Shake, Rattle And Haunt Read online

  “Is that so?” he said, using his free arm to put his hand around my latest rum and coke, moving it to the edge of my reach.

  “You betcher sweet ash isssh right.” I groped for my glass, drawing it back in front of me. “An honesshh ta God, living breaving, in the flesch, ghosch.” I jumped as an unexpected hiccup erupted from my diaphragm. “Oops, ’cuse me,” I mumbled half to myself as I struggled to keep my eyes open. I was suddenly very sleepy. Throwing my chest out, I stretched my arms upwards and gave a long, drawn-out, yawn.

  He took my half empty glass and moved it farther away from me again, this time well out of my reach.

  “How about I take you home so you can get some sleep,” he said.

  “You jussh wanna see my ghosch,” I said with difficulty as my tongue swelled.

  “Yes, I just want to see your ghost.”

  Allowing him to help me to my feet, I said, “Aww, you say dat ta alla girlsch.” Laying my head on his chest, I took a deep sniff, breathing in the welcoming scent of clean male with a hint of spicy aftershave as he put his arm around me, walking me out of the bar and to his car.

  “Did you just sniff me?” he asked with obvious amusement as he bent to unlock the car door.

  I grinned as he helped me into the passenger seat. “Yeah,” I admitted before leaning back on the headrest, falling asleep.

  ~ * ~

  Someone played bongo drums on top of my skull while the world rapidly spun. I opened one eye just to have the gut wrenching pain in my head intensify as the light peeking through the window blinds seared through my bloodshot eyeball like a saber. With great effort, I forced the other eyelid to flutter open.

  “Owwwwww,” I groaned, clutching my aching head with both hands. I think I’d downed one too many rum and cokes the night before. My stomach churned at the mere thought of rum and coke. A shower was what I needed. One so hot, clouds of steam would roll out from under the bathroom door. I was disappointed to hear the shower already running and the sounds of someone singing off key under the pounding water.

  “Damn it, now I have to wait.”

  Then it hit me. I live alone. Ergo, if I was in bed, who the hell was in my shower? I bolted out of the bed, standing up so fast my head spun. I sat back on the edge of the bed until the room stopped whirling.

  Once the spinning stopped, my gaze panned the room. That’s when my world really rolled on its axis. This wasn’t my bed. And this wasn’t my bedroom. This wasn’t even my house.

  My gaze trailed down to the plain white tee shirt I wore. A tee shirt that wasn’t mine. I fought the bile rising in the back of my throat as it became apparent to me that I’d had a one-night stand.

  Then it all came back to me. The dark-haired, hazel eyed, muscle ridden hottie from the bar. Getting into his car. And then… and then…well that was the last thing I remembered. A shame, because judging from my outfit of one male tee shirt and nothing else, plenty more had happened.

  “Oh. Shit.”

  I’m not the kind of girl that picks up strange men in bars. After all I’d read Looking for Mr. Goodbar and I knew what happened to women who picked up strangers in bars. I was no dummy. But now, here I’d gone and done the unthinkable. Yes, it would seem that I allowed myself to be picked up in a bar by a stranger and I’d woken in his bed. My face felt hot, burning with the shame of it all.

  Maybe there was still enough time for me to save what small shred of pride I had left and sneak out before he got out of the shower.

  Maybe.

  My sense of equilibrium back, I pulled the white tee shirt over my head, tossing it on the floor as I jumped out of the warm bed. In a mad scramble to beat feet before he got out of the shower, I hunted for my clothes. With my pounding head, I wasn’t up to my normal light-speed.

  I had just finished dressing and grabbed my purse when I heard the water in the shower cut off. Making no pretense at quiet now, I ran out of the bedroom, one shoe on my foot, the other in my hand, threw open the front door of the condo and was down a flight of stairs and out on the sidewalk before he’d probably had time to step a foot from the shower. I’m fast when I need to be.

  Four

  As the taxi rounded the corner of my street, I saw a figure sitting in the middle of my porch swing. The figure was a male, about five foot eight with short light brown hair, very well dressed and who seemed to be holding a grande latte in his left hand. The figure was that of my best friend and business partner, Timmy Phillips. More commonly known as the eyes, ears and mouth of Indianapolis. He saw it all, heard it all and told it all. And in that order.

