AllFreeNovel
Share Us
She frowns. “Because you didn’t go to the wedding?”
“That’s part of it,” I reply with a grimace.
“Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts aboutmaking your story public? Not after I bought us tickets for the book fair?—”
“No…” I raise my palms. “It’s nothing like that. People don’t want to read about me wallowing in my guilt.”
“But they might want to read about the ghosts.” She rubs her chin.
“There’s only one,” I lie.
She waves away that comment. “You said Xero’s ghost sent you a text about Kayla keeping one of his sex toys. Why not include that in the book?”
“And profit from her death?” I whisper, trying not to sound scandalized.
“How is this different from writing about Xero’s?”
Guilt claws its way through my chest, and my shoulders sag. She has a point, but something about this situation doesn’t sit right.
“What’s wrong?”
“Xero said my relationship with him was a sham to sell a book.” I mutter.
“Was that before or after his execution?” She disappears into a storeroom and emerges with a cardboard box.
I fold my arms. “What are you saying?”
“Answer my question. When did Xero accuse you of faking your relationship?”
“A few hours after his official time of death.”
Myra sets the box down and begins pulling out crotchless panty sets, marking their quantity off on the inventory sheet. “There you go,” she replies with a nod. I raise my brows, prompting her to continue, and she adds, “You’re devastated for letting him die alone, and now the guilt is manifesting as his ghost.”
“Since when did you become an expert in mental health?”
She turns around, places both hands on my shoulders, and looks me in the eyes. I can’t stand to see myself reflected in her irises, so I focus on the bridge of her nose.
“Who do you see every time you try to sleep with a man?” she asks.
Stepping back, I turn toward a rack of leather cuffs. “It’s not every time.”
“You’re too afraid of intimacy to try hooking up with anyone else. What Mr. Lawson did to you was grooming and abuse. He deserved to die, but you still have unresolved issues.”
Someone needs to tell my subconscious, because it hasn’t gotten the message. It would find a way to screw with my happiness even if I met Mr. Perfect, who was alive and not behind bars.
“I know,” I reply, “That’s why I’m going to take my meds.”
“Don’t they make you dizzy and sleepy?” she asks.
“And a bunch of other unwanted symptoms.” I run my fingers through my curls. “But I’ll put up with anything as long as it helps me sift through the delusions and what’s real.”
With a sigh, she opens another box containing silver nipple clamps, and I help her put them on the shelves. I really want to finish that manuscript, but writer’s block is real. Sometimes, I wonder if she thinks I’m a lost cause. After completing the restocking, she leads me behind the counter.
“Have you read Dracula?” she asks.
What kind of question is that? Have I read a staple piece of Gothic literature among the dozens I have on my shelves? Myra knows my favorite subject at school was English Lit. She might as well have asked if I’m familiar with Poe.
“Of course,” I reply with a frown.
