Playing Hooky (Paranormal Investigations) (2 page)

Chapter 2

~ JASON ~

OUTSIDE, A BRISK wind brushes against my skin, bringing the flavors of winter—cold snow and log fires and something ancient that stirs a longing in my blood.

But today, Emma is with me, and I can ignore the hollow ache around my heart. The angry fire burning inside my gut calms in her presence.

She’s short, barely coming up to my shoulder, and she has the cute little nose and the short, blonde curls of a cheerleader. Only hers are uncombed and wild.

If I told her how she’d make a cute cheerleader, she would tear me apart. She could flay a man alive with that sharp tongue of hers. And I love every stormy minute of having her as my best friend.

Leading her out to my truck, I watch her hips sway and appreciate how she fills out her faded jeans—the ink stains on the thighs and the dirt at the cuffs indicate she grabbed them off the floor of her room. She’s bundled into her white ski jacket with the fur trim, and the only patch of skin I can see is around her eyes, but I can’t help but think of those pink cotton panties riding up her right cheek and giving me a glimpse of the best ass I’ve ever seen.

My big blue truck with its studded tires waits in the back of the parking lot. My mom has loads of money, but I bought a fixer-upper, an old run-down truck with even more broken parts than rust spots.

With a shiny coat of blue paint and the Hemi engine I added, you’d never know what a sorry state it was in when I first dragged it home by way of tow truck. Mom only shook her head and said, “Just keep it simple.”

She meant don’t add any magic to it, but she needn’t have worried. I wanted to make it run using sweat, grime, and my own two hands. Now I own my own car shop, and I do paint detail work and restore old cars, turning junk into art. Then I sell the cars on eBay and ship them all across the country.

Fixing and customizing cars—that’s my winter job, when tourist season is over and the snow traps me inside, but all summer, I lead tours around our Kodiak Island. People pay loads of money to anyone who will help them take pictures of whales and bears or find the best fishing spots.

“How forlorn he looks. I think he missed us.” I pat the roof of the truck.

“It’s a car.”
Emma laughs and tosses two sets of skis into the bed of the truck. This is Alaska. Don’t leave home without them.

“Shh, it’s a truck and you’ll hurt his feelings.”

“I thought cars were all female.”

“Without boy cars, how will you get any baby cars?” I waggle my eyebrows at her and lean forward to catch a whiff of her scent. No perfume, just raw Emma scent.

She arches an eyebrow. “Oh, you finally figured that out, did you?”

I grin down at her. When we were kids, she explained the birds and the bees to me, but I insisted I washed up on the ocean beach. Emma never believed me.

When I got older, I learned we were both right.

I unlock the passenger side. Maybe she’s not my girlfriend, but I still believe in old world manners. Thankfully, stubborn as she is, she stopped complaining about me doing this years ago.

She climbs in, and I shut the door behind her. When I get in on my side, she says, “So where did you say we are going again today?”

“I didn’t.”

“Yes, I distinctly remember you saying the theater house had a matinee showing of Puss in Boots.”

I grin, shooting her an amused glance.

“Oh no, I was mistaken. You said the Dough Boy is having a special on cupcakes. Perfect place for a birthday, right? Cappuccinos and tiramisu.”

My grin widens as I steer the tub of a truck out of the parking lot. “It won’t work. I’ve known too many pretty girls and witnessed all their wicked wiles.”

She scoffs. “Me? I don’t have any wiles.”

“Sure you do.”

I hope she likes it. The place we’re going. Today, I’m bringing her deeper into my life than I ever have before. I’m laying all my cards on the table, revealing all my deepest secrets.

Except that I love her.

“What’s wrong?” She reaches for my hand but then stops and gives me a light punch on the shoulder instead.

My heart gives a little jerk and twists. When we were kids, we went everywhere hand-in-hand. Somehow we lost the natural innocence of touching. Maybe when I realized I wanted to kiss her and was too scared to make a move.

“Where we’re going is a secret, Emma. My mom would lock me in the dungeon and never let me see the light of day again if she knew I told you. You
gotta
swear. Nobody can ever know where we’re going today.”

