Chapter 2
We went to Dean's apartment at his insistence after our run-in with the ghost in Room 1444. His place was just as upscale as I imagined—hardwood floors, expensive modern furniture, professional-grade appliances and granite countertops in the kitchen, floor-to-ceiling windows with a great view of the city filling one entire wall of the great room. He set his briefcase down on the counter and indicated I should take a seat at the breakfast bar.
He finished off his bottle of master cleanse and looked up at me. "Holy crap, dude!"
I flopped onto the stool and nodded. "Tell me about it! I could really use a beer right about now."
"Sorry, man. I'm on the cleanse, so I got rid of all the carbs in the house," he said apologetically, before pulling a bottle of water out of the fridge and handing it to me.
"You do know that this cleanse thing is just another fad, right? It doesn't actually do anything besides make you hungry," I pointed out. "Besides, it's not like you need to lose weight—you look phenomenal. Anyway, how the hell did you know that ghosts are scared of wrenches?"
Dean shrugged, his high-boned cheeks flushed. "Crazy, right? Nice job kicking that door in, by the way—that was very Jet Li . . . and very hot! Are you holding out on me, like you're secretly a black belt or something?"
"Honestly, I have no clue how I did that. At the same time though, it's like . . . like we've done this before. I—I can't shake this feeling like I . . . like I don't belong here, like I should be doing more than sitting in a fucking cubicle all day," I replied.
"No offense, man, but I think most people who work in a cubicle feel the same way."
I shook my head. "It's more than that. I don't like my job, I don't like my clothes, I don't like this town, I don't even like my last name! I don't know how else to explain it, except that . . . it feels like I should be doing something more. It's like there's something in my blood, like I was destined for something different. How about you—you ever feel that way?"
"I don't believe in destiny. There's no fate but what we make for ourselves," he declared. "What I do believe in is dealing with what's in front of us, which right now means we do what I do best, Sammy—research."
I opened my mouth to object to the nickname and then closed it. I hadn't let anyone call me that since middle school, but coming from him, it somehow felt right. Instead I went over to his dining table and set up my laptop, while he sat at a desk with another laptop in the corner of the great room.
He managed within a few minutes to find a website run by a group of professional ghost hunters called the Ghostfacers, complete with instructional videos. I meanwhile was able to identify our spirit as none other than P.T. Sandover himself. We alternated between watching the videos on his computer and reading up on the pertinent information about Sandover on mine, with the one of us leaning closely over the other in order to share the screen.
Once we finished the last ghost hunting video, I looked down at Dean's face, which was nearly pressed up next to mine. "Listen, I know this is fairly shitty timing, but . . . you feel this too, right? Like there's something between us, more than this supernatural stuff?"
He glanced down at my hand on his shoulder that was ostensibly propping me up and up at my face, then licked his lips. "Ye—yeah, I know what you mean. I didn't want to admit at first, not with how uh, creepy you were coming across, but . . . I think there's been some kind of connection, uh, attraction since we met."
"Wha—what are we going to do about it then?" I asked huskily.
He reached a hand up to pull my head down until he could slot his lips against mine. We kissed hungrily for several minutes, our breaths panting and our tongues tangling together. At one point, I dropped a hand down to rub at his nipple through his dress shirt, while his hand fisted in my hair and tugged, causing both of us to moan into each other's mouths.
Eventually he sat back and gently pushed me away. "Okay, I'm calling a raincheck on this. We've got a ghost to take out before the bastard can hurt anyone else, so that's our main priority right now. Once old Sandover is toast though, we can pick up where we left off!"
We rushed back to the apartment after Sandover's spirit had been successfully ganked, the heat between us palpable. Once inside though, Dean stopped me when I leaned forward to kiss him. "As much as I want to jump your bones right now and blame it on the adrenaline, you are currently covered in that guard's blood, which is seriously nasty! So follow me!"
He proceeded to grab my hand and lead me past the kitchen, down a short hallway, and through the master bedroom into the master bathroom. The bathroom was easily nearly as big as my bedroom and was furnished with heated slate floors, a double-sink vanity in the same granite as the kitchen, separate water closet, jetted soaker tub, and huge glass-enclosed shower with dual showerheads and multiple body jets.
Steam began to fill the room after he turned the shower on, and I was quick to strip out of my bloody clothes. He made a disapproving noise as he scooped them off the floor and left the room. I meanwhile climbed into the shower and groaned in pleasure as the pressurized hot water hit my sore muscles. I simply stood there for several minutes, enjoying the luxurious sensation, until I heard the shower door open again.
"You're not the only one who needs to clean up," Dean commented as he stepped inside and raked me with an appreciative gaze. "Besides, I just knew that you were ripped under that fugly yellow shirt, and the thought of all this water running over those muscles was impossible to resist!"
I eyed him in return, admiring the lean muscles, nearly hairless torso, and constellations of freckles no longer hidden by his business attire. "You're not too bad yourself, man."
He grinned, squirted some high-end body wash onto a loofa, and briskly scrubbed the remnants of dried blood from my skin, then slowed down and moved the loofa in sensuous circles over the rest of my body. I in turn slid my hands down his back until I could grab his ass, kneading each firm buttock. He dropped the loofa at that point and reached up to throw his arms around my neck and kiss me ardently. This also served to press our stiff cocks together, and we rutted against each other eagerly. The built-up tension and excitement of the night, combined with the heat of the water and slickness of the soap covering us, meant that it wasn't long before we both groaned and spurted over each other's bellies.