  “Shit, that just figures.”

  “What was that, Miss?” the taxi driver asked, turning around slightly to look at me as I sat in the back seat wishing I could slink down to the floor of the cab and hide.

  “Nothing. I was just commenting on what a nice day it’s turning out to be.”

  “Sure is,” he said, a wide smile on his face. “A perfect spring day, if I do say so.”

  I smiled in return. “Just wait five minutes, right?”

  We both laughed. Indiana was famous for its changeable weather. There was a saying; if you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes. That local mantra proved to be true time and time again.

  As the taxi pulled in front of my house, I dug in my purse searching for my wallet, victorious when I found it. Tipping more than I should have, I took my time exiting the vehicle. I was in no rush to face the Spanish Inquisition that waited on my front porch. Bracing myself, I threw my shoulders back, pasted a wide smile on my face, held my head high and walked up the front steps to my porch.

  “I think I love you,” I said with delight as I noted the extra grande latte Timmy had sitting next to him.

  He handed the warm drink to me. “No fat, no foam, no fun. Just the way you like it.”

  “Ah, civilization is a beautiful thing.”

  Timmy humored me with an obligatory snicker. That was one of the many things I loved about my friend, I could always count on him to laugh on cue at my lame jokes and one-liners. That was one of the things that had drawn me to him when we met in the high school cafeteria at the beginning of tenth grade. As we stood in line behind a couple of girls that were very clearly in the popular clique, he had turned to me, tilted his nose upwards and remarked, “You do realize this is the executive lunch room.”

  “No, I didn’t know that.”

  “Oh yes. If you’re not a football player or a cheerleader, you have to brown bag it in the bathroom.” He looked at my jeans and sweater. “I don’t see a cheerleader skirt on you and you don’t look like a football player.” Then he waved a hand at me. “But I’ll take pity on you since you didn’t know and let you sit on the north lawn with me.”

  Grabbing me by the upper arm after I paid for my sandwich and his too, he led me outside to a stone bench bordering the walkway leading from the cafeteria to the gym. “All the hot jocks walk by the north lawn. Best seat in the house,” he said with pride, patting the expanse of bench next to him, inviting me to sit. And just like that, we were inseparable.

  It was natural that after college we opened an information technology business together. Why break up a good team?

  But now, here I was, getting a disapproving look from him. His eyes narrowed as he handed the lukewarm cup of coffee to me. “Coming home in a taxi at nine o’clock on a Wednesday morning?” He grabbed the sleeve of my sweater and took a big sniff. “Wearing clothes that look like you slept in them and smell like the bar area at Figbee’s. Hmmm…” His voice trailed off as he stared at me, waiting for an explanation.

  I gasped. “How do you know they smell like the bar at Figbee’s?”

  “Elementary, my dear Watson. You smell like pretzels, chicken wings and cheap booze. Everyone knows the only place you pair pretzels, chicken wings and cheap booze is at the bar area of Figbee’s.”

  “Maybe I noshed on pretzels, chicken wings and cheap booze at home.”

  He shook his head. “No, I
don’t think so. Pretzels maybe, but I drank the remainder of your cheap booze the last time I had boy troubles. And you wouldn’t know how to cook a chicken wing if it came with instructions tattooed on the side of the drumette. Ergo…”

  He had me there.

  I widened my eyes and took a step back. “Damn, you are good.”

  “Yeah, as if there were any doubt,” he said with a nonchalant shrug of the shoulder, blowing on his fisted knuckles before rubbing them confidently against his sleeve in a show of bravado. “Not much gets past me. You should know that by now.”

  Knowing that to be true, I had no comment.

  He brushed the seat of the porch swing with a dainty hand before seating himself on it. Turning to face me, he narrowed his eyes before raising one finely plucked eyebrow. “Now, spill the beans. What’s his name, where did you meet him and how great was the sex?”

