Midnight Magic, page 189
“Told you,” Callum muttered.
I laughed under my breath and shook my head. They owed me nothing. But Callum, when we got him back in his body, owed me a coffee because God help me, I liked him—I really fucking liked him.
“Consider this a freebie.”
CALLUM MASLOW
As soon as we stepped into my apartment we were greeted by the thick scent of paint. Sekani flicked on the light and I took in the studio that was my home. It was filled with sketchbooks, canvases, paint, brushes. There was a folding screen dividing the room, almost hiding a dresser and bed. A small, cluttered table was pushed against the wall near the kitchen. In the center of the room sat a stool and an easel with a half-finished painting.
“This is my house—my home,” I said. There were so many paintings on the walls and even more piled in corners. A wall had been dedicated to pictures of me with my friends and family. Hundreds of smiling people, all collaged together.
This was my life?
And someone had taken it from me.
“We did use the keys we got from your mother to unlock the door,” Sekani teased. I smiled but still poked my tongue out at him. “Do you recognize anything?”
I walked towards the canvas on the easel and touched a wide black streak on the painting. It was out of place and . . . wrong. “I was yelling at someone while I was painting. I got madder the longer we spoke because I would have to start over.”
It was ruined and I had put so much work into what I had already done.
“What were you yelling about?” Sekani asked.
I sat down on the stool in front of the painting and closed my eyes. “In the beginning, the art thief. I was upset because it was so obvious it was my work.” I shook my head. “But then it was about something else.”
Let someone else win for once.
I pressed my palms into my eyes as I frowned.
Someone had said that to me. I couldn’t remember who.
Let someone else win what?
“I’m gonna poke around. Why don’t you paint some?”
I glanced over. “I’m going to be really mad if you find that rainbow dildo.”
Mostly I would just be embarrassed.
“Why? Scared I’m gonna throw it away? I can always pack it in a bag to take with you when we leave,” Sekani teased. Once more, I was beyond thankful that I couldn’t blush. If I could, my face would be on fire.
Even if he took it with us, what was I going to do with it? Use it? When? His house was crowded and I didn’t think it would be appropriate. Though, I was starting to think I wasn’t the kind of guy who cared about what was appropriate. My keychain was covered in brightly colored dicks, after all. “Maybe you should.”
I bit my lip. Why did I say that? Sekani made it clear early on he wasn’t into ghosts and even if I had a body, I wasn’t inside of it. In fact, I was dying, so sooner rather than later I would probably actually be a ghost if we didn’t figure out why I wasn’t . . . me.
Sekani laughed and looped his arm around my neck, squeezing me for half a second before he released me. “Anything else you want to take, Ghost Boy?”
“I’ll let you know if I remember anything.” Though . . . if I was remembering correctly there was a whole box of sex toys in the back of my closet. I didn’t think that was the kind of thing I was supposed to share.
Sekani started to search my house for clues as I set up a new canvas.
“Hey, Callum,” he called, a barely suppressed laugh in his voice, sometime later. I paused. “I think I found more than your rainbow dildo.”
I scrambled off the stool. He was in my closet and . . . there was the box. I groaned as I dropped my face in my hands. “Don’t judge me.”
“Not even a little bit? ‘Cause these are handcuffs,” Sekani said, holding up a pair of black leather cuffs connected by a silver chain.
“You were a cop. You never cuffed a guy before?” I tried to snatch them out of his hands but he pulled them away before I could. “Fine.” I huffed and crossed my arms over my chest. “My safe word is penguin.”
He chuckled and twisted the cuffs around his index finger. The smug grin suited him more than I was ever going to admit. It really was unfair he wasn’t into ghosts because right now I was really into him. “Ever been handcuffed by a cop?”
“Once,” I said as I bit my cheek. “But that was for a drunk and disorderly.”
“I’ve used my cuffs for their unintended purpose a few times.”
I smiled and took a step toward him. “And here I was picturing you as the straight-laced kind of guy—in the dark, under the blankets, face to face.”
