Chapter 2
Chapter Two
JOSH
Squinting blearily in the sunlight streaming through the window of my motel room—why the fuck did I leave the curtains open?—I try to work out what time it is and why I feel like I ran a marathon yesterday.
The answer to the latter rolls over behind me and puts a thick, muscular arm around my waist, and memories rise of our all-night fuckfest. I can’t help the smug little smile.
I might be sore all over this morning, thanks to our exertions, but it’s a price I’m willing to pay.
It’s been so long since I had sex with someone, I was starting to wonder if I’d forget how to do it.
I’m happy to say that’s not the case. And the agonizing nerves that were choking me when I sent over that shot were totally worth it. I guess it’s not that hard to pick up a stranger after all.
Though it helps that nobody ever died in that bar.
Letting my eyes drift shut, I snuggle into my pillow. I’ll have a doze, then maybe whatshisname will wake up and want another round before I have to go to my—
Fuck!
My eyes snap open, and I lurch upright as my bed companion groans in complaint. The sun is up. Like, up up. It’s not early, which means I might be late.
I knock my phone off the nightstand in my haste to grab it, then end up leaning off the mattress to scrabble on the floor for it. Of course it’s just out of my reach. I stretch a tiny bit further…
…and tumble face-first out of bed.
I don’t have time to nurse my bruised face, though. I grab my phone and check the time.
“Shit!” My interview is in fifteen minutes. Fortunately, the coffee shop we’re meeting at is only a block away, but I’m covered in cum—including some in my hair. There’s no way I can get away with not showering, not if I want to make a good impression.
And I need to make a good impression. I need this job.
My sore muscles protest as I leap to my feet and head toward the bathroom, calling over my shoulder, “Hey, uh… guy! It’s time to go.
” Guilt stabs me, but I don’t have time for diplomacy right now.
Although next time I pick up a stranger, I should make an effort to get his name.
It’s kind of rude to kick him out without saying his name. Right? Especially when he was so nice.
He makes sounds that might be words, but I’m already in the bathroom and closing the door. I don’t bother to wait for the water to warm up, hissing under the cold spray of the shower as I begin scrubbing crusty, dried cum off me as fast as I can while mentally preparing myself for the interview.
It would be a great job, and it would get me out of the city. I long for that. My soul aches with the longing. I want to live somewhere like this: a town that’s mostly new and doesn’t have a dense population. Somewhere I could let down my guard and finally just be me.
Somewhere like Mannix Estate. An old country home, converted to a hotel and retreat for the wealthy about a hundred years ago.
It was closed in the seventies due to something Google couldn’t give me any information about, empty and abandoned for thirty years, and then renovated and reopened at the turn of the century as a museum and immersive historic experience.
Schools visit on field trips, and historical societies descend for weekend retreats.
There’s the small museum, interactive workshops (learn how to churn butter!), extensive grounds for lazing around or playing croquet, a small farm, and accommodation.
Including on-site quarters for an admin-slash-overnight guest liaison.
The best part? The absolute best part? The whole place is reportedly haunted as fuck.
It says so right there on the website. They advertise based on it.
So if a staff member should happen to be caught talking to “nobody,” he could claim to have been chatting with a ghost, wink wink, and the guests would probably think it was part of the whole “immersive” experience.
Because that happens to me. A lot. I see ghosts, hear them speak, and often get dragged into whole fucking conversations with them.
It’s exhausting, but worse than that, it’s ruined my life.
I can’t hold down a damn job because stupid ghosts are everywhere in a big city.
Especially a city as old as Chicago. And after your workmates and customers catch you talking to ghosts—or, as they see it, no one—a few times, or you fuck things up because the dumbass ghosts startled you, it doesn’t take long until you’re no longer “the right fit” for the job.
Let’s not even talk about living situations.
I can’t have roommates because they freak about the whole ghost thing—see above comments about talking to no one and being startled.
That, or they’re creepily into it and I wake up to find them chanting over my bed in the middle of the night.
That’s happened twice.
And my landlords haven’t been much better.
They hate the salt. I use a lot of salt, because it’s one of the few ways I can get any peace and privacy.
