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“I think I might have overdone it.” My release from the hospital didn’t mean I’d completely recovered.
“You need to lie down. Where do you live?” Was that actual concern from my Neanderthal biker?
“Ha, ha. Funny. You know where I live. And before you say that bed in the house next door is yours, my pink and purple comforter begs to disagree.”
He opened and shut his mouth before shaking his head. “I give up. You’re crazy.
“And tired.” I yawned. “I don’t suppose you could carry me?” After all, my dream version of Mahoney had him even bulkier than Brayden. What would the detective think if he knew I kept dreaming of his nemesis?
What would he do if he found out I’d fallen asleep in the garage again? Waking up would have sucked if I’d face-planted from the bike.
Mahoney swung me into his arms.
“What are you doing?” I squeaked, grabbing at his shoulders.
“Carrying you, as bitched.”
“Not bitched. I asked. If you don’t want to, put me down,” I complained out of a sense of obligation. Fuck the feminist movement right this second. I wanted to be carried for once in my fucking life, even if it was only in a dream.
“Put you down so you can faint and hit your head? I’m sure you’d blame me for that somehow. Or, with my luck, you’d wind up crazier.”
“There is nothing wrong with my mind,” I grumbled. Other than a hitherto unknown fetish for being carried by borderline barbarian types.
Mahoney strode the path between the junk piles without qualm to the door in the fence. Took me right up to the house, although he did pause to grimace. “Where did those flowers come from?”
“Canadian Tire.” I’d bought the hanging arrangement to give my porch some color.
He frowned but didn’t reply as he stepped into the house. He kicked the door shut, and while he faltered walking through the living room, took me straight to the bedroom with its promised frilly comforter.
He dumped me on the bed and glanced around. “This isn’t my room.”
“Not anymore. I repainted.” The house I’d bought had been in surprisingly good condition considering how long it had lain vacant. I’d expected to find mold and peeling plaster when I first walked into the place; however, it had been sealed against outside intrusions, and the insulation protected it from most decay.
Or so science would claim. I’d heard someone in the post office mutter that the ghost was what kept the place from falling down.
A ghost named Killian Mahoney, who wandered around the room touching things. My things. Except for the dresser, which he whirled from, stating, “This is mine.”
“If you say so.” It came with the house.
“I know so.” He yanked open the drawers to find my things. “Where’s my shit?”
“Your stuff is gone. Long gone, I’d say. By the time I took over the property, there wasn’t anything of yours left. No clothes. No pictures. Nothing but a few pieces of furniture and some moldy papers.”
“This can’t be right.” His lips flattened as he exited my bedroom, and I heard startled yelping. Rushing out, I prepared to save my poor puppy, only to halt as the crying abruptly ceased.
“You’d better not have hurt Blade,” I exclaimed, popping into the living room to see my dog cautiously approaching Mahoney.
“That’s a good boy.” He reached out his hand and scratched Blade behind the ears. Must have been a good rub because that back leg started thumping, and the traitor gazed at him with loving eyes.
“What did you do to my dog?” Because Blade never took to people that easily.
“He’s a fine beast.”
My dog sat straight at the praise.
I threw him under the bus. “When he’s not hiding from things that scare him.”
“Sometimes, it’s smart to hide, so long as you act when the time comes to do the right thing.”
