Chapter 6 Blake #2
“Don’t call me that.”
“I can go back to kid,” he offers.
I give him a dirty look. “Don’t you dare.”
Wyatt leans back in his chair. “Was it his first time?”
“Ugh. No. Guy’s a year younger than me and he was already a sex pro.”
“Did he go down on you?”
My face burns hotter. “I’m not answering that.”
He chuckles. “You’re blushing. That means yes.”
I get to my feet, eager to end this conversation before my cheeks literally burst into flames. “Come on, let’s clean up. I still need to get ready.”
Just like that, the lighthearted mood dies.
“For what?” he demands.
“I’m going into town tonight.”
“For what purpose?”
I stare at him. “For the purpose of fun.”
His expression darkens. He pauses, as if thinking it over. Then he shakes his head. “No. You’re not going.”
I start to stack our dishes. “Hey, Wyatt, guess what? You have no say in how I spend my time.”
“Maybe not, but one message to Man Chat, and I know someone who’ll be very interested in your plans.”
“Oh no!” I roll my eyes. “You realize my dad is across the country, right? He can tell me not to go to a bar tonight until he’s blue in the face. But guess who’s still going to the bar?”
“Oh, so now it’s a bar?”
“It was always a bar,” I say in exasperation. “I want to go out. Meet people.”
“Guys?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. What do you care?”
It’s not like you’re interested in me, I almost snap, but I’m not opening that can of worms. Best to leave our past encounters where they belong—inside the small dungeon in my gut labeled HUMILIATION. Bringing up his lack of interest won’t lead to anything but an uncomfortable conversation.
I’m about to carry the plates inside when a flood of light suddenly illuminates the deck.
Wyatt and I both swivel our heads in alarm. I can’t see it, but there’s a boat down below, its lights slicing through the dark water. And since everything carries on this lake, we can hear them perfectly.
“Darlie?” someone says in a loud hiss. Sounds like a man.
We exchange a look.
“Are you Darlie?” I murmur.
He chokes out a laugh. “No, I’m not Darlie.”
“Darlie.” Another voice now. A higher pitch but also male. “Show yourself.”
What the hell is happening?
My eyes widen when Wyatt heads for the stairs. I swiftly reach for his arm and tug him backward.
“Stop that,” I whisper. “Don’t go toward the crazy people in the lake. What if they have a gun?”
“Why would they have a gun?”
“Maybe they’re trying to kill Darlie.”
He ponders that for a moment, then shrugs. “I think we’ll be fine.”
Ignoring my hushed protests, he bounds down the stairs, and because I can’t let him die alone, I hurry after him.
“Darlie! We heard you the other night. You were crying out. You want someone to see you. We see you.”
The boat is almost directly at our dock now.
“Hey, bro?” Wyatt calls out.
“Who’s there?” one of the voices shouts back.
“The owner of this house” is Wyatt’s wry response.
I sidle up to him, squinting at the boat.
A midsize motorboat, carrying two men in their early to mid-twenties.
The moon is bright tonight, offering a good view of them.
One is muscular and broad-shouldered with bushy brown hair and a thick beard.
The other is wiry and blond, wearing a tank top from Mollie May’s latest world tour. So obviously I like him on the spot.
They cut the engine, their boat drifting closer to the dock. “This is your place?” the big one says. “Excellent! You would’ve heard Darlie last night then.”
“Who’s Darlie?” I ask curiously.
“She’s a victim of the lake.”
Okay.
I regret asking.
The smaller guy pokes the big one in the ribs. “Stop. You’re being creepy, Spence.” To us, he offers a reassuring smile. “Hold on, let me explain. I swear he’s not crazy. We’re paranormal podcasters.”
Oh, so they’re both crazy.
Wyatt nods at the men. “All right.”
All right? That’s all he’s got to say about…whatever this is?
“I promise you we’re totally normal dudes.” The small one quickly introduces himself. “I’m Spencer.”
“And I’m Spencer,” says the bigger one.
Wyatt and I share another look.
“Both of you?” I finally say.
“Yup,” confirms the bigger Spencer. “Spelled the same and everything.”
“College roommates too,” the smaller Spencer adds. “It’s like the universe knew.”
“Our middle names are different, though,” Big Spencer says. “Which is a shame. Imagine if we were both Spencer James Hands? How cosmic would that be?”
“I’m sorry, did you say Hands?” Wyatt shifts his gaze between them. I suspect his head is spinning in perfect sync with mine.
“Hanz. With a Z.” Little Spencer hooks a thumb at his partner. “Blame this beautiful asshole. I took his last name.”
That’s sweet. “How long have you been married?” I ask.
“Oh, we’re not married yet. I preemptively took it.”
Wow.
“So, um, about this lake victim?” I prompt. “Do you mean like a ghost?”
“Yes. One of many,” Big Spencer reveals. “This lake is teeming with ghosts.”
Now I’m intrigued. “Is it really?”
“Oh yeah. Tahoe is steeped in the supernatural. Have you never heard of the Tahoe Biltmore?”
“The hotel?” I say blankly.
“Try the most haunted hotel in the area,” Little Spencer retorts.
He seems like the more dramatic one, speaking with extravagant hand gestures.
“The paranormal activity there is off the charts. Doors opening, slamming. Unintelligible whispers. Creepy knocks. Guests are constantly spotting Mary hanging out in the stairwells.”
“Mary?” I echo, while Wyatt gives me a look that says please don’t indulge this.
