Page 8 of Amber Gambler

“More than one girl wanted to take a bite out of?—”

“TMI.” I jerked to a full stop to jar him into shutting his mouth. “You’re like a brother to me.”

“That’s because Iamyour brother.”

Smiling, as he no doubt meant for me to, I made the final turn into the parking lot at Bonaventure.

Through the gates, the spirits mingled with their neighbors, sat on blankets overlooking the river, and… I waved as one of my transient friends flagged me down with the red silk bag hanging off her dainty wrist.

Stalking over with a sultry roll of her hips, Daisy Mae Wainwright cut a figure in her red sequined gown. I only knew the color because she had described it, in great detail, the first night we met. The slinky fabric hugged her curves, and her muscular leg flashed with every hurried step as she rushed through the gate.

“Looks like you’re coming in.” Pascal snickered as he offered me his hand. “You can be my date.”

Spurred on by his mischievous grin, I reached over and pressed the heel of my palm to Matty’s forehead, exorcising Pascal with a gentleness perfected through long practice and mutual consent.

A glowing blue figure of a man in his midtwenties separated from Matty with a stretch and slid outside.

Yawning, Matty snuggled into the seat and was soon fast asleep, which left me alone to face Daisy Mae.

“Frankie.” She mimed tapping on my glass. “Tell me the rumors are true.”

“Depends on the rumors.”

“That fine hunk of man on your arm yesterday is roaming the afterlife.”

Yesterday? Not quite. That had beenweeksago.

Spirits don’t have the best concept of time unless they stuck to a routine like the Suarez brothers. But in all my time working with spirits, in Georgia and in New Orleans, Louisiana, I hadn’t met another one—let alone three others—determined to earn a living long after their deaths. Most spirits’ unfinished business didn’t involve, well,business.

“He’s not dead.” I almost growled the words, willing myself to believe them. “He’s just…not here.”

That line was getting a lot of use. I ought to figure out a better excuse if I was going to use it so often.

“Oh well.” She pushed her boobs up then pulled her neckline down. “Can’t blame a girl for hoping.”

“Daisy Mae.” Pascal took her hand and pressed his lips to her knuckles. “You’re lovely as always.”

“And you’re sweet enough to give me a toothache.” She pinched his cheek. “Good thing I always brush.”

“Dance with me?” He reeled her against his chest. “They’re playing our song.”

With songwriter Johnny Mercer in residence, music was always playing somewhere in Bonaventure.

As Pascal twirled her away, he jerked his chin toward the wagon, giving me permission to leave.

A stroll through the cemetery would be nice, but I could always come back later without Matty.

After climbing in the wagon and pointing her toward home, I nudged my brother with my elbow.

“Wake up, lazybones.” I jabbed him again. “Time to rise and shine.”

“If you love someone—” he scooted down in his seat, “—let them sleep.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“Okay, okay.” He stretched as much as he could where he had fallen against the door. “What’s up?”

“Does something have to be up for me to want my darling brother’s company?”

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