Chapter Twenty-three
Baxter
Calisto’s obvious surprise when he operated the camera and found me standing outside Asher’s security gate only made me feel more guilty.
He pressed the button to admit me, and by the time I reached the house, he was already waiting on the doorstep.
He swept me into a hug tight enough to crack ribs, somehow combining it with manhandling me inside and slamming the door, as if he thought I might bolt if he didn’t employ underhand tactics.
When Calisto finally released me, he didn’t let go completely. His hands remained on my shoulders as he studied my face, as if there was going to be an exam later, full of very tricky questions.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m…” I stopped myself from trotting out the same tired platitude.
If I did that, all the work I’d done with Lake on facing up to things would have been for nothing.
“I haven’t been okay for a long time,” I admitted.
“Since I came back, really. But I’m working on it, and I think I’m making progress. ”
Calisto grimaced. “Since I dragged you back, you mean.”
“Yeah. Naked.” I never turned down the opportunity to remind Calisto that his unplanned actions months ago had left me wandering the Yorkshire moors without a stitch of clothing on. As resurrections went, it had been a baptism by fire.
“Have you had breakfast?”
His question made me realize I hadn’t. Leaving Lake’s house to give him and his sister some privacy hadn’t allowed time to eat first. I suppose I could have grabbed something during the awkward half hour when Verity waited for her brother but wouldn’t let me wake him, leaving us at a stalemate—but I didn’t want to risk being accused of stealing Lake’s food.
It had been painfully obvious, even without reading her mind, that Verity hadn’t been pleased to make my acquaintance, and that she’d known nothing of my existence. Which was both slightly irksome and completely understandable.
I followed Calisto into Asher’s extremely shiny and very well-equipped kitchen.
The first time I’d set foot in here, I’d been dead.
The last time had been during my stay here.
Since then, small aspects of Calisto’s personality had inserted themselves into the previously austere space: a tea towel with a bear on the front; mugs with actual pictures on that weren’t all of uniform color and size; and bright red cushions on the stools around the breakfast bar.
I slid onto one as Calisto set to work on breakfast. He had his back to me, which made things easier. “I’ve been really worried about you,” he said.
“I know.”
He paused while cracking eggs in a bowl. “Then why didn’t you…?” He caught himself. “No. I’m not going to do that. I promised myself I wouldn’t harangue you.”
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Me too.” And that was the truth. Right here, right now, it was hard to work out why Calisto had taken on the role of a truth-seeking machine in my head—especially when he knew me like no one else did. “I’ve been having some problems,” I admitted.
“Uh-huh…” A slight tension crept into his shoulders, but he didn’t turn around.
“Nightmares. Flashbacks. PTSD stuff.”
“Sounds like you’ve been doing a lot of self-realization.”
“Not really. I kind of owe that to Lake.”
Calisto spun around, curiosity written all over his face. “Lake? Who’s Lake?”
“Lake is…” I didn’t fight the smile that wanted out.
“I suppose you could call him my boyfriend.” We hadn’t talked about it explicitly, but given the things we had talked about, I didn’t think he’d have a problem with the label.
In fact, I suspected it would bring the faint flush I’d already grown to love to his cheeks, along with a smile.
I was so busy thinking about Lake that I missed the first few seconds of Calisto staring at me like I’d grown a second head. “What?” I muttered defensively.
He shook his head, something close to wonder in his expression. “The last thing I knew you were―”
“Whoring myself around,” I finished for him.
Calisto pulled a face. “I wasn’t going to put it quite like that.”
“But you were thinking it.”
He had no defense for that and returned to making scrambled eggs and slicing bread for the toaster. “I’m glad you’ve found someone.”
“So am I.”
“Do I get to meet him?”
“I guess so.”
“The four of us could do dinner. Unless… you don’t want Asher there. I know things between you have been strained, and I recognize that he’s not everyone’s cup of tea.”
“Who insisted you give Asher a chance?”
“You did.”
“Who listed all of Asher’s physical attributes when you were blind to them?”
