Read Online The Ghost of a Chance by Natalie Vivien - Free Book Online
Authors: Natalie Vivien
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lips crash against mine, and a tsunami
force sends me up, out from under the water, sitting in the tub with a hand on
my heaving chest as I cough and swallow gulps of air.
When my breathing regulates and my heart starts
beating again, I drop my head into my hands (both mine again) and sob into the
placid bathwater.
I've broken the spell. It's over.
Her scent lingers, but the atmosphere of the room is
changed. It's flatter. Dull. The steam has evaporated, and my shoulders
involuntarily shiver, naked in the cold, unheated cabin. I raise my eyes to
survey the tiny room and watch as one large, curved stroke appears over the
foggy surface of the medicine cabinet mirror hanging over the sink. A
"C." I get out of the tub, sopping, freezing, and walk to the sink,
my hands on the edges of the porcelain basin. I lean forward and press my lips
against the damp mirror. It's a hard, desperate, pathetic kiss. I open my eyes
to see nothing but my own reflection and, heartsick, pull back, flinging hot,
desperate tears from my face. No longer shivering, I curl up on the floor, my
body a bare, vulnerable container of desire. My skin burns like fire.
Either I'm going mad, or I've just had sex with a
ghost. With Catherine. Catherine's ghost. It makes no difference to me. Crazy
or sane, I am certain of one thing.
I want more.
Chapter Nine
I cringe as I approach the front desk. Annabelle is
seated behind it, and the look of shock on her face when she sees me—obviously
surprised by my appearance; I've lost weight—makes me want to turn around and
walk out of the library immediately. But I resist the urge and manage a small
smile as I hand her Catherine's books.
"These are overdue," I say, trying to
sound pleasant as I remove a few dollar bills from the pocket of my jeans.
"How much do I owe?"
"Darcy!" She claps her hands in front of
her face, like a child. "Oh, how have you been? We've all been so worried
about you. I keep meaning to stop by the house, to say hello, but..." The
absence of honesty behind her statement is obvious but expected. Annabelle is a
professional people pleaser: fake, two-faced, manipulative. I never met anyone
so petty and juvenile—sometimes she holds entire conversations in
text-speak—over the age of thirty and try my hardest to avoid her as much as
possible during work shifts.
"Well, that's kind of you, Annabelle, but I'm
not really ready for visitors yet."
"Obviously! I mean, well, no one would expect
you to be, after such a tragic, untimely—" She gasps and covers her mouth,
then purses her pink lips. "I'm so sorry! I shouldn't bring it up.
Naturally, I don't want to upset you."
"It's fine." I grit my teeth, sliding the
books closer to her. "Could you just check these in for me?"
"Certainly. In a hurry, are you?" she
asks, picking up the books and eyeing them thoughtfully.
"Oh—yes. I've been...very busy."
"Mm, of course, of course." She scans the
books and then types rapidly, staring at the computer screen. "Oh, but
these two—they aren't registered to your account."
My heartbeat quickens.
"They're listed under 'Corde, Catherine.' Is
she a friend—oh!" Again, the hand flies to her mouth. It's almost comical,
and I want to laugh at her, but I can't. I can't even sneer.
"My bad!" she exclaims, mocking
embarrassment. "I am such a featherhead today! Please forgive me,
Darcy." She reaches for my hand, which is lying on the desk, but I quickly
remove it to my jacket pocket. I count to ten and insist, without any pretense
of politeness, "What is the fine?"
Brow furrowed, Annabelle glances at the computer
screen again. "$2.45. If you'd like, I could call Marjorie over the
loudspeaker and ask her if the fee can be waived, given the circumstance—"
"No, no. Here's $3.00. Never mind the
change."
"Oh, well, if you're sure..."
"Positive." I stand before her awkwardly,
longing to escape. "I should get back to the house now, so—"
She takes the bills and inserts them into a
force sends me up, out from under the water, sitting in the tub with a hand on
my heaving chest as I cough and swallow gulps of air.
When my breathing regulates and my heart starts
beating again, I drop my head into my hands (both mine again) and sob into the
placid bathwater.
I've broken the spell. It's over.
Her scent lingers, but the atmosphere of the room is
changed. It's flatter. Dull. The steam has evaporated, and my shoulders
involuntarily shiver, naked in the cold, unheated cabin. I raise my eyes to
survey the tiny room and watch as one large, curved stroke appears over the
foggy surface of the medicine cabinet mirror hanging over the sink. A
"C." I get out of the tub, sopping, freezing, and walk to the sink,
my hands on the edges of the porcelain basin. I lean forward and press my lips
against the damp mirror. It's a hard, desperate, pathetic kiss. I open my eyes
to see nothing but my own reflection and, heartsick, pull back, flinging hot,
desperate tears from my face. No longer shivering, I curl up on the floor, my
body a bare, vulnerable container of desire. My skin burns like fire.
Either I'm going mad, or I've just had sex with a
ghost. With Catherine. Catherine's ghost. It makes no difference to me. Crazy
or sane, I am certain of one thing.
I want more.
Chapter Nine
I cringe as I approach the front desk. Annabelle is
seated behind it, and the look of shock on her face when she sees me—obviously
surprised by my appearance; I've lost weight—makes me want to turn around and
walk out of the library immediately. But I resist the urge and manage a small
smile as I hand her Catherine's books.
"These are overdue," I say, trying to
sound pleasant as I remove a few dollar bills from the pocket of my jeans.
"How much do I owe?"
"Darcy!" She claps her hands in front of
her face, like a child. "Oh, how have you been? We've all been so worried
about you. I keep meaning to stop by the house, to say hello, but..." The
absence of honesty behind her statement is obvious but expected. Annabelle is a
professional people pleaser: fake, two-faced, manipulative. I never met anyone
so petty and juvenile—sometimes she holds entire conversations in
text-speak—over the age of thirty and try my hardest to avoid her as much as
possible during work shifts.
"Well, that's kind of you, Annabelle, but I'm
not really ready for visitors yet."
"Obviously! I mean, well, no one would expect
you to be, after such a tragic, untimely—" She gasps and covers her mouth,
then purses her pink lips. "I'm so sorry! I shouldn't bring it up.
Naturally, I don't want to upset you."
"It's fine." I grit my teeth, sliding the
books closer to her. "Could you just check these in for me?"
"Certainly. In a hurry, are you?" she
asks, picking up the books and eyeing them thoughtfully.
"Oh—yes. I've been...very busy."
"Mm, of course, of course." She scans the
books and then types rapidly, staring at the computer screen. "Oh, but
these two—they aren't registered to your account."
My heartbeat quickens.
"They're listed under 'Corde, Catherine.' Is
she a friend—oh!" Again, the hand flies to her mouth. It's almost comical,
and I want to laugh at her, but I can't. I can't even sneer.
"My bad!" she exclaims, mocking
embarrassment. "I am such a featherhead today! Please forgive me,
Darcy." She reaches for my hand, which is lying on the desk, but I quickly
remove it to my jacket pocket. I count to ten and insist, without any pretense
of politeness, "What is the fine?"
Brow furrowed, Annabelle glances at the computer
screen again. "$2.45. If you'd like, I could call Marjorie over the
loudspeaker and ask her if the fee can be waived, given the circumstance—"
"No, no. Here's $3.00. Never mind the
change."
"Oh, well, if you're sure..."
"Positive." I stand before her awkwardly,
longing to escape. "I should get back to the house now, so—"
She takes the bills and inserts them into a
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