistent tugging finally got me the result I craved: his crisp pressed pants were stripped off and discarded on the floor beside my own clothing.

The both of us finally unclothed, I hoisted my leg up onto the bed and corralled him, encouraging him to make his move. He crept his fingers up across knee and thigh until he found the groove only inches from where I wanted him. Firmly, he gripped the curve of my ass in his hand to pull me closer, fixed his eyes on mine, then leaned downward to tease the rise of my hip and crease of my thigh with his tongue while leisurely drawing the knuckle of a thumb over my clit.

My whimper was met with a low, rumbling growl. Want and need had nothing on the yearning building between my legs.

When he looked up, not at me, but past me—acknowledging the camera lens that was capturing the moment—I lost every bit of composure I’d tried to keep.

“Jesus, that’s hot,” I admitted from somewhere deep in my throat.

“Good performance is all about knowing where to look.” He grasped my thigh and flipped me onto the mattress, pivoting to place the length of our bodies perfectly within frame before taking a long, appraising sweep of my entire naked body. “Didn’t put down any spike tape, I hope I didn’t ruin your shot.”

“You’re in it. No way could it be ruined.” I captured his bottom lip between my teeth and pulled gently backward, encouraging him to move closer.

He kissed me, first experimentally, then deeply, slipping his tongue between my lips to tangle with my own. My skin crackled with built-up energy that needed to release. Every flirty exchange between us had stacked like a house of cards and the rough hair on his knees scraping between my thighs as he leaned into his kisses was a fuse too near a powder keg of desire. He moved downward, trailing a fingertip between my breasts and down the center line of my stomach before slipping his thumb between my legs. My thighs twitched and my back arched involuntarily, eliciting a tiny laugh that morphed into a moan halfway through.

“Did you bring any of those expired condoms?” he asked. I wrinkled my nose and narrowed my eyes at the joke but he didn’t wait for an answer. He moved away from the bed, stopping only to caress the inside of my knee, before selecting a condom from the drawer beside his bed. He didn’t turn away from me or the camera as he rolled the condom into place. My gaze landed on the way his eyebrows arched as he focused.

He dragged his fingers along my torso—fingertips down, then a gentle scratch of fingernails on his way back up—before leaning in and wrapping his mouth around my nipple. His hot tongue swept across the hardening surface and in a quick circle around my sensitive areola. He tip-toed the pads of his fingers down the center line of my stomach then circled my clit a few times with excruciating slowness, tightening the orbit each time before dipping a finger—then two—inside while adding pressure with his thumb where his fingers had recently teased.

My head lolled backward as I enjoyed the sensations—and of being the only thing he was focusing on, the thing keeping him in this space at this moment, willing to commit the desire and whim to film. He took a long, relaxed exhale as an opportunity to slide between my legs, shifting my thighs wider apart to settle in place. I peeked at the camera quickly, nothing demure about it, and nodded for him to continue.

Without hurry, he pressed into me until his hip bones and my thighs were sharing space. The smooth motion ended with a small hitch as he shuddered before coming to a rest. Though I’d had my fair share of sexual partners, I rarely let myself simply enjoy the pieces that got me to orgasm. In the past, I hadn’t fully appreciated the concept of taking our time. I was never in a rush to finish but also never truly gave myself the time to delight in the build-up.

This time, I craved the moments in between. I wanted to relish the gentle whimpers and contented sighs, the relief, the indulgence, the pure adoration that passed between us. I wanted to luxuriate in it all—memorize the milliseconds and keep them in a special place in my mind, so I could revisit them later. With our bodies pressed together, nose to nose, he smoothed my hair away from my face, but the effort to tame my waves was wasted: I didn’t intend to come out of this experience with anything but bedhead.

I grasped him with both hands wrapped around the back of his head to pull him in for another kiss, shifting my hips as I did to ensure I had every inch at my disposal. He grunted as I wrapped my ankles around his thighs and tugged him closer, deeper, before moving on him to fully appreciate the position.

I grasped for his pillow. “Can I use this?” I asked. He nodded, and I folded it into a crude wedge before sliding it beneath the arch of my back, raising my hips even more. The shift in position sent a shiver through my body, which he met with an insistent thrust. We’d exhausted the slow and steady portion of the encounter. All of James’s fingers pressed into the flesh along the tops of my legs as he used both hands to gain purchase. Moving together, each exploring the other with wandering hands, we discovered the miniscule shifts and larger thrusts to bring the other to the edge. When his hand traveled between my legs again, I nudged it out of the way to take over. His touch was sublime, but playing with myself freed his hands to rove—and I needed him to cover as much ground as possible. His earnest observation and quivering breath were testament to how well the stimulation worked for him too. As muscles tensed and the hint of an orgasm began to creep in, James grasped the hair at the back of my head in one hand and braced himself on the mattress with the other arm. His eyes narrowed, then widened, as he watched me come undone beneath him.

A moan tore from my throat as I shook, lifting my head enough to feel the pull of his fingers at the roots of my hair and trembling even more for it. He sucked his lower lip as I fixed my gaze on our torsos and hips, his happy trail, and the way our chests heaved with pleasure.

I lifted a hand to his face and dragged the pad of my thumb across his lips. He kissed, then drew it into his mouth, teasing the curve of my thumb with his tongue before giving a quick, possessive nip. In answer, I flipped him onto his back and pinned his arms to the bed so I could sink onto his dick as deeply as possible.

The bedhead I had hoped for was more than accomplished, but to ensure it met my expectations, I skated my fingertips up my sides and across my breasts—taking a moment to roll my own nipples between my fingertips—then up my neck to tangle my mess of hair in my own grasp.

James drew in a breath, rising his torso off the bed as I arched my back and knotted my fingers in my loose strands. He palmed my ass and groaned, pulling me down onto him, then letting me rise so he could do it again and again—until he flung his arms outward to clasp the sheets as he shook beneath me. When the pulsing slowed, he flopped an arm across his forehead and exhaled long and deep. The sideways grin plastered across his face was ridiculously kissable—so I helped myself to a peck at the corner of his mouth before backing off him and strolling toward the camera to end the recording.

“Do you want to watch it?” he asked.

“Oh, god no!” I laughed. “You?”

He scrunched his nose and shook his head. “Delete it?”

I turned the screen toward him, and he clicked through the settings to bring up an “Are You Sure?” prompt. We pressed the SELECT button together, then triple checked to make sure our sex tape couldn’t be recovered under any circumstances.