  I knew there was no point in lying to Timmy. The guy had built-in radar and could tell a bullshit story a mile off. It was best to come clean and get it over with. I took a deep breath.

  “I don’t know, you already guessed the bar area at Figbee’s and if I could remember I’d tell you. By the way, I need a lift to the Castleton Mall later because I left my car in front of the north entrance. I think.”

  He took a swig of his now cold latte.

  That was the odd thing about a latte. It can be drunk hot, warm or cold. But, let a regular cup of coffee go cold and it’s the sour lemon face just before spitting out the contents. I chalked it up to being one of life’s many great mysteries. Similar to pissing a dog off when blowing in his face. But if he gets to hang his head out the window during a car ride with the wind blowing his face, he’s a friend for life. Go figure.

  “Gertie?”

  I snapped out of my reflections to see Timmy staring at me, both barrels loaded. Oh shit, I felt a lecture coming on.

  “It’s one thing to play tongue tag in a bar with someone and neglect to get their name. We’ve all done that a time or ten. But come on, sleeping with him and you don’t even know what name to call out in the heat of passion? Tacky, really tacky, Gertie.”

  My face burned with a mixture of embarrassment and shame as I hung my head low. “I know.”

  He tsked. “Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s great you ended your dry spell. But you might want to find out who the Rainman was that ended the drought, if you know what I mean.”

  “Dude, you’re preaching to the choir,” I said in a small voice. He ignored me, trudging on with his moralities speech, which in retrospect was a hoot coming from him of all people.

  “And I know for fact that you’ve read Looking for Mister Goodbar, not to mention that you’ve seen the movie at least twice. You know what happens to women that let themselves get picked up in bars. What the hell were you thinking, girl?”

  My eyes welled with tears.

  Seeing my tears, his expression changed to one of concern. Setting his close-to-empty latte on the porch railing, he put an arm around me. “It’s okay, sweetie. Come on,” he said, chucking me under the chin. “Cheer up, happy camper. It’s not like it hasn’t happened to all of us at one time or another.”

  “I know. I just feel so embarrassed.”

  “Honey, bad sex is something you feel embarrassed about. Good sex with a stranger is just a ticket to membership in the one-night-stand club. It was good sex, wasn’t it?”

  His face was close to mine as he waited for my answer. “Like I said, I don’t remember.”

  “Oh shit, honey. You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  I slowly nodded.

  “You don’t remember anything about the sex?” He flounced a hand up to his mouth in an attempt to hide his look of shock. It didn’t work.

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Nothing?”

  I shook my head. “Nope.”

  “Are you sure you slept with him?”

  “Yes.”

  “If you don’t remember, how do you know?”

  “I woke up in his bed wearing his tee shirt. Only his tee shirt.”

  “Yeah, you slept with him all right,” he said knowingly. “And you’re sure you don’t remember anything about it?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “Do you even remember if he was cute?”

  “Now that I remember. He was Colin Firth and Cary Grant rolled into one delicious, yummy, hunky package.”

  “Christ on a cracker, girl! How could you forget having sex with a Colin Firth, Cary Grant clone?”

  “Rum and coke.”

  “With a twist of lime?”

  “Naturally. This is civilized society after all. I couldn’t very well drink it plain.”

  “Yeah, rum and coke, that would do it,” Timmy admitted. “What the bloody hell were you doing in a bar of a cheesy chain restaurant in a mall on a Tuesday night, anyway?”

  My mood lightened, and I sat up a little straighter in the swing as I remembered what caused me to get out of the house yesterday in the first place. A smile spread wide across my face as I announced, “I did it.”

  “Um, honey, we know you did it. That’s why you’re embarrassed, remember?” He laid his hand on my knee as he looked down his nose at me.

  I blushed deeply. “No, not that.” I swatted at his hand. “I made the call.”

  Timmy’s brow rose high in an unnatural arch. “The call?”

  “Yup, you bet. I finally called Urban Ghost Hunters. The case manager will be here,” I looked at my watch. “In two hours.”

  “Good girl.” Timmy clapped his hands together. “Is the ghost buster coming with the case manager to get rid of the ghost?”