“She’d have to knock you out first, and it’s a bitch trying to sneak up on you with your Superman hearing.”

“I told you. I don’t have super hearing. You just walk like an elephant.”

Her face screws up into that I-will-make-you-take-that-back glare, and my grin widens even more.

“I’ve missed you so much.” I grab her hand and lace my gloved fingers through hers.

“All right. Fine. You win, and I won’t say a word. Cross my heart.”

“Good.” I squeeze her hand, and a shiver of electricity races up my arm.

My heart pounds in my throat as I wait for her to pull away, but she doesn’t.

THE BAKERY SMELLS of vanilla and spice, sugar and fresh baked bread. With our cinnamon rolls and cappuccinos, we take a table by the window.

I watch Emma as she unrolls a piece of dough and pops it into her mouth. She closes her eyes and savors it, and I want to lean forward and kiss the frosting off her chin.

“Well, look who the
skank
dragged in. What brings you here, Mills?” a familiar male voice says my last name.

I look up to find Troy Simmons leering at Emma as he leans over our table, his lips pressed together in a nasty smirk. I snarl and imagine ripping his head off with one bite.

All those years he and Emma were together in high school, I wanted to tear him apart. He never deserved her, and I hoped she’d finally see that.

He looks at me and takes a step back, out of my personal space.

I lean back and try to think soothing thoughts, to calm the raging furnace inside me. “Visiting Emma on her birthday. Didn’t know you’d be here. To what do we owe this displeasure.”

“You here for my sloppy seconds? The stories I could tell you—”

I stand—I’m an inch or two shorter than Troy—but my shoulders are twice his and it’s all muscle. Inside me, the fire rumbles hotter.

Troy takes another step back. His face pales.

“You’re pathetic, Troy. Spreading lies so people think you are getting some doesn’t make you a man. Just a shallow loser. Now, get out of here.”

“You don’t—”

I grin, letting the fire burn in my eyes.

He swallows and takes another step back. “
Wh
-Whatever, I—I was tired of her anyway.”

Turning, he flees out the door. I lean against the doorway and watch him fumble on his skis and slide down the hill toward campus.

When he’s gone, I sit back down across from Emma.

“You didn’t even give me the chance to defend myself.” She throws her paper napkin at me, and I lean to the side, letting it sail over my shoulder.

“You didn’t need to. Your virtue is intact, but he needed to leave us alone before he really pissed me off and I did something rash.”

“Like in high school, when you beat the tar out of Bradley King?”

“He was talking trash about my mom.”

“And in sixth grade when you put Jeff Humphrey through the cafeteria wall.”

“He was a punk-ass eighth-grader, so chicken shit he had to bully us lowly sixth graders. And he stole your bike.”

“Anyone ever tell you, you have anger issues?”

“Yes. You do. All the time.”

She eyes my plate. “Are you going to eat your cinnamon roll?”

“Split it with you.”

I like the way her eyes light up at my words.

Chapter 3

~ EMMA ~

WE DRIVE FOR an hour out into the country. I prop my feet up on the dash and lean my head back against the seat. Fields, fence posts, and trees, all covered in ice and snow, fly by my window.

“Here we are.” Jason parks in front of an old barn. Its wood is weather-beaten, shabby walls looking like they’ll fall down any moment, tiny windows broken with jagged glass remaining.

“Where are we?”

“Come inside. You’ll see.”

“Why is there a barn in Chugach State Park?”

“I don’t know. Maybe they teleported it.”

I roll my eyes. Cattle in Alaska are kept indoors about six months out of the year, and nothing about this old and run-down barn could keep animals warm enough.

He helps me out of the car and leads me to the door. The wind drives against us, pushing and shoving us back, and I hunch my shoulders and push through. Jason fights the wind to open the barn door, and we stumble in.

Inside is a room that must be five times the size of the barn I saw outside. The ceiling is so high, I can’t see it in the shadows. Strings of lights crisscross above our heads like an intricate web and then climb up the walls until they disappear in the darkness.

