“No.” My response comes out weak, anxiety clumping thick in my throat. “He’s never told me about her. Who is she?”
I’m sure I’ve lost it. Who the hell am I to question anyone or anything Brock may or may not be doing behind my back? Not only did I kiss Ryder after being warned not to do it again, but I’ve mentally banged Ryder right in front of him.
“No way. I don’t believe that shit.” Lee lines up five shot glasses and pours a red concoction into each, topping them off with a squirt of whipped cream. He slides me one, amusement creasing his forehead. “Brock’s never let you in on his number one fan?”
Madeline giggles, Brock chuckles, and Ryder quirks a wiseass brow. I sigh in frustration, the need to slap an answer out of someone coating my stomach. I flip my attention between each of them.
Nothing. They’re mute.
No longer giving a shit if I should question who or what Brock’s doing behind my back, I throw my shot down my throat, wipe a frustrated hand across my mouth, and slam the glass on the bar. “No! He’s never told me about her. But somebody here better. Who. The. Fuck. Is. She?”
The air rockets with their amusement, their laughter drilling through my ears. Pissed, I rise, seriously ready to get the hell out of here.
“She’s a ghost who haunts this here tavern, peach.” Ryder grabs my wrist, preventing me from leaving. “Now sit back down and ch-ch-chill.”
“What?” I drag my gaze to Brock. “She’s a . . . ghost? You pricks put me through that for a ghost?”
Shrugging, a guilty grin tramples Brock’s face. “She indeed is, and we indeed did.” He slugs back his shot, his grin melting into a pout. “But, babe, pity me. She’s a psycho.”
Madeline tips her glass in Brock’s direction. “She only gets that way with you. Sure, her obsession’s become a little off the charts, but her intentions are good, mainly fueled by her desire to get it on with you. But at least she actually likes you, Cunningham. That’s more than Ryder can say. She all-out hates him.”
“She doesn’t hate me. She just can’t handle the . . . swoon factor I possess.” He kicks me a wink. “Yes. That’s what it is. My swoonworthiness intimidates her. She couldn’t handle me if she tried. Ghost or not, my shit would bang her up. Bad.”
I sigh, regretting that I ever gassed up his head with that bit of information. “So let me get this straight.” I reclaim my seat, trying to understand this comical yet somewhat disturbing story. “Amy’s a psycho ghost who haunts the bar and wants Brock?”
Lee uncaps a few bottles of beer for a crowd of customers whose drunken attentions are hanging all over our conversation. “She doesn’t just want him. She wants to give birth to his ghost kiddies.”
Laughter erupts from all directions. I can’t help but smile as I watch Brock shake his head in embarrassment.
“From grabbing his junk when he’s taking a piss to making her frustration well known when he leaves by smashing everything from pictures to glasses, she wants the dude more than a pie-eating prick-goblin wants a kinky slut-waffle,” Lee adds.
Hoots of laughter gurgle the air, oiling every surface.
Embarrassment long gone, Brock bows his head, superiority taking over his expression as he nods at me. God, my man’s so damn cute, each inch of him a morsel of deliciousness. Square jaw, edible full lips, and eyes that can cut through steel. It’s no wonder Amy—in all her deadness—wants him.
“It’s rumored the place was a brothel in the late seventeen hundreds,” Lee goes on, a smile stretching the freckles sprinkling his nose. “Our fine young Amy entertained the Johns. But sadly, she was murdered in this very building while in the midst of . . . performing. A new owner took over in the fifties, and during a renovation, they found her skeleton mangled between those walls.” Lee throws a thumb over his shoulder at the bricks surrounding an ancient fireplace. “Brock’s not the only customer she bothers, but he’s definitely her favorite.”
“And Amy hates Ryder?” I ask, eerily enthralled. “I mean, how do you know she hates him? Does she . . . abuse him?”
“She doesn’t hate me,” Ryder reiterates, stabbing a finger in my direction. “She does, however, abuse me. Mm. Hell yeah, she does. But I’m cool with her pulling my hair. I dig the kink.”
“She pulls your hair?” I giggle, motioning to Lee for another shot. “Oh, then it’s definitely hate.”
“It’s not hate, peach.” Ryder’s gaze stays heavy on mine as he rests his forearms on the glossy mahogany bar. “I told ya, it’s my swoon factor.”
I roll my eyes, positive I’ve inflated his head to the point of explosion.
Madeline scoffs. “How do you know it’s your swoon factor? She just really might hate you.”
A lazy grin curls his mouth. I hold my breath, knowing he’s about to further mutilate the mechanics of my brain.
“Some pretty little thing told me it’s my swoon factor. I didn’t believe her at first, but after I really thought about it, I couldn’t help but agree. My informer’s extremely intuitive when it comes to the male anatomy.” Ryder flicks his eyes to my lips as he swipes his tongue along his. “Especially their . . . mouths.”
Mechanics screwed beyond repair, my heart catapults from my chest, taking with it what little oxygen my lungs are harboring. I try to force myself to swallow. It doesn’t work. Ryder lets loose a light chuckle, pleased with my reaction.