We finished cleaning ourselves and left the shower, drying each other off with his thick, soft towels. Dean then took my hand once more and led me back into the bedroom, walking past the dressing area and walk-in closets and heading straight for the massive bed. He pulled the lush bedding back and pushed me down onto the pillow-top mattress before climbing on top of me. He leaned down to press his lips against mine, and we exchanged kisses for a couple minutes, kisses that grew increasingly sloppy and urgent. He eventually pulled back and shifted down my body, pausing to nip and suckle my nipples on his way to my groin. He briefly licked at my glans before swallowing me down, sucking and swirling his tongue along my shaft. I gasped and dug my fingers into the sheets, doing my best to stay still.
Once I was almost painfully erect, he sat up and reached over to one of the nightstands, pulling a condom and bottle of lube out of the drawer. He tore the foil packet open and rolled the condom over my member, while I took the lube from him and slicked up my fingers. I reached down between his legs, ghosting over his testicles and perineum until I got to the puckered furl of his entrance. I rubbed at the outer muscle for a moment before pushing one finger inside past the second knuckle, watching his eyes close halfway when my finger tip grazed his prostate. I pumped it in and out a few times before adding a second finger and then a third shortly after.
"That—that's enough, dude!" Dean hurriedly pushed my hand away and poured some more lube over the head of my cock, then positioned himself so that he was straddling it.
He sank down slowly, and we both moaned as my member was enveloped by his tight channel. He began to ride me, leisurely at first and then with more and more passion, lifting himself up and then slamming himself down on my length. I braced one hand on his hip as I thrust up into his heated depths, while the other hand wrapped around his bobbing cock to stroke it in time with our movements. The bed was soon creaking under the onslaught, while the air resonated with our cries of pleasure. I managed to hold back until he clenched around my shaft and ejaculated over my fingers, then pounded into him a couple more times before cumming with a shout.
He slid off of me and carefully removed the condom, tying it off and tossing it into a wastebasket next to the nightstand. He took a washcloth from the drawer and swabbed my fingers and our groins clean before tossing it on the floor and collapsing beside me. I gently pulled him close until he could rest his head on my shoulder and throw an arm across my chest.
"Man, I've got to tell you, I've never had so much fun in my life—and I'm not just talking about the awesome sex!" he said after we'd gotten our breathing under control. "Plus it was one hell of a workout!"
"I agree, and we should keep doing this," I responded. "I mean it! There's got to be more ghosts and other things out there. We could help a lot of people."
"Sure, Sam—we could be just like the Ghostfacers." His voice was amused.
"I'm not joking. I'm talking about doing this for real, dude," I insisted.
He looked at me quizzically. "What, like quit our jobs and hit the road?"
"Yes, exactly!"
He sat up abruptly and stared down at me. "You've got to be kidding me! How would we get by—with stolen credit cards and hustling pool or cards? How would we live—sharing a crappy motel room every night and eating diner food drenched in saturated fats?"
"Those are just details . . ." I tried to say.
"Details are everything, Sammy!" he retorted. "You don't want to go fighting ghosts and—and monsters without health insurance or a rainy-day fund."
"Alright, um, confession time. Remember those dreams I told you about, the ones with the ghosts? Well, in them I was fighting those things . . . with you," I admitted. "We were like these hunters, and we were partners—more than that, we were best friends, almost brothers.
"What if that's who we really are, Dean? You saw us back there, how well we worked together, like we were already a team. That ghost was scrambling people's brains, so what if . . . it messed with ours too somehow? Just think about it for a second. What if we think this is our life, but it's actually not? All I know is, this isn't who we're supposed to be," I added.
He shook his head emphatically. "That's insane! I know who I am—I'm Dean Smith, director of sales and marketing at Sandover Bridge & Iron. My parents' names are Bob and Ellen, my sister's name is Jo, and I went to Stanford."
"Are you sure any of that is real? When was the last time you talked to them?" I demanded, propping myself up on an elbow. "I've got memories of moving here because I'd just broken up with my fiancée Madison, but when I tried to call her number, all I got was some damn animal hospital!"
"Okay, so what are you saying? Are you trying to say that she isn't real, that my family isn't real? That we got mind-whammied and injected with fake memories? Come on!" He crossed his arms and eyed me incredulously.
"All I know is, I've got this feeling in my gut . . . and I know that deep-down, you're feeling it too. We're supposed to be someone else." I sat up as well and put my hands over his. "I'm not just some tech support flunky, wasting my life on a company that doesn't give a damn. And you're not just some corporate douchebag, killing himself in the rat race in the hopes of earning a corner office someday. I know you, and you're so much more than this!"
"Dude, how can you say that when we only met a few days ago? Listen, I can understand you not being happy with your life and wanting more, but I've got a successful job, great apartment, nice car, the whole nine yards. You can't honestly expect me to just drop all of that!" His words were firm, but his expression was uncertain.
"But do you actually enjoy any of it—the long hours, endless meetings and calls, boring spreadsheets, corporate backstabbing bullshit, and 'keeping up with the Joneses' crap?" I asked. "Do you really want to give up what we just accomplished—not just the excitement but helping people, making a tangible difference in their lives? Do you really want to give up what we have together?"
He hesitated for a long moment and then sighed. "No, you're right. When I think about going back to that daily grind, I—I want to scream and pound the walls. What we've done tonight, all of it . . . feels like the first time I've really been alive in I don't know how long. It's not easy though, making a huge change like this!"
"I get that, but this is what we're meant to do." I put my arms around him. "And we'll do it together."