Page 33 of Malice

“Hudson? Are you okay?”

Aster’s voice is muffled, but the closer I get, the clearer it is.

“You’re so hot,” he says. “I’ve waited forever for a man like you.”

How is this happening?

“That’s right, Hudson. Give yourself to me. I want you more than anyone ever has. I’ll keep you safe. I’ll keep you forever.”

I close my eyes as our lips meet and Aster’s hot tongue tangles with mine. His body is hard and strong as he wraps his arms around me, holding me up, keeping me safe.

When he slides his hands into my jeans, there’s no warning ping telling me to stop or slow this down. I want him. I want him towantme. I want to be loved. Is that why Aster came?

“Hudson? Are you feeling okay?”

I blink, finding Aster in front of me, concern all over his face as he grips my upper arm.

“Do you need to sit down?”

“I…” I glance around the room. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. You sort of checked out.”

“So you didn’t… We didn’t…”

“Didn’t what?”

I scoff a laugh. “Nothing. I must have imagined it.”

“It?”

It felt so real. My physical reaction, his mouth on mine… But it didn’t happen. Maybe I really am losing my mind.

“Can a poltergeist affect your mind? Can it give you visions?”

“Not that I’m aware of, but I’ll check into it.”

“Yeah, okay.” That was super weird. “What now?”

“If you’re not opposed to me staying overnight, I can run back to my place and pack a bag and food for Otto.”

“You’re gonna leave me here alone?”

“You can come with me.” His smile is soft, comforting. “I’d rather that anyway.”

I can’t believe I’m going to let a stranger stay here, but it seems like the smarter choice than being alone with Chester’s ghost.

“You promised Jocelyn you wouldn’t hurt me. She meant what she said. She’ll come after you if you do.”

He puts his hand on my forearm, and I’m instantly soothed. “I know she meant it, and I meant what I said too. I’m sure it’s hard, but you can trust me. I want to get rid of this thing too.”

I nod, choosing to believe him. “Okay then. Let’s go get your things.”

Aster’s apartment is simple and sparsely decorated. I guess I was expecting it to be filled with metaphysical things like tarot cards and crystal balls, or maybe skulls and other oddities sitting on shelves. Maybe it’s my writer brain creating imaginary worlds. I don’t even know what he is exactly, but he’s not an average guy.

I lean on his kitchen island as he packs canned food and kibble into a bag for his dog.

“How old are you, Aster?”

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