In Your Dreams (8 page)

“You promised?”
A glint appeared in his eye, and he leaned closer, one elbow perched on his
thigh. “Who’d you promise?”

Oops. She’d
promised Tony—and had promised him the promise would stay between them. “Never
mind.” She rolled onto her back and stared at platinum stars winking in the
indigo sky. “It’s not important.”

“Of course it’s
important.”

She clamped her
lips together, refusing to give up her secret.

Justin took her
silence as a challenge and bounced two fingers on his chin. “Hmm...let me think
about this. You’ve only spoken to a handful of people since doing the deed, so
this shouldn’t be too hard to figure out.”

“‘Doing the
deed?’ Really? That’s how you refer to my almost-demise?”

He flitted a
hand. “Don’t disturb me, sweetheart. Genius at work.”

Sitting up, she
folded her arms over her chest and watched the...
ahem!
...“genius at
work.”

“No way you
promised Dr. Feelbeige anything,” he began. “Except maybe a black eye if he
didn’t leave you be.”

She snorted back
a giggle. Leave it to Justin to come up with the perfect name for that creep in
taupe: Dr. Feelbeige.

“I doubt you and
the nurse with the rotten rhinoplasty became BFFs, either.”

Despite her best
efforts to remain expressionless, her arched brow and subtle shrug conveyed her
approval. Was it any wonder she loved him? Not only did he nail the botched
plastic surgery, he crossed another suspect off his list. He was two for two.

“And I
know
you didn’t promise me. That leaves Tony.” He pointed his index finger,
pistol-like, in her direction. “Right?”

He got it in
three, but she didn’t flinch or nod. She remained stone-still.

Justin sighed.
“At least tell me he promised to quit smoking if you promised not to kill
yourself.”

She bolted
rigid. “You know?!”

“Of course I
know. Breath mints and Listerine only go so far, sugar. The stench is all over
his skin, on his clothes, even in his kiss. How could I not know?”

Point taken. She
glanced at the slate tiles below the chaise as guilt heated her cheeks. “Are
you mad at us?”

“No.” He slid off
his chair and walked to her side. Bending, he kissed her forehead. “I’m
grateful. You know I couldn’t bear to lose
either
of you.”

Well, now,
didn’t that statement suck donkey balls?

He nudged her
with a hip. “Skooch.” She sidled over, and he sat on the edge of her chaise. “I
love you, Belle. You know that, right?”

God, how she
hated emotional crap! Time to flip this maudlin mood. “Ditto, binky. If I had a
Y chromosome, I’d fight Tony to the death for you.”

“Lucky for
me...” He brushed the bangs on her forehead with a fingertip. “I get to have
you both. For a long, long time.”

Right. A whole
year—two, at best. “Lucky you,” she murmured and returned her interest to the
starlit sky. Was Sean up there? Was he waiting for her to go to bed so they
could talk? Or had she dreamt their earlier interlude, thanks to the
aftereffects of her overdose?

“Hey.” Justin
chucked a gentle fist under her chin.

Shaking off her
daydream, she leveled her focus on his face. “Huh?”

“You promised,
right?” The anxiety in his teary eyes nearly broke her heart.

She nodded.
“Don’t worry, Justin. When I die, it’ll be because it’s my time, okay?”

“Okay.” Relief
erupted in a long sigh. “Good.” He gripped her hand in his, as if he could keep
her tethered to him here forever through this simple connection.

If only...

On a sigh, she
pushed to her feet. “I should probably get some sleep. Tomorrow, I want to
start rebuilding my life.” A total lie, but worth the cost to her integrity
when Justin’s face lit up as if bottle rockets burst in his cheeks.

“That’s my
girl!”

Not really. She
was somebody else’s girl. At least, she
believed
she belonged to her
phantom guy. Sean Martino. Then again, how did she know he hadn’t come with the
house? A package deal? Most ghosts were tied to an object or piece of property,
according to all those specter-hunting television shows that were so popular
these days. But once the suspicion crept into her head, she couldn’t stifle the
sharp teeth of doubt. Pausing at the sliding door that led into the house, she
tossed back over her shoulder, “Hey, binky?”

