Page 39 of Ghosted in Arkadia
I reach the door at the end of the hall, my hand trembling as I grasp the handle.
I don’t care that he’s a killer. He’s mine and I am his. We were made for each other.
The door opens with a slight push, and I shine my light inside. A single-size bed is pushed against the wall beneath a window. I shine the beam around the mostly empty room. Other than the bed, there is a table shoved against the far wall next to a skinny door. Despite the size, I head over and open the door. A metal hanger sits alone on the rod.
No Ghost.
Turning, I stop to glance underneath the bed. There is no way he could have fit beneath it, but I figure I should check anyway.
I hear another door closing outside the bedroom and race back into the hall. There are three doors, and I head to the nearest one. The humming of my blood is heating with each minute that ticks by while I’m forced to play this juvenile game. It’s just like the game he played during the raid. Thoughts of that night make my blood heat in an entirely different way.
“I’m getting bored with this,” I call out after opening the door and finding another empty bedroom. Two doors sit further into the room, and I consider turning and heading back down the stairs.
Let him come after me.
But part of me wants to see what he has planned. This time, I don’t have to worry about other police officers barging in. I am caught in a web of annoyance and excitement, unable to distinguish which emotion is stronger. I decide to continue with Ghost’s game, for now.
The bedroom is plain, though more decorated than the last one. A large bed sits in the middle of the far wall, a rottingmattress atop a wooden bedframe, with matching side tables flanking it. A tipped over lamp sits on top of one. Two doors sit next to each other, one thinner than the other, and I correctly guess the first as the closet. A handful of hangers remain, housing stale dress shirts and suits.
Daddy Ledger’s clothes, I’m guessing.
The other door leads to a bathroom. I test the switch on the wall, but again, nothing happens. I shine the light of my phone toward the bathtub. It sits empty; the curtain falling partway into it over the last decade.
I puff out a breath before leaving the small bathroom.
I head for the next door down the hall, opening it with a flourish, only to find yet another empty bedroom. A heavy, earthy smell hits me, causing me to cough.
This room is the same size as the first, but this one holds more remnants. The bed is still made, though mold covers the once floral design. A vanity sits beside the skinny door that I assume to be the closet. The mirror is broken, and the shards have fallen to cover the top of the vanity. A small square of paper remains lodged in the frame’s corner.
I step into the room despite the heavy smell of mold and decay, making my way toward the vanity desk. The paint along the walls and ceiling is cracked and bubbled, showing dark spots and mold where water has seeped in. I reach out and grab the delicate item wedged into the frame, gently wiggling it until it’s free.
It's thick paper folded over itself several times, and I carefully open it, hoping it won't fall apart the whole time. I sigh when it remains in one piece. It’s a picture.
I shine the light directly on it, but it’s hard to make out because of the damage. I squint and adjust the angle of the light and make out a tight-lipped woman with dark eyes and light hair. She holds what looks like a baby in her arms. Turning the pictureover, I hope to find names or even a date written on the back, but find nothing. Carefully, I fold the image back into its original arrangement before slipping it into the back pocket of my pants.
A noise sounds downstairs, a large door slamming shut. The house rattles for a moment and I scramble from the room and head for the stairs. The familiar layout helps me race for the kitchen while the light from my phone bounces across the walls. A kitchen table comes into view as I pass through the small hallway and I skirt around it, my eyes trained on the window above the sink.
Heart pounding, I rush to the counter, my hands slapping down as I lean in to check if the motorcycle is still there, the dusty marble cool beneath my palms. It is.
A weight crashes into my back and my stomach presses into the sink while my hands slip. My phone falls into the bowl, the light shining down. A foreign hand snakes around me, coming up between my breasts to wrap around my throat.
“Looks like I win this round of hide and seek, kitten.” My body trembles at the sound of Ghost’s low tone growling in my ear.
“Don’t you think we are a bit old for these kinds of games?”
“You love it,” he says into my ear, making my skin feel hot and flustered.
I squirm in his hold, and he presses harder into me, pinning me between him and the edge of the sink. It’s hard to breathe and my heart hammers inside my chest, but heat races through me, leaving me caught between panic and wild arousal.
Desperation takes hold and my body moves according to my training as I force my elbow backwards, directly into his ribs. A slight puff of air is forced from his lips, and I kick his shin with my heel, causing him to back off just enough for me to dip low and spin to the side. My hip hits against the other counter as powerful hands grab my waist, this time slamming my back into the counter while Ghost’s large body presses into my front.
“It’s good to see kitty has some claws.”
He reaches and grabs my hair, pulling downward to force my gaze up at him. The faint light allows a glimpse of the white skull painted on his mask, towering above me, but the rest of him bleeds into the darkness. He grinds into me, and I can feel the hardening bulge between his legs, which only turns me on more. He releases his hold on my hair, yet my neck remains craned as I stare into the black wells of his mask where his eyes should be.
I just need to see him.
“And what about this kitty?” Ghost grabs me by the hips and places me onto the top of the counter. He takes a step forward, pushing my legs apart as he settles into the space between them. A gloved hand moves from my hip, a single digit extended, to swipe over the crotch of my thin pants. “Did she get scratched last night?”
