“Kinda seems like ayouproblem.”
I’m sweating. I clench my jaw, gripping the broom tight like it might save me from this train-wreck of a shift. “This–this isn’t–”
His bright amber eyes gleam at me. “You said it was a curse.”
The rest of my body stiffens now. “So what if I did?”
He hums, tilting his head. He’s studying me, and I feel like I’m under a microscope. “Then I have bad news for you, Janitor Boy.”
Before I can tell him not to call me that, my name badge isrightthere, he walks forward and leans in. His voice drops to something almost intimate. “Curses don’t just happen.” He phases his hand through my overalls at the waist and runs his fingers up. I look down but can’t feel his fingers, but I can feel a sensation like an echo of wet silk dragging along my skin. Mixed with his pungent yet sweet odour of rotting banana and used teabags, mixed with a less discernible odour of leather and sweat that fills my nostrils, my balls tighten into my stomach and the head of my cock swells.
“They come with conditions.” He continues. And I wish he wouldn’t. The longer I stand here, smelling him, looking at the bits of his glistening body I can see peeking out under that coat, the more I just want to pull my cock out of my janitor suit and cover the walls in cum.
“There are rules. A trigger. There are loopholes too.” He pauses and watches my face carefully. I perk up at the loophole, and he seems to notice that. He’s testing a theory. “Something tells me you’ve never tried to break it…properly.”
My breath catches. Ihavetried. Five years of searching. Wasting money on fraud mystics, combing through cursed forums, getting laughed out of bogus magic shops for asking if they could fix me. Every single one told me the same thing:There’s nothing to be done. No cure. No solution.
He watches me, and the realisation hits me; his smirk, the look on his face, it’s not judgement, it’s recognition. Understanding. We both know what the other is thinking. He knows I am cursed, because he must be too. No ghost just dwells in a bin, even in this supernatural-friendly world.
“Yeah,” he says, smug. “That’s what I thought.”
I blink. Just before the curse settles in on me, I come to my senses. This is a freakingghost,not just something my curse deems as an object of lust manifested. Ghosts are horrifying things, and as that thought fills my brain, my fight–or–flight instinct kicks in.
Fight?Not an option. I have never laid a hand on another man, let alone kissed one or slept with one, since the curse. So that leaves me with the other option.
Flight.Yes. That! AND NOW!
I drop the mop and spin on my heel. I rip the door open behind me and flee down the hallway, turning immediately left, not worrying about the concerned looks on the faces of lawyers as I sprint past them.
“Hey!” his voice is distant, but I can hear him call after me. It’s rich in laughter. “Running won’t fix your trash problem, handsome!”
I just run. My feet take me out of the building through the fire escape; I’m on the street, and everything’s too much. I duck into an alleyway nearby and catch my breath, my chest heaving as I lean against the brick wall, the cool air outside calming my nervous system.
Whatever this bin–haunting bastard had planned, the non-cursed part of me didn’t want to wait around and find out. What would people say next? He’s moved from trash toghosts. I couldn’t bear the embarrassment.
Chapter 3–Trash Will Find You
Ihad been prepared to write yesterday off as a delusion of my tired mind–until I was called in early and couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Abouthim.
The office is cool, crisp with recycled air and the faint scent of overpriced coffee.
I am already sweating bullets. Not because of the temperature building inside the restricting janitor’s uniform. Not because I am out of shape either.
I am actually in fantastic shape. Working out helps me keep my perversity at bay–it’s a great distraction. But no, I am sweating because a huge part of me knows whatever happened wasn’t imaginary and he’s here.
Somewhere.
Waiting.
Lurking in a bin.
I grip the handle of my cleaning cart so tight that if I somehow could grip it harder, it would bond with my skin. My shoulders are tense as I push the cart out into the office. With adeep sigh, I lift them to my ears and drop them, forcing them to relax.
This is just another shift.
Just. Get. Through. This shift.
