MB Short Story: Getting Ghosted (A Non-Saucy Saucy Side) (Patreon)

Note: Basically, this is the prequel to Boooty Call, but Chadford ruined the sexiness so I separated the story into two parts.

Boooty Call: https://www.patreon.com/posts/mind-blind-saucy-72668267 

* * * *

When you bought your first house, you hadn’t realized that it already possessed a tenet. “Possessed” being the operative word given that Grayson Black haunted your ex-boyfriend’s body whenever he visited. Granted, Chadford had agreed to the possession (at least, he’d said “sure,” when you invited him over for dinner with the caveat that his body be taken over by Gray so that your ghost housemate could taste a medium-rare steak again).

If your ex initially believed that the ghost thing was an excuse to invite him over so you two could get back together? Well, Chadford had been dissuaded of that the moment Grayson had levitated up from the floorboards and introduced himself. Maybe Chadford only agreed to help because of his desire to get back together with you, but if he’d wanted to remain a couple then he shouldn’t have sold those candid photos of your family to the paparazzi. Helping Grayson drink an Arizona Iced Tea was the least he could do to apologize.

“Why are you dating this guy, anyway?” Gray asks, the words coming out of Chadford’s mouth. It was a sight you still haven’t become fully accustomed too: Chadford looking down at his own Hawaiian-print, popped-collar polo with an expression of condemnation, his mouth moving to the sound of your dead housemate’s voice.

“Ford and I aren’t dating anymore,” you say as Gray (physically, Chadford) takes another huge bite of his sirloin. You stare at him a little pityingly from your seat across his at the kitchen table: his eyes (not the usual deep blue of his spectral form, but rather Chadford’s brown) rolling back in bliss, his lips closing around the fork, and a low moan coming out of his mouth.

Coming out of Chadford’s mouth, you correct yourself sternly. It wouldn’t do to start thinking about Gray as alive. He isn’t. Wishing otherwise is . . .

“But you did date him,” Gray says triumphantly.

Damnit. Gray had been trying to find out why Chadford volunteered to be his surrogate tongue ever since this arrangement began two weeks ago. You’d been cagey (dating Chadford wasn’t an accomplishment of which you were particularly proud), but Gray had been dogged in his questioning. You suppose it was only a matter of time before you let slip the fact that

“Only for a few months,” you say, as if that caveat somehow makes your judgement less questionable. Chadford is nice(ish), but he’s also about as intelligent as his name leads one to believe. Point in case: he thought that you wouldn’t realize he was the one behind the photo leaks. Not that there’d been anything particularly incriminating over the shots that Chadford had shared with the paparazzi, but what mattered was that he shared them.

You sigh. This is why you no longer date.

“You must’ve . . .” Gray trails off, his/Chadford’s eyes filled with yearning. He sets down his fork and forces a pained smile. “You must’ve liked being with someone who could leave the house.”

You blink at him, confused. The way Gray is talking, it almost sounds as if he wants to take you on a date.

“Your company is vastly preferred,” you tell him in as nonchalantly as possible, praying that he doesn’t notice the quiver in your voice.

Gray’s expression brightens. “Thanks,” he says before once again falling silent. His hand reaches out to you, and his fingers brush, featherlight, against your cheek. “Beautiful,” he whispers.

His eyes close, and when they reopen, the wistfulness has vanished.

“Babe,” Chadford says. “How many calories did Gary eat tonight? You didn’t let him eat any bread, right? Carbs are a no-go for this new diet I’m on. Bro Brogan recommended on his podcast, and said that his abs have . . .”

You tune out Chadford’s lecture on ketones, your attention captivated by the ghostly figure behind his chair. The form of Grayson Black is transparent, giving you a view of the kitchen sink through his torso. His gaze meets yours, and a longing ache so strong that it feels physical causes your breath to catch.

Chadford’s voice shatters the moment: “I don’t mind helping Gary the Ghost out so you can cook the dude a homecooked meal; I just want to make sure that he’s not carbo-loading.”

Gray winces, although you’re not certain whether it’s from being called “Gary” or the reminder that he’s dead.

“His name is Gray,” you tell Chadford. “Just Gray.”