Really, I should have known better. Sekani had a strong moral code and strong opinions. He wasn’t scared to do the right thing in the face of disapproval, but he wasn’t scared to bend the rules when necessary either.
Plus, how vanilla can a guy who talks to ghosts be?
Sekani grabbed my shoulder, turned me around, shoved me against the wall, and hooked the cuffs around my wrists. I wheezed as he pressed against my back. His heat seeped through my clothes and—oh God. Was he hard? Because I was.
His breath was warm on my ear as he stroked my arm. “I’m not sure anyone has ever mistaken me for straight, Ghost Boy.”
“Sekani,” I whined. I hadn’t been hard once since I became a ghost and now my body was throbbing. Was it even possible to come as a ghost?
“What?” He tugged on the chain that linked the two cuffs. I shook my head, unable to form a response. “Anything else in this closet you might not want me to find?”
“A box of fun,” I huffed. It was the same box he’d found the cuffs in though.
“Sounds a little like the box I already found.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“I don’t know.” His mouth was warm as he pressed a kiss to my neck. “I’ve got questions. Which toy in that box is your favorite?” His hand wrapped around my waist and I swallowed as he rubbed my hard cock through my jeans. It was him, so of course I could feel it and—fuck! My fingers flexed behind my back. I wanted to touch him but I couldn’t so I settled for thrusting against his hand. He laughed under his breath and I dropped my head against the wall. Was he just fucking with me?
“Please . . .” What was I saying please for? What did I want him to do?
“Is this okay?” He popped the button on my jeans and pulled the zipper down. I didn’t need oxygen but I panted anyway as I nodded. “I need your words, Callum.”
“Yes. Yes. Touch me, Sekani,” I begged, and he slid his hands into my jeans, freeing my cock. Heat built at the base of my spine as he pumped me from root to tip. It felt so good. How long had it been since someone touched me? Did this only feel good because it had been so long? Or maybe he wasn’t just touching my body but . . . more—my soul. “Sekani. That . . . It feels so good.”
I was going to come. There was no way I could stop myself as I thrust into his dry fist. He was applying just the right amount of pressure, squeezing me just how I liked as he teased my slit with his thumb. It was a little unfair I wasn’t touching him back but sometimes the act of touching another person, giving them pleasure, was pleasure within itself.
“You gonna come for me, Callum?” Sekani whispered in my ear.
“Yes,” I gasped as I leaned into him. He supported my weight, twisting his fingers around my cock. “Sekani . . . Sekani, I . . . I’m gonna—” The heat that had built along my spine exploded outwards in waves as I pumped into his fist. There was no mess but it felt like an orgasm all the same and I sank against him, aftershocks rolling through my body one after another.
“Good?” he asked once I caught my breath. I nodded and he unhooked the handcuffs. Once my arms were free, I turned to face him. He wore a warm smile as he tucked my cock away and fixed my jeans.
“What about you?” Did he not . . . want to?
Sekani leaned in, brushing his mouth against mine in a barely-there kiss. “Maybe later. You go paint while I keep snooping.”
“Are . . . Are you sure?” I bit my bottom lip. Did he not want me to touch him because I was a ghost—sorta, anyway—and it wasn’t his kink? If that was the case, why did he touch me?
SEKANI AELOR
Hours had passed since we’d arrived at Callum’s apartment. He’d returned to his canvas and brushes on shaky legs after I’d jerked him off. I ignored the throbbing of my own cock and continued the search, looking for the backpack his mother said was missing.
The whole time I searched, I could only wonder if it counted as sex with a ghost if they didn’t touch you? I’d only touched him so . . . didn’t count, right? Plus, Callum isn’t technically dead, just . . . slowly dying.
I needed to save him.
But how?
I sat on the end of his bed with my ankles crossed and my arms extended behind me, supporting my weight as I watched him paint. He hadn’t started over on the painting but had painted over a large portion of it in white then dried it with a blow dryer. From there, he started to mix colors and fall into the rhythm of his work.
