Stacia Kane: Home

He pushed her hand away, catching her right thigh in the crook of his elbow as he did, thrusting into her before she had a chance to realize what was happening, yanking a cry from her throat then quieting it with his mouth. The beanbag sighed beneath her, shifted as he started to move slowly, carefully, making little circles with his hips, dancing in and out of her for endless delicious minutes until she dug her heels into the backs of his thighs to urge him to speed up.

His hands stroked the sides of her face, slid up into her hair, over her breasts. They gripped her hips and tilted them up, holding her steady for him, his fingers digging into her skin hard enough to make pain mingle with pleasure and drive any other thoughts from her head. She didn’t want to think about anything else, anyway. What was the point, what else was there?

Nothing. Only him, his hand shifting again to slide down between them and touch her in the spot he knew would have the greatest effect. His body driving into hers, against hers, wrapping around hers even as she wrapped around him. His face above hers, his eyes half-glazed and focused on her. Completely on her, like there was nothing else in the world.

The beanbag shifted beneath them with every thrust. She twisted her arms around his and used them to brace herself so she could lift her hips to meet him, heat building, pressure building like white light pooling in her pelvis, like a star about to supernova.

He gasped her name. His hips moved faster, harder. The rest of the room disappeared; she didn’t feel the beanbag beneath her, didn’t see the ceiling over them, didn’t smell the horrible incense. She was flying and the only thing holding her to the earth was Terrible’s hands, Terrible’s weight above hers. Terrible putting her back together when she burst apart beneath him, clutching his arms. Terrible gasping louder, pushing her harder, speeding his pace even more, totally absorbed. She heard his breathing grow shallow, felt him swell inside her, watched his face change as he shuddered over her and fell into her arms.

Their breath barely had a chance to return to normal when headlights flooded the front windows and the sound of an engine idling outside made her lift her head. What the fuck?

Oh, no.

Terrible looked at her, the same thought reflected in his eyes. But he was faster, leaping off the beanbag and peering out the window. “Cab in the drive.”

“What? They— Shit! Shit, shit! They weren’t home, they’re not here asleep, they were out. Fuck, we need to get out of here.”

“Ain’t got time. Them outta the car, dig.”

She tried to remember the layout of the house as she snatched up her stuff from the floor. “Down the hall there’s a closet. Come on.” This was one of the stupidest situations she’d ever been in on a case. Fuck! Thankfully it appeared the Solomons didn’t use the closet often; an ironing board, a few boxes, and what looked like an exercise machine of some kind, covered in dust, huddled against the walls. Enough room for both of them to get their jeans back on.

“Hopefully they’ll go to bed soon,” she whispered, leaning back against him. She blew out the candle on her Hand.

She had every right to be there. As she’d told Mrs. Solomon, the Church granted her authority to enter anytime she chose, at any hour of the day or night. But getting caught was…bad form. Among Debunkers, not getting caught was a point of pride.

Of course, there was the added complication that she’d brought her…well, boyfriend, though as always that word was too small to encompass what he was to her. That could be a problem.

Terrible’s lips tickled her ear. “I could just knock em out, aye?” She laughed softly, tilted her head to kiss him. “I somehow think that wouldn’t be good if the Church finds out.”

Voices filled the air: Mrs. Solomon, laughing about something. The door closed behind them. Chess leaned forward a little to hear.

“I’m tired,” Mrs. Solomon said. A male voice mumbled something Chess didn’t catch, and Mrs. Solomon laughed. “Right, Joe.”

Joe? Mr. Solomon’s name was Doug, she’d called him Doug earlier. But maybe it wasn’t him. Maybe it was her boyfriend, or some guy she’d picked up, or who the hell knew what.

Chess tilted her head back, turned her face toward Terrible’s. He leaned down so she could reach his ear. “What did the guy look like? Outside, I mean, when he got out of the car. What did he look like, did you see?”

“Weren’t too light, but lookin…like them out here, dig. Clean. White buttoned shirt. Had he a beard, them brown pants an shined-up shoes. All straight.”

“And it was just the two of them?”

“Aye.”

Chess had tossed the beanbags back into an approximation of where they’d been; it seemed like she’d done all right, because no alarm was being raised. Instead, murmurs and soft laughs drifted back from the living room. Were they going upstairs or what?

She rubbed her arms, shifted her weight. Hoped Mrs. Solomon and this Joe person would get the fuck upstairs so she and Terrible could sneak out. The incense smell, so strong even in the closet, made her nose itch; her arms itched, her chest—

Shit. That wasn’t a normal itch. That was ghosts: the tingling, burning kind of itch they always caused when their energy hit the magic imbued in Chess’s tattoos. There was a ghost in the house, a ghost nearby. But Mr. Solomon was the one Hosting, and his name wasn’t Joe, and the man Terrible described didn’t sound at all like Mr. Solomon: She doubted Mr. Solomon had ever worn trousers and button-down shirts in his life. The man owned a business and ran it wearing torn denim, so…

The lights in the living room hadn’t gone on, and—oh, shit—little sounds started making their way into the closet, sounds that were unmistakable indications that Mrs. Solomon and her companion were doing some “celebrating.” Terrible pulled back Chess’s hair so he could kiss her neck. “Be in here a while, aye?”

“Maybe he won’t last long.”

Terrible’s short laugh made his chest move against her back. “Aye, maybe so.” Mrs. Solomon yelled something, something that had something to do with cowboys, if Chess heard right, and— Wait. Wait a minute.

Mr. Solomon was Hosting. He shared his body with a ghost, but Chess would only feel that when the ghost was “out,” so to speak—when it had control of his body. The underwear on the floor in the bedroom came back to her. Of course. One man preferred boxers, the other briefs. No, Mr. Solomon didn’t wear khakis, he wore jeans and t-shirts, but there had been tidier clothing on the floor, right? So the ghost wore button-downs, the ghost wore trousers. She honestly didn’t think she’d ever seen anything like it, heard of anything like it in six years of Church training and almost four more of Debunking.

People didn’t Host spirits and just…let those spirits exist as another person using their body. They Hosted for power. They worked with a ghost but didn’t allow the ghost independence. How fucking dangerous was that? What was the matter with these people, did they not realize what a ghost would do if given control of a body?

Mrs. Solomon had been laughing and talking to the ghost. Laughing, talking, and calling it Joe. The man inside her husband’s body. What had Mrs. Solomon said? “We believe in exploring the pleasures of the body,” or some shit like that? Yeah. Some exploring.

Well, she hoped they’d enjoyed it. They wouldn’t be exploring too many bodily pleasures in their prison cells.

Mr. Solomon had come home at about five the day before, so Chess gave it until almost seven before she arrived at their front door and gave it a happy little knock. She’d been stuck in that damn closet for almost an hour last night while Mrs. Solomon and the ghost in Mr. Solomon’s body had themselves all sorts of fun in the living room. At first it had been funny. Then it was just boring. Then annoying.