Total pages in book: 55
Estimated words: 52976 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 265(@200wpm)___ 212(@250wpm)___ 177(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52976 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 265(@200wpm)___ 212(@250wpm)___ 177(@300wpm)
Maybe I really am being too cold about all of this. West has to be scared about his future. I am, too. That’s obviously why I’m using bad humor and sass to deflect everything he’s trying to tell me.
“Of course not,” I finally say, my back to him.
“Then act like my damned friend for once.”
I down all of my water in one big go, then sigh, the glass hanging from my fingers. “Fine. I’ll … try to talk to Mrs. Shaheen tomorrow. Maybe she has an answer.”
“Seriously? Her again?”
“Who else?” I ask as I face him. “Byron’s dads?”
“Hell no,” blurts West with a scoff. “They’d sooner exorcise me out of existence with sage and holy water. They said this place has bad energy? Pfft. The only energy I felt when they were here was weirdo energy. There’s nothing wrong with this place.”
“Mrs. Shaheen it is. She did unknowingly help us learn how to use my body like a death taxi.”
West rolls his eyes. “Fine. But I don’t like it.”
“And she can tell me how to free you from your … afterlife imprisonment, I guess we’ll call it. Apartment purgatory. The only thing left after that difficult task will be to break the news to my soon-to-be-husband.”
“That he’s marrying not one guy, but two?” offers West with a smirk.
The moment he says the words, I hear a noise. We both turn. I spot a shadow near the entrance to the kitchen. Footsteps slap the tile.
Byron stands there in nothing but his sexy boxer-briefs, looking sleepy-eyed and confused. “Babe? Are you talking to yourself in here …?”
I glance at the other counter, wide-eyed.
West is gone. Next to him, only a spiraling rope of smoke from the wick of the candle, freshly blown out.
“Yeah,” I answer Byron. “Sorry, babe.”
He gives me a sleepy smile. I really fucking love his sleepy smiles. “It’s okay. But if you don’t get your shut-eye, you’ll be a wreck tomorrow.”
“Oh, it’s okay,” I assure him. “I got the week off from work, like you. Don’t have to go in tomorrow.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
I peer at him questioningly. “What do you mean?”
“You forgot already? I mentioned it right before we went to bed. My dads. Their plane lands in the morning. After getting settled in the hotel, they’re coming here in the afternoon for lunch.”
I blink. “Oh.”
He smiles again. “Don’t stay up too late, alright? Your side of the bed’s getting cold.”
“I’m coming back,” I assure him. “Just need a sec.”
“Take all the sex you need.” He winks at me, then disappears. I soon hear the soft rustling of sheets as he climbs back into bed—where I ought to be.
As I pass by the counter to follow him, my eyes fall on the note West scribbled in his bad ghost handwriting. I’m about to crumple it up when I read it:
WE’LL BE OK, BRO.
I smirk. Maybe I was a little hasty in judging West so fast. I look up into the empty air of the kitchen, as if searching for him, then whisper, “I hope you’re right.”
-4-
Lick My Big Crystal Balls
Before we deal with Byron’s dads, we’re going to need to address the dead elephant in the room.
Wait. Am I the dead elephant?
Sorry, West, but yes.
The trouble is, Mrs. Shaheen isn’t always across the hall in her apartment. Ever since the spring, she decided to open up a little business twelve blocks away called Madame Seazall. It’s a play on “sees all”. Pronounced that way, too. Her business is in a small building that used to be a nail salon, squeezed between a thrift store and an arcade. Above the door hangs a neon sign in the shape of a crystal ball with a pink, flickering eye.
That’s where we stand now, wondering if this isn’t the worst damned idea we’ve ever had.
Hey, this was your idea, buddy, not mine.
Now that you’re inside me, it’s our idea. I could’ve left you at the apartment, you know. You’re the one who insisted on tagging along with me.
Only because I know you’ll lose your nerve and screw this up if you go alone. We need both of us to deal with your weirdo landlord.
When I push through the door, a tiny bell chimes. The place is a lot like her apartment: mismatched lamps everywhere, silks hanging on or draped over everything, incense burning somewhere unseen, crystalline figurines of tiny elves, fairies, and goblins on display …
And in the center of the room is a small round table where the bushy-haired and elusive Mrs. Shaheen sits. She’s in a plain purple gown with a leg propped up on the table, a cigarette dangling from her fingers, and two tired eyes gazing off into who-knows-where. She takes a big puff of her cigarette, coughs, then picks at a loose thread on her gown. She is, in every sense of the word, bored out of her mind.