Page 28 of Hold Me Today

Effie tugs her shawl tighter around her shoulders, then lifts her lantern—all the better to cast a creepy shadow across her face. Her stained red lips part, and then she’s giving the crowd her “tour guide” voice, deepening it to a raspy husk and stepping forward so that they’re forced to clear a small circle for her.

“Legend has it that the British used this cemetery for target practice during the Revolutionary War. They ducked behind those gravestones you’re standing next to”—she mimics the words themselves, her dress billowing out as she crouches, lantern still held at chin-level—“and prepared for the Battle of Bunker Hill. Boston was anti-loyalist at its heart, and the broken relationship between the colonialists and the Tories is still responsible, centuries later, for the ghost sightings spotted here.”

One of the players—a huge, hulking guy with dark hair—creeps backward, feet silent on the grass and soil. He catches me watching, lifts a finger to his mouth to keep me quiet, and tiptoes in the way only a six-foot-plus giant can: like the Hulk prowling through the night.

“Orbs are the most common paranormal phenomena seen here, but a word for the wise,” Effie says, “if you’re taking photos, I suggest taking more than one consecutively. If something stays in one spot, it’s likely just dust or—”

“Boom!”

The Hulk-slash-Blades player claps one of his teammates on the back, an arm circling his neck.

“Beaumont!” the unsuspecting dark-haired guy barks out. “You fucking asshole, man.”

Beaumont releases him with athere-therepat that has everyone else laughing. “Aw, Cap,” he says, “don’t tell me you pissed yourself.”

“Cap” turns to the blonde woman next to him. “I’m going to kill him,” he says with an air of finality.

The blonde laughs and squeezes Cap’s bicep. “Good news,” she tells him, “if you’re going to do it, now’s the time. So many graves—what’s one more?” She leans in and mock-whispers, “No one will ever have to know.”

Cap releases a husky chuckle, and then calls out to Effie. “Sorry my teammates are buffoons. I try not to let them loose more than once a month.”

My best friend grins. “Might I suggest a collar to wrangle them in?”

That has everyone rolling, and by the time she’s wrapping up the tour fifteen minutes later, Jackson “Cap” Carter has promised Effie five rink-side tickets and a glowing five-star review online.

“Sarah’s going to be beside herself,” I murmur after the Blades and their other halves have descended the narrow, stone steps that lead down to the street from the elevated graveyard. “Free hockey tickets? The gods are shining down on us.”

In the lantern’s dim light, I catch Effie’s eye roll before she flicks off the lamp and Copp’s Hill is eclipsed by only the ambient light of the city. “I’m not even going to pretend that I’d win out over hockey.” She raises one hand, palm flat and facing the sky, and tips the scale as she lifts the lantern a notch higher. “Me or hockey?” Her hands seesaw, up and down. “Me or hockey? Let’s not fool ourselves here. Hockey wins every time.”

“Those players did have very nice behinds.” At Effie’s deadpan stare, I shrug. “What? We can both appreciate a fine ass, no matter the gender. Like yours? Perfection. Feel free to give me some of the tightness factor, would you? I’m already developing the Pappas cellulite and I swear I’m too young for it.”

My best friend nudges me forward with a hand to my shoulder. “Your ass is fine, Mina.”

“It’s big.”

“Guys like big.”

“Who cares about what guys like?” I tease, the soles of my ankle boots echoing over the stone steps. “My jeans are currently at my apartment and staging a revolt the likes of which hasn’t been seen since the Revolutionary War. I’m scared the seams are on the verge of losing.”

“On that note, how do you feel about Italian?”

I laugh lightly. Copp’s Hill sits on the periphery of the North End, which is famous for its Italian heritage, its Italian restaurants, and the number of Italian flags spray-painted on the streets. Our dinner options quite literally consist of Italian pizza, Italian pasta, and Italian dessert—all of which will terrify my jeans even more. Thank God for skirts, though, and leggings.

“I’m in,” I say, putting up a hand for a high-five.

Together, we buckle down against the nippy breeze whipping off the harbor just blocks away. At this time of night, the neighborhood is quiet as we meander toward the popular Hanover Street. Effie’s wide hoop skirt bumps into me every other step, and I end up walking on the street while she takes up the width of the beyond-narrow sidewalk.

“Did Sarah want to come out for dinner?” Loosely, I wrap my hand around my hair to keep the strands from whipping me in the face. “Or is she still buckling down for that deadline?”

Effie lets out a little sigh. “I know she’s stressed when I have to remind her to shower. Her boss is just such a jerk. You’d think they were working on a miracle life-saving drug the way they’re all camped out at the office at all times of night.”

Sarah works for one of the big investment firms in the city, but her latest project is centered around kids’ toys. In particular, if one up and coming company should warrant any money from her firm.

Anytime I used to complain about a client at the salon giving me hell, I reminded myself that at least I wasn’t sleeping at my desk at all hours of the night, only to wake up and do it all over again. Sarah is a beast, and though we share ambition, my dreams allow for showers.

You know, when I’m not wallowing in self-pity.

We cross the street as one, our arms linked the way we’ve done since we were kids, and hustle down a pedestrian-only walkway beside Old North Church. Smoothed cobblestones line the path with tall brick walls on either side of us.

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