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Once finished, she grabs my hips and tries to sink down to her knees. I clutch her by the elbow, stopping her.
“Don’t.”
Confusion warps her blue eyes. “I want to.”
“I don’t want you to kiss me. Anywhere, Zoey.” I back away, and annoyance pulls her face.
“Why?” She searches me up and down. “Is this about you being a so-called ghost?”
I nod once. It’s not just that I haven’t felt anything these past few months. It’s that I don’t deserve to. I struggle to tell her this.
She crosses her arms over her chest. “What happened, October?”
My throat dries. “Let’s just have an understanding between us. You don’t kiss me. You don’t try to get me off.”
Her nose crinkles. “So you’re a masochistic ghost?”
I can’t help it, I laugh.
Her face brightens at the noise. “The ghost laughs.”
“A true miracle,” I say quietly, fixing my puffer jacket back onto my shoulders. The Poe room is dreary. Heavy curtains block what little light seeps through the window. An old oil lamp on a rickety end table, right beside an old smoker’s chair, adds a warm, haunting glow.
The four-poster bed lies sunken, lumpy. The mattress old and the burgundy quilt hefty and musty. And though this used to be George’s favorite room (God rest his sad soul), his widowed wife put a cracked porcelain doll on the antique dresser.
Better to scare the tourists with.
I can’t believe the first time I touched Zoey in years was in the fabled, haunted Poe room. Not what I would’ve planned, but when it comes to me and her—our plans usually go out the fucking window.
I strut into the en-suite bathroom. Zoey watches as I wash my hands. Foamy soap slips over my short, manicured nails. Glancing over my shoulder, I ask her, “Did you enjoy that?”
Her cheeks flush. “You couldn’t tell?”
I appraise her from toe to head. Her ratty sneakers, jeans torn at the knees, and cropped top over a black long-sleeve shirt. Bracelets jangling on her wrists. Lips shiny with pink gloss. Messy blonde hair tucked behind each ear.
“I want to hear you say it,” I admit.
Zoey half-heartedly rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “I enjoyed your fingers inside me, Kenobi.” She gives me a slow, hot look. “I’d enjoy putting mine in you, too. If you’d let me.”
“I won’t.” I turn off the faucet and wipe my hands on a soft hand towel. When I return to the bedroom, I sink onto the burgundy quilt and untie my boots.
“You’re staying?” Surprise coats her words.
“I meant what I said. I’m not leaving your side. Not again.”
She smiles fondly. “My protector. Right.” She glances back to the door. “I told Kelly that I’m writing the book. It was the only way to get her to let me book a room.”
I suck in a sharp breath. “You’re digging a grave.”
“Luckily, I have someone who’s promised to pull me out.”
“No, I promised to protect you,” I say matter-of-factly. “Which means I very well could end up in that grave too.”
“Side-by-side, holding hands as the dirt is shoveled on top of us,” Zoey says softly and gives me a silly smile. “Who knew you were so romantic, October?”
Her teasing is making me feel…things.
Things I don’t deserve.
I need to change topics so she’ll stop flirting. Even though I do like this. Painstakingly, I utter the words, “Did you talk to your brother?”
Zoey’s smile disappears, replaced with a seriousness. “Yeah.”
“And?” For a second, I think she won’t tell me. I’ve been wishy-washy and cruel. I hardly deserve to be let into her life.
But then she says, “I might really need your help.”
How?
Why?
Before I can launch a thousand questions, Zoey is walking over to her suitcase. She unpacks a bottle. “We’re going to need some wine and Stevie first.”
CHAPTER 14
Zoey Durand
We get through an entire bottle of Cab and half the Rumours album before I finish my highly detailed explanation of what happened with Colt. I don’t leave anything out. Shit, I even describe the cigarette butts in his ashtray.
And I try my best to keep on course and make sure my head doesn’t fall back into the gutter—reimagining October’s fingers inside me. An ache remains where she touched.
Sitting across from me on the lumpy mattress, October is patient through the entire account, and only asks for clarification when she’s confused. But most of the time, I respond with a simple, I don’t know. It’s clear I don’t have all the details because Colt doesn’t have them either. It’s like trying to solve a mystery without the right clues.
“So I’m going to help him,” I tell her. “Either by finding this missing girl or…the last resort, follow Parry’s advice and convince Colt that he didn’t see or hear anything that night. But hopefully it doesn’t come to that.”
Hopefully we can find some sort of proof.
“Which is why you need my help,” she realizes.