And it is surprisingly
hot
in here. I peel off my coat, gloves, hat, and wish I could strip to take off the thermals beneath my jeans. I’m wearing a purple, long-sleeved T covered with a blue and green fleece button-up (Angelina would blanch if she saw my wacky color combo) and well-scuffed water-proof rubber boots that have trekked every deer path on Kodiak Island.

In the center of the room, a striped tent, about three stories tall and twice as big around as my house, dominates the space with smaller tents surrounding it.

Above the entrance, a sign reads Michael Magnificent and the Magician Magellan’s Magical Menagerie of Malicious and Monstrous Misfits. The word
Misfits
was smaller than the other words most likely because the painter almost ran out of room. Someone got a little carried away with the alliteration.

Carrying loads of boxes and pushing wheelbarrows, people bustle from tent to tent, and nobody pays any attention to us.

I blink as I stare at the sight before me and then glance at Jason.

He gives me a smile. “Welcome to a whole new world.”

“A circus?” I make a high-pitched noise, that is
not
a squeal. Because I do not squeal.

“Calm down.” Jason rubs his ears. “Not just any circus, Miss Acrobat.”

I’m normally not the squealing type, but I
love
the circus. As a kid, I dreamed of being an acrobat and pestered my parents until they finally got me into gymnastics. They stopped complaining about the cost when I got a full athletic scholarship.

“We’re a little early, but I thought you’d like to wander around and explore with me. The animal tents are . . . well, you’ll like it.”

“Jason, you’re the best friend a girl could ask for.” I give him a big bear hug.

“I know.”

“And geez, humble too.”

“I know.” He grins.

Inside the closest tent, stalls filled with white horses line the center aisle. Tack hangs along one wall in the entry way, and stacks of hay and barrels of oats fill the other side.

White horses with long horns protruding from their foreheads.

“How did they glue the horns on?” I lean in close to inspect.

“They’re real.”

I raise an eyebrow, and he grins.

“Seriously?”

“Would I lie to you?”

“There was that time you told me the mud pies would give me flying powers if I ate them.”

“Not my fault. I really thought they would.”

Growing up, he concocted the craziest schemes:
 
trapping leprechauns and hunting for the pot of gold at the rainbow’s end, building our own invisible clubhouse far from where hikers and tourists would trek, or inventing flying bicycles. When the flying bicycle, version umpteen-thousand, failed to fly, he mixed up his own batch of mud pies.

We ate them (
ick
!) and jumped out of our favorite climbing tree. I broke my leg, and he didn’t even get a scratch. The next day, he picked me magical wild flowers that if I sniffed them would make the pain go away.

I threw them at him and said I never wanted to see him again . . . not that it lasted long.

Now I stand in a circus tent with my insane best friend with seven white unicorns. One snorts, tossing his mane, and paws the ground. The long dagger protruding from his head doesn’t even wobble. He rubs it against the wood of his stall as if it itches, and I’m reminded of narwhals and that tidbit I learned in science class about how sensitive their horns are.

Then he stabs at the wood in a playful battle.

Either really good glue or it must be real.

Maybe I’m hallucinating.

“Can I touch one?”

“Maybe.” He raises an eyebrow. “You know the old myths about unicorns and virginity, right?”

“I told you:
 
Troy made an ass of himself, and I changed my mind. We never did anything prom night.”

“Then scratch him under the chin in that tuft of curly hair. They like that.” He nudges me forward, and the unicorn stretches his neck out toward me.

I inherited my father’s cop sense of reality. I’m seeing a unicorn, but I still can’t believe this is real. Jason, on the other hand, pets the unicorn as though this is the most natural occurrence in the world.

I can’t believe I’m really touching a unicorn.

The fur is soft like a kittens rather than coarse like most horses. He makes a mewling noise and then purrs. Purrs! He rubs his face in my hand, forcing me to keep petting him.

“Unicorns are more like big cats.” Jason strokes the soft fur on his cheek.

I watch him scratch it behind the ear. “You are so full of crap. You tell me only a virgin can pet a unicorn, but the man who dates anything with breasts can still touch one. You can’t possibly still be a virgin.”

“Never found the right one.” He shrugs.

