Page 6 of Man of His Dreams

Flip had never had much interest in spiritual or supernatural matters. The books he read and the books he wrote were solidly grounded in reality, which he figured was plenty damned weird enough. It must have been today’s encounter with Miss Amelie that got him thinking about the uncanny.

“But most do pass on?” he asked.

“Sure. Don’t ask me where they go, ’cause I don’t know. Ain’t been there myself.”

In response to Flip’s stare, Scratch snorted, stood, and crossed to the French doors. He pushed one of the curtains aside, swung the door open, and gestured for Flip to join him. After a moment’s hesitation, Flip obeyed, and they stood side by side on the gallery, looking down at the empty street. It was no longer raining, although the pavement was still wet. Faint voices carried from somewhere in the distance.

But then Flip realized that the street wasn’t empty at all. People were on the move, some on foot, some in horse-drawn wagons. A few pushed carts. There were cars as well, including a Model T Ford and a tail-finned Chevy, and somehow they weren’t running over the slower-moving people and vehicles. The people wore a huge variety of clothing, including decorated skins and robes, multilayer outfits that during the wearers’ lives must have felt sweltering, crinoline-supported skirts, and punk regalia.

Aside from the mishmash of time, there was nothing remarkable about the scene. The passersby were simply going about their everyday lives. Or… non-lives, as the case might be.

“I thought being a ghost would be more exciting,” Flip said as he watched a young man in bell-bottom jeans crouch to tie his shoe.

Scratch shrugged. “It can be, sometimes.”

“So how old were you when you died?”

“A week past my thirtieth birthday. Too old to be tomcattin’ around, my mama said.” He was almost breathtakingly handsome when he grinned like that.

“And how did you die?”

“Murdered. Right here in this room.”

Flip glanced into the apartment, as if he might glimpse a gory scene, but there was no sign of a corpse. “You don’t sound very upset about it.”

“I’ve gotten past the grief—it was over a hundred years ago. Anyway, I sort of had it coming. Man caught me in bed with his wife. Which I guess he might have dealt with less violently, except a few nights earlier I’d been in bed with him.” There was that smile again. “In my defense, I didn’t know they were married to each other. If I had, I’d have suggested something cozy for all three of us.”

Great. Bisexual polyamorous ghosts. What the hell was going on in Flip’s brain?

He wandered back inside and sat on the bed. He was tired, which was nonsensical since he was asleep. But he’d never had a dream like this before, one that went on for so long with such depth of detail and logical clarity. One that felt so real.

After a few minutes, Scratch returned and sat beside him. “I miss getting drunk,” Scratch said. “Booze led me to a lot of wrong places, but I sure did enjoy the ride.”

“I’m not much of a drinker.” Flip had seen early in life what alcohol did to his parents, and he very much wanted to avoid the same fate.

“Fair enough.” Scratch sighed. “And I miss… being touched. Being a ghost is a lonely thing.”

Well, he was handsome, and he seemed sad, and this was all imaginary anyhow, so what the hell. Flip settled a hand on Scratch’s knee. They both looked at it, the skin pale against the dark fabric.

“Ah,” said Scratch in a honeyed tone, “so you’re inclined that way. That’s a stroke of luck for me.” He tossed his hat to the floor and twisted to face Flip, and goddamn, he was beautiful.

So Flip kissed him.

Scratch gasped and drew back, eyes wide. “You can kiss me!”

“I, uh… yeah. You didn’t want me to?” Flip wasn’t sure how consent worked with dream figments; maybe he should have asked first.

“No, I want. Nobody’s been able to do that before. Not in any of the dreams I’ve visited. I can flirt, sometimes they flirt back, but….” Hesitantly, he brushed his fingers over Flip’s mouth, sending pleasant shivers down Flip’s spine.

This time Scratch initiated the kiss. He was somehow both tender and ravenous, cradling Flip’s face in his palms and pressing their lips together, easing his tongue in, stealing all of Flip’s oxygen. Scratch tasted of cigarettes and bourbon, a flavor that Flip found unexpectedly delicious. All of Scratch was delicious: his warm lips, his strong hands, the delighted little moans he made. Even his oiled hair felt good between Flip’s fingers.

“Whoo!” said Scratch after they’d separated to catch their breath. “That was something. I don’t remember kissing being that good.”

“Me either.” Maybe kisses never had been that good in real life. Certainly none of them had ever made his head swim the way it did now, or made his cock so achingly hard.

Scratch stared solemnly at him, then licked his own lips. “I could taste you. Mint.”

“Toothpaste.”

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