air-conditioning, in other words.
And then some unseen hands had grabbed his balls. That he definitely couldn’t blame on the air– conditioning. He’d like to blame it on Gabrielle DeVere, but her hands were otherwise occupied at the time.
He watched a couple of idiotic reality shows on the small television set in the kitchen while he downed beer one. He read through a copy of
Sports Illustrated
while downing beer two. He swallowed beer three in his bedroom, hoping it would be enough to close his eyes for the night.
He did close his eyes. It was what happened after that that really threw him.
He didn’t consider himself an imaginative man. He seldom remembered his dreams, and those he did remember seemed to concern carpentry. But his dreams after the séance were like nothing he’d ever experienced before, or at least not since he’d grown out of adolescence.
The shadowy female presence he encountered seemed willing to perform every sex act he’d ever heard of, along with quite a few that he hadn’t. And yet he never seemed to reach completion—the more sex they had, the more he needed. The endless screwing left him aching and unsatisfied. As he finally pulled himself away from her eager hands, he heard mocking female laughter echoing in his ears.
Now he sat on the front steps with predictable blue balls and an unpredictable feeling of unease deep in his gut.
Something’s not right here. Something’s very wrong—deeply wrong.
He sipped the cup of instant coffee he’d managed to make for himself before he’d come outside. The whole house felt different somehow. He didn’t want to be in there long enough to make a pot of real coffee, even though the stuff in his cup tasted so bad he felt like spitting.
Mourning doves cooed in the live oaks along the walk while a mockingbird trilled through a scale in the side yard. Sunlight spread across grass moistened by dew. It was a glorious morning, and he felt like warmed-over shit.
He heard a car pull up in front but could hardly bring himself to look up. At the moment, he couldn’t think of a single person he wanted to see.
A pair of female feet wearing black low-heeled pumps marched up his front walk. The hem of her navy blue suit hit her around an inch below the knee. Overall, she looked like someone who’d just stepped away from the convent for a quick glimpse of the outside world.
“Good morning,” said Emma Shea.
He raised his gaze to her face and narrowed his eyes. She looked almost as bad as he felt. Her blue eyes were red rimmed and her red-brown hair, usually smoothed down ruthlessly into a coil at the back of her head, ballooned around her face in unruly ringlets. Her suit jacket looked crooked, and she’d missed one of the buttons on her white silk blouse.
“We need to talk,” she said.
Ray sighed. He really hated those words. “We do?”
She nodded. “Is there more coffee inside?”
“Instant. That’s what I’ve got here.”
The corners of her mouth turned down. “That won’t do it. Where’s the nearest Starbucks?”
Ray pushed himself to his feet, tucking the coffee cup behind a front porch pillar. “Blue Star Coffee’s closer. I’ll show you the way.”
“I’ll buy.”
He didn’t argue with her. At that point getting away from the house seemed like a very good idea.
They sat at a table next to the window, maybe even the table where he’d sat with Rosie the day before. Yesterday. That had been yesterday—even though it felt like a couple of years ago.
What a difference a day makes, twenty-four little hours . . .
Emma sipped her Coffee Maximus straight, with no cream to mitigate the bite. “What happened to us last night?”
Ray shifted in his chair. He considered pretending he had no idea what she was talking about, but all of a sudden he felt too tired for games. “I don’t know exactly. I assume it wasn’t what usually happens when your medium does her stuff.”
She shook her head. “Gabrielle is about
And then some unseen hands had grabbed his balls. That he definitely couldn’t blame on the air– conditioning. He’d like to blame it on Gabrielle DeVere, but her hands were otherwise occupied at the time.
He watched a couple of idiotic reality shows on the small television set in the kitchen while he downed beer one. He read through a copy of
Sports Illustrated
while downing beer two. He swallowed beer three in his bedroom, hoping it would be enough to close his eyes for the night.
He did close his eyes. It was what happened after that that really threw him.
He didn’t consider himself an imaginative man. He seldom remembered his dreams, and those he did remember seemed to concern carpentry. But his dreams after the séance were like nothing he’d ever experienced before, or at least not since he’d grown out of adolescence.
The shadowy female presence he encountered seemed willing to perform every sex act he’d ever heard of, along with quite a few that he hadn’t. And yet he never seemed to reach completion—the more sex they had, the more he needed. The endless screwing left him aching and unsatisfied. As he finally pulled himself away from her eager hands, he heard mocking female laughter echoing in his ears.
Now he sat on the front steps with predictable blue balls and an unpredictable feeling of unease deep in his gut.
Something’s not right here. Something’s very wrong—deeply wrong.
He sipped the cup of instant coffee he’d managed to make for himself before he’d come outside. The whole house felt different somehow. He didn’t want to be in there long enough to make a pot of real coffee, even though the stuff in his cup tasted so bad he felt like spitting.
Mourning doves cooed in the live oaks along the walk while a mockingbird trilled through a scale in the side yard. Sunlight spread across grass moistened by dew. It was a glorious morning, and he felt like warmed-over shit.
He heard a car pull up in front but could hardly bring himself to look up. At the moment, he couldn’t think of a single person he wanted to see.
A pair of female feet wearing black low-heeled pumps marched up his front walk. The hem of her navy blue suit hit her around an inch below the knee. Overall, she looked like someone who’d just stepped away from the convent for a quick glimpse of the outside world.
“Good morning,” said Emma Shea.
He raised his gaze to her face and narrowed his eyes. She looked almost as bad as he felt. Her blue eyes were red rimmed and her red-brown hair, usually smoothed down ruthlessly into a coil at the back of her head, ballooned around her face in unruly ringlets. Her suit jacket looked crooked, and she’d missed one of the buttons on her white silk blouse.
“We need to talk,” she said.
Ray sighed. He really hated those words. “We do?”
She nodded. “Is there more coffee inside?”
“Instant. That’s what I’ve got here.”
The corners of her mouth turned down. “That won’t do it. Where’s the nearest Starbucks?”
Ray pushed himself to his feet, tucking the coffee cup behind a front porch pillar. “Blue Star Coffee’s closer. I’ll show you the way.”
“I’ll buy.”
He didn’t argue with her. At that point getting away from the house seemed like a very good idea.
They sat at a table next to the window, maybe even the table where he’d sat with Rosie the day before. Yesterday. That had been yesterday—even though it felt like a couple of years ago.
What a difference a day makes, twenty-four little hours . . .
Emma sipped her Coffee Maximus straight, with no cream to mitigate the bite. “What happened to us last night?”
Ray shifted in his chair. He considered pretending he had no idea what she was talking about, but all of a sudden he felt too tired for games. “I don’t know exactly. I assume it wasn’t what usually happens when your medium does her stuff.”
She shook her head. “Gabrielle is about
Similar Books