The tent flap on the other side of the long walkway swings open, and a dwarf hobbles in, pushing an empty wheelbarrow. An iron band circles his thick ankle, which he drags slightly. His long red beard, snarled and full of twigs, hay, and things I’d rather not figure out, is tucked into his belt to keep from dragging on the floor and tripping him.

“Ah, Jason.” The dwarf nods at my friend and then grabs a pitchfork and opens a stall door. Whinnying and tossing her mane, the unicorn shies to the back of the stall, prancing to avoid the dwarf and his pitchfork.

“Yes, and I brought a friend.”

The dwarf glances at me and sniffs, curling his lip slightly. “A human.”

“Oh, she’s better than a human. You have a note for me?”

I’m better than a human? I’ve known Jason since kindergarten. He’s a year older, but his mom held him back due to his inability to sit still.

We shared every adventure. We raced our bikes up and down Pillar Mountain. Climbed every tree to search for faeries. Fished for magical trout that fulfill wishes. Got lost in the woods zillions of times when hunting purple three-headed monsters.

Here he found the most amazing adventure yet, the magic we’d been looking for, and he left me out all this time.

The dwarf grunts and tugs an envelope out of his pocket. Pink and covered in hearts.

A love
letter. He told me he broke up with his latest, and he didn’t even hint about someone new. An odd feeling squeezes my heart. An emotion I can’t even name.

But it’s dark and angry and rumbles inside me.

I ball my fists as my sides to keep from grabbing the dwarf’s pitchfork and poking Jason with it. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath. This is silly. What’s wrong with me? I push the emotion aside and focus on enjoying the moment.

Dwarves and unicorns. A circus. I mean, what’s not to enjoy?

As much as I love the circus, I’m even more crazy about making friends with interesting people. And a dwarf is certainly out of the ordinary.

Butt crack showing (
blech
, I did
not
need to see that), the dwarf leans forward to scoop a pile of manure—unicorns poop like every other animal—and farts loudly before hitching his pants up and dumping the manure into a wheelbarrow. He doesn’t even apologize.

Turning my back on Jason, I step forward and lean my arms on the top of the stall, propping my chin on my hands. “So you don’t like me because I’m human?”

He casts a surprised look my way and turns back to his work.

“What’s wrong with humans?”

“The stench,” he grumbles. He doesn’t even look at me.

I turn my voice to honey. “I bet I can make you like me by the end of the day.”

He snorts.

“I’ll clean your stalls for a week if I lose.”

Leaning on his pitchfork, which is twice as tall as he is, he turns to look at me, studying me as if I were an interesting bug that just did a jig. “And if you win?”

“You’ll let me ride one of your unicorns.”

“
Ain’t
my unicorns.”

“But you’re taking care of them, aren’t you?”

“They belong to the Ring Master.”

“Can you let me sneak a ride when the master isn’t looking?” I give him my most dazzling smile.

His lips press together in a grimace, but a light shines in his eyes. “I could arrange that.
T’won’t
be easy, but my name
ain’t
Gruff for nothing.”

I’m not sure what the name
Gruff
has to do with him getting me a ride on a unicorn, but I offer him my hand to shake on it. He spits in his own and shakes mine and then wipes it on his beard.

Then he nods his head and turns back to his work. I wipe my hand off on my jeans. Rule of thumb, don’t strike deals with dwarves until you know all the protocol.

Great. How do I befriend a dwarf?

Beside me, Jason furiously reads his note before crumpling it and stuffing it in his pocket, a scowl on his face. So his new girlfriend already broke it off?

“You want to tell me what that was all about?” I point at his pocket.

He looks at me and blinks. “What?”

“Your love letter.”

He blushes. “It’s not—”

I cross my arms and arch an eyebrow.

“Your friend is perceptive for a human.” Gruff scoops up more manure.

Ignoring the butt crack, I grin at
Gruff’s
back. “Does that mean you like me?”

“Don’t get your hopes up.”

The flap swings open again and a thin boy, cheeks so angular they could cut glass, ears pointing up in a delicate spire, strides into the room. His blue hair is plaited down his back in three long braids, and he’s tall—at least six foot three—but his face looks young.