Calisto set a plate of scrambled eggs on toast in front of me, along with a knife and fork. “I was never blind to Asher’s good looks. Far from it. He was just intense.”
“He still is.”
“And sex does not automatically mean you’re in it for the long haul.
” He sat opposite me and tucked into his own plate.
“Which you know, because you’ve been making up for lost time.
” He grinned. “But now there’s Lake.” He said Lake’s name as reverently as if he were the second coming of Christ. “Tell me about him.”
“He has a lot of tattoos,” I lied.
Calisto paused mid-chew. “Tattoos are good. I’ve never been into them personally, but a lot of people like them. Asher doesn’t have any.”
“The needle would probably break.”
Calisto’s eyes narrowed. “You sound like John.” His relationship with Asher had brought out a feisty side. You could mock Calisto all you wanted, but go after Asher and he came out swinging for his boyfriend. It was undeniably sweet.
“Not because he’s made of ice,” I said innocently. “Just because the needle would be too scared of getting it wrong.”
“Lake?” Calisto prompted, reminding me that Asher wasn’t the topic under discussion.
“He has a facial tattoo.”
“Oh. That’s very… individualistic. Good for him. It takes a brave man to stand out from the crowd.”
“He has a pierced cock.”
“I’ve heard that can make things very pleasurable.”
I chewed while I considered what might finally prove a breaking point for Calisto. ”He’s been in prison.”
It took Calisto a while to swallow his mouthful of food. “Everyone deserves a second chance.”
“Not for anything major,” I added. “Just armed robbery. Only one person died.”
Calisto put his knife and fork down. “This is all bullshit, isn’t it?”
I gave in to laughter and eventually he joined in.
It felt good—great, actually—to laugh with Calisto again.
“He’s a historian. He writes books and teaches.
No tattoos. No piercings. He’s never been to prison, and if you and he were in a niceness competition, he might not win, but he’d give you some stiff competition. ”
“He sounds perfect.”
“He is.”
“So what’s your plan, Baxter?”
I thought about my answer for a few seconds.
“Build something with Lake. Convince his sister that I’m not evil incarnate.
Get over having been dead and get on with the rest of my life.
Tell my parents I’m back in the land of the living and see if that interests them at all.
Ride out this work suspension and hope Cade’s generous enough to let me prove I’m not a complete fuck-up. ”
“That’s a long list.”
“One thing at a time,” I said, my voice sounding suspiciously like Lake’s.
Calisto and I spent most of the afternoon together.
If you ignored the fact that I could eat now and no longer walked through walls, it felt just like old times—the two of us slipping back into a relationship of mutual needling.
I left before Asher got home. Not because I had an issue with him—most of my past reluctance at being in his presence stemmed from him functioning as Calisto’s mouthpiece—but because I didn’t want to outstay my welcome.
After that, I ran errands. Thrilling ones, like stocking up on toiletries and buying underwear. Buying underwear became considerably more interesting once I factored Lake into the equation and thought about what he might like to see me in. Grinning, I sent him a message.
Instead of replying, he called. “What do you mean, do I like silk? Silk what? Ties? Sheets? Curtains?”
“Underwear.”
“Oh.”
My grin widened at the silence that followed. “Have I stunned you into silence?”
“No. I’m just taking a moment to picture it.”
“I’ll take that as a yes, then.” I grabbed a pair of black silk briefs, then added three more colors for good measure.”
“Where are you?” Lake asked.
“Robbing a man of his silk underwear.”
Lake gave a throaty laugh. “Just make sure you get them off him without touching him.”
“Why? Would you be consumed with jealousy?”
“Possibly.”
Which meant yes. I headed for the till. Something caught my eye reflected in the mirror at the edge of my vision, but when I turned, there was no one there. Strange. For a moment, I could have sworn there was. Talk about main-character syndrome—me buying underwear was hardly worth a stakeout.
“How did it go with Calisto?”
I joined the queue. Thankfully, it was only three deep.
“Good. He’s a sweetheart. He wouldn’t be capable of not forgiving someone even if he tried.
