19. Who Let the Cadaver Dogs Out #3
Stove tilts his head back and makes the loudest fake snore sound.
“Cave wank or solving murders? I know which I’d choose.
Fine then, you little freak, I’ll answer your questions and then you’ll piss off, yeah?
I have an important matter at hand that I need to urgently deal with,” he says with an exaggerated wink.
“First of all, ew,” I say. “Secondly, when you came here as a boom operator, what production company were you working for?”
Stove frowns at me. It obviously wasn’t a question he was prepared for, and in all honesty, it’s not an answer I’m particularly interested in, but should I need a contact in the living world, it might help me out.
“It was a small indie team based in the midlands called . . . called . . . I can’t remember now. Huh, funny that. Let me think on it.”
“It’s alright. It’s probably not too important to the investigation. I just wanted to know how many of you were down in Helzephron Bay and what you were doing at the time,” I say.
“It was a docuseries we were working on about Jeanie’s disappearance. Back then, the overriding belief was that she either fell or was pushed from the cliff. So we were filming some interviews and B roll around the hotel grounds and the beach.”
“And the caves?”
“No, they didn’t want us to film inside the caves, even though I thought it’d be really cool.”
“Is that why you were here alone, not with the rest of the crew on the beach?” I ask.
Stove laughs. “Well, sort of. I came in here for a . . . tinkle. But the acoustics are amazing, so I set my mic up to record some sounds and explore a little. That’s when Franny hit me over the head with a stony ceiling club.”
“Still sticking with that story?” Trystan asks.
“Why not?” Stove replies.
“Okay, thanks,” I say, once again seizing Trystan’s forearm and turning away.
“Can I get back to my hot date now?” Stove says.
“Sure,” I call out over my shoulder. “But I want to inspect your cave tomorrow in the daylight.”
“That’s what she said!” he yells in reply.
I wait until we’re too far for Stove to hear us. “That guy is infuriating.” But another thought becomes snagged in my brain, and I can’t seem to unhook it. “What did he mean about . . . you know . . . the old five knuckle shuffle?”
Trystan laughs, and my innards flip themselves inside out at the sound. “Okay, so . . . the main thing is that when you’re a ghost, there’s no . . . refractory period.”
“Oh. Ohh!” I swallow. “So . . .”
“Yep . . . multiple orgasms. One after another after another until . . . you get bored or pass out or someone interrupts you.”
I don’t dare look at Trystan, but I know he’s grinning his head off. I can hear his smile in his voice.
God, there are so many questions I have for him, but they’re all borderline inappropriate. “Uh . . . um . . . so . . .”
“Do you want me to leave you alone in the hut for an hour?” he asks, his grin still present.
I don’t answer him, because there’s not a non-embarrassing way to say yes. My heart has run away with itself, my thoughts too, and I’m rock hard. So hard that if I were alive, I’d have difficulty walking.
“The only problem is . . . well, do you remember when we told you heightened emotions help you move objects?” Trystan says.
I pry an eye in his direction. “Yeah?”
“So, coming is probably the most emotionally heightening . . . thing we can do. That’s why Stove said it was good there aren’t any electrical devices in the cave. Are you following where I’m going with this?”
My brain is, one hundred per cent, but my mouth’s too slow to respond. It just sort of flaps like a pathetic fish on the deck of a boat.
“Basically, anything that uses electricity is . . . erm, in danger . . . of . . . exploding.” He laughs.
It’s throaty and deep, and I had no idea I could get even more turned on than I was, but here I am, at risk of spearing myself in the stomach like Peter during his final illusion.
“The number of times they’ve had to change the bulbs in that surf hut because of me. ”
I’m still moving, but everything inside me has frozen. Every single ounce of concentration I possess pours itself into the herculean task of keeping those images out of my thoughts.
I won’t do it. I won’t think of him that way.
It’s a violation of epic proportions. I won’t imagine Trystan alone on that mouldy sofa, his shirt falling open, vest pushed up over his abdominal muscles, shorts undone.
I won’t picture his dick in his hand, his head thrown back, eyes clamped shut, mouth calling out into the evening.
Lights flickering, the sound of the sea crashing, toes clenched against the soles of his flip-flops.
Fuck.
“Gary, you alright, dude?” he asks, placing his palm on my wrist. He’s touching me. Dear Lord, how am I meant to survive this night? “We’re at the hut. Are you tired, or do you . . . want a few minutes to yourself?”
My mouth is so dry, but I swallow anyway. “I won’t even need a few minutes,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady and forcing a laugh.
“Good, ’cause I also have an issue I need to . . . handle,” he says. Then he licks his lips, and I’m pretty sure I’m about to make a mess in my ExorSquad overalls.