I try to keep it contained, but it’s hard to vacuum up every grain, and for some reason, landlords and management companies hate that I line rooms with salt.
I even tried doing only the bedroom and bathroom—because come on, surely I deserve to be able to take a dump on my own—but my lease has been mysteriously not renewed at five different places.
I tried fighting it once, but strangely enough, it’s hard to get character witnesses when you talk to ghosts on the regular.
So… I’m in search of a job in a place my eccentricities will blend in, need a living arrangement and a town with low ghost population so I can experience a somewhat normal life. Is that too much to ask?
Turns out… yes. Which is why this interview really has to go well.
I finish rinsing off, dry myself on the rough motel towel, and wrap it around my waist before leaving the bathroom in a cloud of steam.
My bedmate is gone, thank fuck. I don’t have time for drawn-out goodbyes.
Although if I do end up getting the job and moving out here, I might try to track him down—that was one hell of a night.
Dressing quickly, I glance at my phone and see I’m down to five minutes.
Fuck. I spare a hasty glance at the mirror to make sure my hair’s not a disaster, then shove my feet into shoes, grab my wallet and key, and hightail it out of there…
carefully stepping over the salt line at the door.
I haven’t seen any ghosts at the motel, probably because it’s only a few years old and located in what used to be a field, but it’s easier to lock them out than to try and get them out after they’ve settled in.
I’m just lucky my hookup didn’t smudge the line when he left, or I might’ve been greeted by a curious ghost when I came out of the shower.
I hotfoot it in the direction of the coffee shop, trying to maintain that weird pace between a walk and a jog. I don’t want to turn up to this interview all breathless and sweaty, but I also don’t want to turn up late. So… balance. Thank god it’s not far.
Pausing outside the coffee shop to smooth myself down and take a deep breath, I glance through the plate-glass window to try and spot Kieran, who’ll be interviewing me.
I guess this is actually my second interview?
We had a Zoom meeting last week. I did the whole thing in a salt circle, praying the evangelical ghost that lives on the downstairs landing hadn’t somehow managed to get into my apartment and was about to pop up to ask me if I’d heard about Christ our savior.
It’s a miracle Kieran called me back for this interview.
I can’t see Kieran, but the shop is bigger than I expected, and there are some tables I can’t quite see from here, so I summon all my cool and push open the door.
Inside, I glance around again, making my way toward the counter, and finally spot Kieran sitting at a four-top table in the back corner.
There’s someone sitting with him, and I wonder if they’re here to help with the interview.
He didn’t mention that, though. Maybe this is someone else he’s interviewing?
I don’t want to interrupt if that’s the case; talk about unprofessional.
But… he’s not looking at the other person. In fact, he’s scrolling on his phone, sipping a coffee, acting as though he’s alone.
Sigh.
I look more closely, and yep, that’s a fucking ghost. Sitting at the table with my (hopefully) future boss. Where she can fuck up all my chances for this job.
Bracing myself, I start toward them. There’s no help for it.
If I want this job, I need to get through the interview.
I just need to be careful not to react in any way to the ghost. If she realizes I can see and hear her, she’ll want to chat, and that’s when things start to go bad.
Hopefully she’ll just sit quietly for the next half hour, absorbed in her own thoughts.
Kieran looks up when I’m a few feet away and smiles, putting his phone down and standing to shake my hand.
“I hope I’m not late,” I start, but he shakes his head.
“Nah, you’re bang on time. I just couldn’t wait another few minutes for a coffee, you know?
” He rolls his eyes self-deprecatingly. They’re a startling green, a shade that makes me wonder if he wears contacts.
But his hair is vivid red, and he has the kind of porcelain-pale skin—covered with freckles—that often goes with it, so they might be natural. “Do you want a coffee?”
I hesitate, because I really, really do, but I also don’t want to spill hot coffee all over my lap and possibly Kieran in the middle of this interview if the ghost—who seems to be watching us with avid fascination—startles me.
“C’mon,” he coaxes. “I can tell you do. What’ll it be? It’s on me.” He gazes at me with earnest sympathy.
Oh fuck, he thinks I’m hesitating because I can’t afford it. Sure, money’s tight, but I can swing a few bucks for a fancy coffee every now and then.