Justin looked
up, his face still aglow. “Hmm…?”

“Is this place…”
She swallowed, cleared her throat, and pushed out the ridiculous question.
“…haunted?”

His elated
expression flipped to dubious. “What kind of question is that?”

“An unimportant
one,” she replied with a saucy wink. “I just thought, maybe I could get back on
the boob tube with a new reality show about living with a ghost.”

He chuckled.
“Been done already, darling. About a hundred years ago.
The Ghost and Mrs.
Muir
. Ever hear of it?”

“Yeah.” She
dipped her head to hide her smile. Sean was hers! “All righty then. You have to
admit, it was worth a shot.”

“Start thinking
outside the box, sunshine. Literally. Okay?”

“Okay.
Goodnight.”

On his goodnight
reply, she entered the house, said goodnight to Tony, and headed to the
staircase. If she’d had the ability to sprout wings, she would have flown to
her Barbie bedroom. Instead, she ascended with dignity while her insides
flopped like a fish on land.

  Justin,
being Justin, had picked up a bunch of her clothes and personal items while
she’d slept earlier and transported them into the bedroom’s closet and armoire.
So now, which nightgown should she wear for her dream visitor? Not that it
mattered. This afternoon, she’d worn something she didn’t own. His doing? If
so, maybe he could conjure up a nice Oscar de la Renta for her. Or even an
Alexander McQueen. Something she’d never owned and probably never would IRL—in
real life.

Opting for a
pale green silk chemise scalloped with ivory lace, she changed, climbed into
the bed and waited. And waited. Time crawled. She punched the pillow, squeezed
her eyes shut, and waited. She focused on even breathing and waited. She
relaxed her body, beginning at her toes and slowly loosening each muscle and
fiber ‘til she reached her hair. And waited.

This was
ridiculous! Rolling onto her back again, she stared up at the silken canopy.
Isabelle,
you are the dumbest blonde in L.A.
Since when did she believe in ghosts?
One weird-ass dream, and she’s writing love sonnets to a shadow. Of all the
stupid—

“Hey, Belle.”

And suddenly,
there he was, just as she remembered him: with boyish, tousled blond hair;
Pacific blue eyes; and a grin that could melt the polar icecaps. This time,
though, he wore a sleek blue suit—and not off the rack, either. The lightweight
wool hugged his shoulders and tapered to his narrow waist. He’d paired the
jacket with a butter yellow shirt and a simple, solid blue tie. She would’ve
liked to check out the fit of his pants, but he was seated. So was she. At a
table covered with a white cloth, his hand holding hers, thumb skimming across
her knuckles.

“Where are we?”
she asked him.

“You tell me,”
he replied with a casual shrug. “This is
your
dream, not mine.”

Apparently so.
Because she wore a gorgeous Alexander McQueen—a gown she’d envied on some
two-bit actress at the Oscars last year, ivory silk organza with gold
embroidery.

“You look
incredible in that dress, by the way,” he crooned. “It’s a perfect fit for you.
And the gold threads highlight your hair like the tips of flames.”

“Easy on the
charm, buddy. You’re not getting me in the sack, even if that were possible.”

Despite her
protests, his compliment melted her hard shell. Too many years without true
affection from an attractive man who didn’t expect a Hollywood favor in return
had left her brittle and suspicious. But Sean? All he seemed to want from her
was her company. And her promise not to kill herself, of course.

No one, except
Justin and Tony, had delighted in just talking to her since before she’d scored
her first acting gig. After that dumb cereal commercial, she’d become a
commodity, a cash cow to all who knew her and pretended to love her. A block of
emotion clogged her throat, and she sipped the ice water to the left of her
bread plate.