It was . . . amazing. I didn’t have talent—not really. But he had it in spades.
I stood as he set his paintbrush down. The sun had set; even with the light on, the room was still pretty dim. But the painting looked done.
He looked out the window. “I guess I lost track of time.” He offered me a shy smile. “Sorry.”
“I don’t mind.” He’d looked more happy and relaxed than he had since I met him. Maybe it was the hand job. Maybe it was the painting. Either way, I liked just watching him sink into something, leave his troubles behind even for a few short hours. I wished I could do the same so easily. “So? Is it done?” Or did it just appear that way to me because I didn’t know anything about art?
“Yeah. What do you think?”
I laid a hand on his shoulder. “I think you’re amazing.”
“I put all my time and focus into this. Nothing else mattered,” he muttered as he looked at the painting. His use of color shouldn’t have worked but . . . it really did. I didn’t know why but it looked alive, like a living thing, not just paint on a canvas. “But if I never wake up it’ll all be for nothing.”
“Do you love it? Painting?”
“Yeah. I really do,” he replied as he stroked the edge of the canvas, smearing some of the paint before jerking his hand back. It didn’t take away from the painting in any way. Instead, maybe it added to it—something imperfect to counter the perfection.
“Then it’s not for nothing,” I told him.
The doorknob jiggled before his apartment door was pushed open. I looked over to see Luke standing in the doorway, looking guilty as hell.
“What are you doing here?” Luke asked.
“Mrs. Maslow sent me to look for Callum’s bag. Have you seen it?”
He shrugged. “I figured the cops had it. He never went anywhere without that ugly bag.”
I shook my head. “He wasn’t brought into the hospital with it. Maybe I’m just missing it. Do you know what it looked like?”
“Why do you want his bag?”
“I told you. Mrs. Maslow sent me for it,” I replied, keeping my tone light and conversational even though he was a douchebag of the highest order. Not just because he was obviously stonewalling me either. But because Callum was supposed to be his best friend and every time he opened his mouth, he had some kind of putdown ready.
“It’s an old messenger bag. It was green but now it’s so covered in paint, who knows? And the strap is mostly duct tape,” he said. He wasn’t lying about that, at least.
“Why is he even here?” Callum muttered from my side.
“Did you need something from Callum’s apartment? Don’t let me stop you.” I gestured to the room.
“I just . . . Wait. Did you touch this painting?” Luke stumbled forward.
“Oh. No. But, he’s as good as everyone says.” I turned to look at the painting again. “It’s a shame he couldn’t submit his final project. Maybe I’ll talk to Mrs. Maslow about getting his paintings together and turning them in. It looks like he finished this one just in time.”
“I can’t believe he finished it,” Luke muttered, reaching out to touch the canvas. I grasped his wrist before he could discover the paint was wet and his gaze snapped to me. “You know you never told me who this client of yours is. All of Callum’s friends are mine so maybe I can help.”
“Sad thing about memory loss is the part where you lose your memory. He can’t remember his own name.” I shrugged and released his wrist when he pulled back.
“Maybe you should bring him to the hospital,” Luke said as he pushed one hand into his pocket. “I’m sure Mrs. Maslow won’t mind.”
My gaze dragged over him. “Actually, I think that might be a good idea.” Callum wasn’t remembering anything. We needed to get him back into his body before his body died and he was really dead. There was a way—a long shot to be sure but . . . worth a try. “Tomorrow. Four.”
“Great. I can lock up behind you,” Luke said.
“No need.” I smiled, tucking my hand in my pocket as well, and rocked back on my heels. “I’m going to do one last sweep for his bag. You grab what you need and head out. I’m sure you’ve got school bright and early tomorrow.”
He moved away, stopping at the wall of pictures and ripping some out from under the pins, not caring if he tore through them or not. When he was done, he shoved them in his pocket and left, slamming the door behind him. I glanced at Callum who was frowning at the wall before he looked at the door.
