A Ghost of a Chance - Cherie Claire (best ebook reader under 100 .txt) 📗

Lori moves in close and kisses him again. Hard. He doesn’t resist but his hands remain at his sides. She leans back slightly and whispers, “Kiss me like you kissed her.”

James grabs her shoulders to keep her from doing it again but he’s unable to move her. “Don’t do this.”

Lori slips her hands up the front of his shirt and then tightens them around his neck. She tilts her head and opens her lips, letting out a warm breath that becomes James’ undoing. He meets her lips and devours them, pulling her close to him and sliding his hands up and down her back until they finally pause at her bottom. When he pulls her into him and together they tumble backwards on to the desk, I want out of there. I stumble backwards myself and knock over a lamp.

Just as I’m about to wonder how I managed to physically be part of this scene, I’m now in Lori’s room, watching her pick up the lamp from the floor, her eyes red from crying. She’s packing to leave, stumbling about the room in distress. Time has passed because the trees outside the window have no leaves, or was I imaging fall weather during the previous dreams and visions? “It’s important” comes that quiet little voice and I try to cry out “Lillye?” but no words emerge. “Look at her,” the voice urges me, and I study Lori one last time before the vision fades away. Lori’s face appears swollen from her crying but there’s something else causing her cheeks to plump up and her belly to swell. Lori’s pregnant.

Gasping like I emerged from deep underwater, I hear another girl crying — but it’s not Lori. This one’s standing over me in braids.

“I can’t do this,” she mutters through sobs and runs from the room, leaving the door open so that Miss Clipboard can peer inside with wonderment.

“What happened?” the spa Nazi asks me.

I grab the sheet to my chest and try to rise gracefully, which of course I fail to do. I look around the room for clues and find none. “I have no idea.”

Still holding that damn clipboard to her chest with an aggravated look on her face, the woman heads down the hall in the same direction Mouse had fled, failing, of course, to close the damn door. I manage to get my feet on the ground still clinging to all those warmed-up sheets and stumble to the door to close it, then turn to locate where I put my clothes. I head to the chair on the other side of the room and let some of the sheet drop when a man opens the door and looks inside, getting a nice glimpse of my bare rear end.

“Hey.” I grab the sheet that had fallen on the floor but all that does is release the rest of the cloth covering my body.

“Sorry,” the man says and looks away, and I struggle to gather material to save my dignity. “I was told you needed a masseuse.”

I’m finally covered although I must look like a cream puff so I turn and face the man. He’s young and cute with muscles that could do me justice, but something tells me this day has been cursed from the moment I opened my eyes and nothing will make it better. “I don’t know what happened but my last masseuse ran crying from the room. Are you sure you want to be here?”

“She’s new.”

“And I’m wound tight, or so she said.”

The new guy steps backwards over the threshold and I figured that’s it but he motions for me to follow him. “You need a new massage table since you took all the sheets with you so how about you follow me to my room and we’ll start over.”

I grab my clothes and follow this man with a lovely Irish accent out the door, then realize we are heading deeper into the bowels of the hotel, closer to the morgue. At this point, I really am done, am ready to call it a day, say goodbye to Lori and catch my plane, if there is one, but the man starts talking and his deep, Celtic voice entices me to enter the new room and follow his instructions: disrobe when he steps out of the room, get back on the table beneath warm sheets, place arms at my side and stick my face in that hole in the table.

Once again I do as I’m told and this time, when my masseuse returns, I engage him in conversation. Usually I don’t like talking during a massage, prefer to thoroughly relax in quiet, but I don’t want a haunting repeat and I’d love to listen to that delicious accent. He senses this — in addition to mentioning how tight my muscles are, gee thanks — and we get a nice back and forth going. Finally, when I have the nerve, I ask him about seeing ghosts so close to the morgue. Unlike Mouse, Irish man has stories to tell.

“It’s pretty creepy down here sometimes. The hotel’s definitely haunted. Although, it’s what you believe, really. I’m from Ireland where we’re more open to believing in ghosts.”