  “Ghost hunter and I don’t think so. The way I understand it, after the case manager gathers all the information on what I’m experiencing, the ghost hunter could be here as early as the end of the week.”

  “Yay! I can’t wait. I hope he’s cute.”

  Wary, I crossed my arms and looked at him. “You do understand there are ghosts involved in ghost hunting, right?”

  “Now Gertie, you of all people should know I’m a big fan of things that go bump in the night.” He giggled girlishly. “Especially when they bump against me.”

  I rolled my eyes. “This is no joke, this is serious stuff.”

  “Sounds serious, I believe you,” he said, grabbing my cold latte and tipping the last few drops into his mouth.

  “No, that’s the problem, you don’t believe me. I’ve been telling you for the past two months that there is a ghost in my house.”

  He shrugged. “Okay. Maybe I don’t believe it, then. But when I see the evidence, I’ll believe it. That is, if there is evidence,” he taunted.

  “Oh, there’ll be evidence all right. In fact, you can see evidence tonight if you’ve got the stones for it. When it’s pitch black, come on over and take a walk in my upstairs hallway. Trust me, you’ll make contact and gather all the evidence you want. You’ll be right there on the front lines.”

  To be honest I didn’t know if the entity would pull his tricks on Timmy or not, but it sounded reasonable enough to me and with all the activity I’d been getting lately, a safe bet.

  “You must be joking,” he said, his voice tinged with a hint of panic.

  “Hmmm… just what I thought. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Timmy rose from the porch swing so fast it started to sway. “But, what if the ghost attacks me?” he asked with a pained expression on his face.

  “Then I’ll protect you,” I said gently. “Anyway, I don’t think you need to worry, you aren’t his type.”

  His brow knit in confusion. “I thought you hadn’t met this ghost buster. How do you know what his type is?”

  I suppressed the urge to laugh. “Hunter. Anyway, I’m talking about the ghost, not the ghost hunter. The ghost has a fondness for female wobbly bits.” I chucked him on the chin and gave him my best lecherous grin. “But if I’m lucky, maybe the ghost hunter will have a fondness for wobbly bits too.”r />
  Timmy snickered. “Wobbly bits? Is that what they’re calling them these days?”

  “Sorry.” I giggled. “Too many Bridget Jones movie marathons.”

  “Oh my gawd, I love that movie.”

  “Me too. It’s my Godfather.”

  “Please, not the Godfather speech again.”

  I’d learned long ago that most men have an affinity for the Godfather movie. It’s their quintessential best ever movie. “It’s a man’s ‘go to’ movie. They quote it, they live it, they love it.”

  He sniffed loudly. “Some men perhaps.”

  “Okay, some men,” I conceded. “Well, Bridget Jones Diary is my ‘go to’ movie, with Bridget Jones Edge of Reason being a close second.”

  Timmy sniffed. “Bridget, smidget. Nothing, I repeat, nothing can beat a John Waters movie.”

  I gave him my best “are you fricking kidding me” look, complete with an eye roll.

  “Lust in the Dust, Polyester, now those are movies.”

  I knew better than to let Timmy get on a John Waters tangent, there’d be no shutting him up. And with my aching head, well let’s just say it wouldn’t be pretty and leave it at that. There was only one sure-fire way to get Timmy off his soapbox.

  “We’ve got just enough time to chow down on a couple of Grand Slams at Denny’s before the case manager gets here,” I offered. “If you’re game, I’m buying.” Besides, it’s a well-known scientific fact that pancakes and bacon cure any hangover thrown at them. And tossing in a fried egg? All the better.

  Timmy’s head whipped around and his diatribe of John Waters movies stopped in mid list. “Grand Slam? You’re buying, you say?”

  “If you drop me off at my car in the mall parking lot afterwards, yup, I’m buying.”

  A satisfied grin spread across his face and his eyes twinkled as he said with an air of excitement, “Why didn’t you say that ten minutes ago? Come on Gertie, wagon train’s moving out.” And with that, he bolted down the front steps and was behind the wheel of his car, tapping on the horn before I even had a chance to say okay.