“The showgirl who haunts the hotel. She wears a miniskirt and go-go boots,” Little Spencer says.
“And has no face,” Big Spencer pipes up.
“But we’re not here to rehash the same old nonsense that every other paranormal expert investigates,” Little Spencer informs me. “Like the Biltmore or the mansion on Fannette Island.” He adopts a jeering tone. “Ooooh, I smell cinnamon toast. Soooo cool.”
“What?” I’ve never been more confused in my life.
“The Fannette Island ghost was something of a breakfast connoisseur,” Big Spencer explains. “Her favorite breakfast was cinnamon toast, and all the park rangers claim they can smell cinnamon when they’re out there.”
I nod solemnly. “Got it. But you’re not here to chase dead showgirls or cinnamon ghosts.”
“Correct. We’re not interested in all the cases that have been done to death—no pun intended.
” Little Spencer chortles before going gravely serious again.
No pun intended. “One of the lesser-known sightings is of a woman named Darlie Gallagher. She drowned herself in the lake after her fiancé left her for her younger sister. Happened about fifty years ago.”
“But don’t worry,” Big Spencer assures us. “She’s not evil.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” Wyatt says, and I hope they don’t realize he’s fucking with them.
“If anything, you’re lucky to have her,” Little Spencer confirms. “As far as ghosts go, Darlie is kind and generous. And she loves love. Which, frankly, shows a deep emotional maturity on her part that most humans can only dream of having. I mean, here she is, her heart shattered to pieces by her lover and her sister, yet she still believes in the power of love. Still desperate for others to experience it.”
Oh my God. I don’t think I’m drunk enough for this conversation.
“We’ve been here about a week. You know, checking out the sites, hitting up the local library,” Big Spencer tells us. “According to our research, Darlie usually appears during a full moon.”
“Is she a werewolf?” Wyatt asks, and I can see him trying not to laugh.
“No. But there was a full moon the night she drowned. And there was a full moon last night when we were cruising the lake.”
“We heard her,” Little Spencer says triumphantly. “And, oh my wow, you guys. It was like…these screams were coming from deep beneath the water. High-pitched. Ringing with such anguish. Calling out for love.”
“Real longing,” Big Spencer agrees, nodding.
I bite my lip. Hard. Oh boy.
“Um, so… I hate to disappoint you,” I tell the Spencers. “But… I think that was me.”
Their expressions collapse. “What do you mean it was you?” Little Spencer demands.
“Yeah, so we”—I gesture between me and Wyatt—“sort of fell in the lake last night by accident—”
“By accident?” Wyatt cuts in.
“Well, he pushed me in,” I say sweetly. “And, well, I remember screaming pretty loudly, out of shock and because the water was stupidly cold, and then I got hypothermia—”
“She didn’t get hypothermia,” interjects Wyatt.
“Anyway, I’m sorry,” I finish. “No Darlie sighting last night. That was just me.”
“Well, shit,” Big Spencer says.
They sit there wallowing in their disappointment for a moment until Little Spencer brightens.
“You know what?” he says. “It’s cool. Totally fine. Just because it wasn’t her last night doesn’t mean she won’t show up tonight, right? Look how big the moon is. Totally still big enough for her to want to haunt people and infect them with her love bug.”
“I mean, I’d prefer she didn’t,” Wyatt hedges in.
The Spencers ignore him and fix their pleading gazes on me. I think they’ve clocked me as the more receptive one.
“Do you mind if we sit out here by your dock for a while and listen?” Big Spencer asks.
“Sure, knock yourself out,” I say, shrugging. “We’re just…going to go back inside.”
“We’ll catch you guys on the lake tomorrow!” Little Spencer calls after us.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Wyatt mumbles under his breath.
We leave the two boat weirdos to their own devices and quickly ascend the steps back up to the house. Not a word passes between us. It isn’t until the french doors are firmly closed, providing a sound barrier to the lake, that we look at each other and burst out laughing.
I double over, wheezing from the giggles. Wyatt rubs tears from his eyes, pushing hair away from his face as he laughs his ass off.
“Jesus Christ,” he croaks.
“Okay,” I say when my laughter finally subsides. “They were nuts, yes. But they were kind of adorable.”
“They were not adorable, Logan.”
“Also, and I’m not joking, but I’m really intrigued about this Darlie case. And all the supernatural Tahoe stories?” I glance at him on my way to the staircase. “Do you need the Jeep tomorrow, or can I take it?”
“Take it where?” he asks suspiciously.
“You realize I’m allowed to drive to town by myself without telling you what it’s for, right?”
“Take it where?” he repeats.
“Oh my God. If you must know, I want to hit up the library.” I head up the stairs, over my shoulder adding, “I’m getting changed now.”
“Right, into your pajamas. I approve.”
I stop halfway on the staircase and peer down at him. “I told you I’m going out. That hasn’t changed.”
“You’re not going out.”
“Oh, I am. And guess what else? You’re not invited.”
He glares at me from the bottom of the stairs. “Like hell I’m not.”
“Sorry, Graham. I’m just gonna order a car and be on my way.”
“I’ll drive you,” Wyatt says through clenched teeth. I can see his jaw ticking from the strain.
“Nope,” I answer cheerfully. “Because you’re not coming.”
“Oh, I insist.”
He stomps off, and I’m grinning to myself as I climb the rest of the stairs. Reverse psychology. Works every time.