A restaurant.
They were definitely at a restaurant. So the dead man had made good on his
promise to take her out to dinner. Around them, all the other tables sat
unoccupied, and no wait staff was in sight. Mellow instrumental music played in
the background. Candlelight flickered from sconces on the walls.

But food had yet
to arrive. Not that she wanted any. She was still fighting indigestion from
Justin’s full-course spread.

“How are you
feeling today?”

“Confused,” she
admitted.

“About what?”

Oh, I don’t
know. How I wound up here, what I’m supposed to do now, what’s going to happen
to me.
But she wouldn’t
let him see her self-absorption. Or her terror. “You, for starters.”

“Me?” His hand
left hers and flew to his chest. “What do you want to know?”

“Are you an
angel?”

He laughed, a
sound so brandy-rich-and-smooth, warmth filled her insides. “No. As far as I
know, angels don’t exist. Nor do devils.”

“Well, then what
are
you?”

“I’m Sean.” She
quirked a brow, and he added, “I guess the closest I could come to a generic
term for
what
I am now is ‘spirit.’ It’s not a hundred percent accurate,
but it’ll do.”

“Do you fly?”

“Not the way
you’re thinking. I don’t have snow white wings or play a harp, either. You’ve
gotta get that whole angel picture out of your head. I’m made up of energy so
if I centrifuge, my pieces scatter into electrical impulses that easily travel
through the air. I can transport myself wherever I need to be with a little
mind focus.” Her confusion must have shown because, with a drawn-out sigh, he
clarified, “Ever see any old
Star Trek
episodes? When Kirk and Spock
would beam up or down? And they’d go all grainy for a few seconds then solidify
again when they landed? It’s kinda like that. Except I don’t have Scotty pushing
buttons for me.”

She still didn’t
fully grasp his explanation, but parts of it made sense. “What’s it like? Being
dead?”

“Different,
and  yet the same. I don’t know how to describe it. I go to work, just
like I did when I was alive, but I don’t go home after my eight-hour shift. I
don’t really have a home. There is no eight-hour shift. No clocks. No time.”

“No time?” She
shook her head. “I don’t understand...”

“Think about it
this way. What is time and how is it measured? You here on Earth know daytime
from nighttime by the amount of light in the sky. You can see the sun. At
night, you see the moon and the stars. Your time is based on Earth orbiting the
sun and the moon orbiting Earth. But, where I am? The sun doesn’t touch my
horizon. I’m in a place beyond the moon and the stars. There is no day, no
night. No minutes or hours. It just...is.”

“Then how do you
know when to eat? When to sleep?”

He shrugged. “We
don’t do either. You have to remember I’m not human anymore—not flesh and bone,
even though I seem that way to you here. I’m made up of astral energy now.”

“Astral energy.”
She thought about the concept, but couldn’t fathom how he could look so real,
so
physical
, and yet be nothing more than a spirit. For God’s sakes,
she’d touched him. Not once, but at least a dozen times. He’d held her hand.
And she’d never once felt him as any less than solid.

“It’s true.” He
nodded as if to lend credence to his words. “I’m just a bunch of bouncing
neutrons and electrons in constant flux.”

“Sounds exhausting.”

“You get used to
it.”

“Does that make
you like...a robot? I mean, if you’re electrical, and you don’t eat or
sleep...what? Do you have to be plugged in and recharged?”

“No. We’re
absorbent creatures. We can pick up electricity from the air and recharge on
the fly—so to speak.”

“Oh.” She
circled the rim of her glass with the tip of an index finger and looked around
the empty room. Where was everybody anyway? She’d kill for a breadstick—not to
eat, just to have something to occupy her twitchy hands. The minute the thought
popped into her head, a waiter appeared between them with a basket of warm,
yeasty breadsticks. Magic? Or good timing? Hard to know for sure. She chose one
from the garlic-scented pile, offered it to Sean.

He shook his
head. “No, thanks.”

“Right.”
Embarrassment parched her throat. “You don’t eat. Forgot.” She nibbled on the
end and asked, “After I die, will I be with you?”