I don’t know why but I blurt out, “I’ve seen a ghost in my room. Pretty sure it’s the girl who jumped the balcony.”

That ethereal voice returns, insisting that I have it all wrong, but I ignore her. I’m waiting to see what Mr. Muscles thinks.

“Yeah, think I’ve seen her too.”

I want to turn and face this guy but his oversized thumb is on the base of my neck, working on a knot no doubt. “What did she look like?” I mumble from my head-rest.

He doesn’t say anything, rotating that thumb down a muscle into my shoulder blade that releases the tension like a door spring. He’s not massaging me like most masseuses, something more rough and tumble like a family member would do but I don’t care, it’s working. I start to repeat the question but the feeling of his hands on my shoulder’s so incredible delicious I let it go. Maybe the universe is finally allowing me a few moments of pleasure on this press trip from hell.

Unfortunately, Celtic Man finally pipes up. “I don’t think she jumped.”

“Me neither,” I say through the head-rest which comes out sounding like something in a drive-through intercom.

Muscle Man gets quiet, now fully concentrating on my rock-solid shoulders, again kneading me like bread dough in a half-hazard way but it feels good so I don’t mind. I wonder what he knows about Lori and how he knows it but on the other hand I want to relax and enjoy this. I breathe deep and exhale and feel better for the first time this morning. After he’s finished with my back and legs, I turn over face up as instructed.

My masseuse has nice eyes, I realize, and a kind demeanor. “What’s your name?” I ask as I adjust myself on the table.

He guides my head back down on the head-rest. “Michael.”

I take the plunge. “Why do you think that ghost’s still here, Michael?”

He starts on my arms, working his magic down to my fingers which feels so incredibly good. I realize I’m missing my writing, will look forward to getting back home to my words.

“I think she went to school here but I don’t think she was attending school when it happened,” Michael says. “I think she came back for a reason, possibly to let someone know something, which might have been why she died.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because the timing’s wrong. The year she died she wasn’t enrolled.”

“You looked that up?” I ask because I want that proof so I can show Madman, if it comes to that.

“I think she’s also trying to connect with someone.”

“Who?”

I attempt to rise on my elbows but Michael pushes me back down on the table. “You really need to relax.”

I let out a deep sigh and try. “I haven’t slept well the whole time I’ve been here. I keep dreaming about her.”

He nods but says nothing, moves back to my shoulders and kneads deeply. My eyelids flutter. “Take a nap,” he whispers above my head, and it’s the last thing I remember before feeling a sharp poke in my upper arm.

I open my eyes to find Miss Clipboard standing over me. “Are you going to sleep here all day?”

I’m so confused I rise to a sitting position and the sheets go tumbling everywhere. I grab cloth to cover my chest and realize those sheets are mussed and tangled over my body. “What happened?”

“What happened is I have another client who needs this room.”

I glance around to see that I’m back in my original room, my clothes lying across the far chair as I had left them when I disrobed for Mouse. That creepy owl still stares at me from its perch above the water. “Where’s Michael?

“Who?”

“My masseuse.”

Spa Nazi glares at me. “You scared her and she left. She was distraught so we had to give her the day off. Now, will you please get dressed and free up this room?”

“Okay.” I want to explain myself and ask about the Irish guy but this woman unnerves me to no end. She gives me one last scorning look, then heads out the door and closes it this time, so I jump off the table, this time letting the sheets fall where they may, and get dressed in record time. When I return to the spa waiting area, Clipboard Queen is nowhere in sight but Stephanie greets me, her spa hair flying in all directions. “Wasn’t that delightful?” she asks me, but I smile weakly and head up the stairs, can’t get to my room fast enough.

I open the door to find a note on the floor.

“Hope you enjoyed your spa visit,” the note reads. “It looks like the Bentonville Airport will be closing this afternoon but we’ll discuss new flight times at lunch. Meet us