“I’m starting to think Luke isn’t actually my friend at all,” Callum said.
“What gave it away?” I asked as I grabbed a chair from the table and dragged it to the door. I shoved it under the knob, kicking it hard to make sure it wouldn’t budge.
“The murderous intent coming off him when he sees you.”
“Yeah. That’s a pretty good giveaway.” I grasped his shoulder and squeezed. He inhaled sharply as his door appeared in the apartment. He couldn’t see it but since I used him to call it forth, he could probably feel its presence like a heavy, unpleasant weight on his chest. When it came for them, a person’s door was a hard thing to resist. It wasn’t here for Callum though—just me.
“I guess it’s a good thing my mom’s always there,” he said, his chest rocking even though he had no real need for oxygen. “He can’t kill me at least.”
“Meet me at the hospital—your floor,” I told him as I pulled a knife from my pocket and sliced through my hand.
“Okay,” he said slowly. “What are you doing?”
“Getting you back in your body—hopefully. It might suck a little.” Or a lot. But the alternative would be so much worse.
“I’ll meet you there,” he said, his stormy eyes flickering around the apartment. I slapped my bloody hand against his door. It sprang open and I stepped into hell, or as close to it as I assumed a person could get before—and maybe even after—they died.
The unpleasant memories, as they were often referred to—the dead who took a door not their own—quickly took notice but I didn’t stop to look at them, to speak to any of them even as they took on the familiar shapes of dead loved ones. It had been years since I’d used the doors and there were plenty of new faces, but no one rushed me. The older ones knew better at this point.
Still, one fell into step beside me. I looked over to see the washed out, colorless figure of my dead fiancé. He grinned, the corner of his lips tipping up as if he was preparing to make a sexy suggestion, like he had a hundred times in the past. Anger unspooled inside me and I looked away, carrying on. Deacon was gone. This unpleasant memory wasn’t him. It was just a desperate ghost hoping I’d free them from a hell of their own making.
My gaze skipped over the doors I passed, looking for the one I needed.
The great thing about them was just how organized they were. They lined up nice and neat in endless rows. Some of them were marked differently—those ones didn’t lead back to home, but deeper into this wasteland which I knew ended in a central room with a single door I’d never attempted to open. It felt wrong.
I found the door I was looking for quickly, easily. I was used to navigating the maze. Plus, this particular pair of doors called to me, considering how often I used them. I really shouldn’t have been using them at all, but that bridge was already built. And this was easier than a phone call—this way they couldn’t ignore me.
Yanking one open, even as I felt the heavy weight of the unpleasant memory pushing against my back, I used my body to block the exit and poked my head out. Thankfully, Dumb and Dumber were sitting on the sofa, watching another supposedly scary movie. Their heads snapped up, River’s eyes wide, his chest rocking as he sucked in a startled breath. The only time a living spirit medium could see their own door was like this—some asshole popping it open.
“Get to the hospital,” I ordered before I slammed the door shut so the asshole at my back couldn’t push past me. The last thing I needed to deal with on top of everything else was an escapee.
CALLUM MASLOW
My parents were likely at home, since it was past visiting hours. I sat on the bed beside my body. It looked skinny and pale and . . . like it was barely clinging to life. How long did I have until the door Sekani said was hanging out in my hospital room became visible to me? Something was telling me not long—not long at all.
So much was happening it was making my head spin. I felt as if I was missing something—something important. Aside from my memory. Luke wasn’t being a good friend. Someone was stealing my art. On top of all of that, someone hit me with their car and probably didn’t even pump the brakes. It was just so much—too much.
And now . . . I felt strange—wrong. This was the first time I’d been away from Sekani since I found him. Would I be able to stay here much longer? Would I be dragged back to the street I had woken on? Sekani would come for me. Wouldn’t he? He wouldn’t just abandon me to my current fate, not after everything we’d been through together already.