And he understood why I was avoiding him once I explained.
We’re friends again.” Someone paid and left, and I stepped forward.
The woman in front of me noticed the underwear in my hands.
I winked, and she blushed. It wasn’t as pretty as when Lake did it.
“How did it go with Verity? On a scale of one to ten, how much does she hate me? Eleven, right?”
“Of course not.”
“Damn. Is it higher?”
“She’s just concerned about me. Especially after the Carl thing.”
“Your terrible taste in men explains a lot, you know.”
“Why?”
“Don’t make me list all my flaws in public. The world isn’t ready for that.”
“There’s nothing terrible about you.”
The genuine warmth in his voice made me smile again. “I have a confession to make.”
“What is it?”
“When I told Calisto about you, I kind of called you my boyfriend. So if you have a problem with that label, you should probably tell me now.”
“I don’t.” No hesitation.
“Good.” The queue moved, and I handed over my items.
“I hate you.”
The thought landed in my head, clear as a bell—so clear it felt deliberately aimed at me.
Remembering that sense of being watched, I scanned the store.
Two female employees chatted by the lift, neither looking my way.
A few customers browsed, their thoughts occupied by color choice and gift suitability for a family member or significant other.
“That’ll be twenty-three pounds ninety-nine.”
“What?” I turned back to the cashier. “Right.” I handed over thirty pounds.
“Baxter? Are you still there?”
It was strange how you could forget someone was on the phone when you had it pressed to your ear. “Yeah. Sorry. Something odd happened.”
“What?”
I took my change and the bagged underwear, weighing my options. Was I really going to tell Lake that someone had thought something hateful, and in a moment of pure paranoia, I’d decided they’d aimed it at me? He’d ask who, and I wouldn’t have an answer for him. “Nothing.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. I think I just need more sleep.” I headed for the lift that would take me to the ground floor.
“Speaking of tonight…” Lake continued. “Verity wanted me to have dinner with her and her husband. But I told her we kind of had plans.”
I stopped dead, nearly causing an elderly man to walk into me. He tutted and muttered something about young people and manners. I was pretty sure he also said something about spanking, and not in a good way. “Do not cancel plans with your sister for me, or she’ll definitely hate me.”
“I was looking forward to seeing you.”
“And me, you. But we can see each other tomorrow night and keep your sister happy.”
“What will you do?”
“Get a pizza. Watch a film. Have an early night.”
“You won’t go out?”
I smiled, then felt bad about it. “No, Lake. I won’t go out. I don’t need any of that anymore.” I didn’t add I’ve got you, but I suspected he heard it, anyway.
“If you’re sure?”
“I’m sure. There’s something to be said for giving each other time to miss each other, right?”
“I already miss you.”
I stepped outside just in time to see the bus pull away. That left waiting for the next one, forking out for a cab, or walking. I walked. If I followed the route, maybe one would pass me and I could jump on. “You’re too damn sweet.”
“I can fix that.”
“How?”
“Did you know Charles Dickens was afraid of trains? He’d just returned from France when—”
“Of course it was France.”
“That part isn’t relevant. Anyway, his train derailed over a bridge. He survived, but other carriages plunged ten feet into the river. Ten people died.”
“Cheery story.”
“Thomas Carlyle, Queen Victoria, and Oscar Wilde also disliked train travel.”
I suspected he’d go on all day if I let him. I made a loud static noise. “I’m under a bridge. You’re breaking up.”
“What bridge?”
“Bye, Lake.”
“Bye Baxter.”
No buses came for the next twenty minutes.
Which was both a good and a bad thing. Good because if I’d waited at the stop, it would have been a waste of time.
Bad because once I was halfway home, I might as well finish the walk.
Decision made, I took a shortcut that veered off the bus route and into quieter streets.
The feeling of being watched crept up on me ten minutes from home. It was strong enough that I spun around to scan the street. Nothing. Just like the reflection. Just like the hateful thought.
The three things so close together bothered me, though. Enough that I picked up my pace and glanced back over my shoulder more than once. Was someone following me? And if they were… why?