Who Ya Gonna Call Read online

  Who Ya Gonna Call?

  Dakota Cassidy

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright ©2005 by Dakota Cassidy

  No part of this e-book may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, file sharing, and email, without prior written permission from Changeling Press LLC.

  ISBN 1-59596-121-6

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  Publisher:

  Changeling Press LLC

  PO Box 1561

  Shepherdstown, WV 25443-1561

  www.ChangelingPress.com

  Editor: Sheri Ross Carucci

  Cover Artist: Angela Knight

  This e-book file contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language which some may find offensive and which is not appropriate for a young audience. Changeling Press E-Books are for sale to adults, only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

  Chapter One

  “Who ya gonna call?”

  Did real live ghost whackers really exist? Cuz she could really use one about now. “You hear that? I’m going to call the guys with the big, scary ghost guns to come and zap you,” Devon Masters threatened out loud to no one in particular.

  No one but her ghost that is.

  Devon sighed and picked up the panties that were currently strewn across her bedroom floor from her toppled dresser drawer. Suspiciously, a thong lay neatly at the end of her bed.

  Well, all right. She had a ghost that liked some booty.

  Her naked, flossed booty…

  Devon shivered and swept her underwear into a pile. This had to end because she was full on freaked out. A month had passed since she’d moved into her small apartment in San Antonio located in an old but charismatic building. Devon loved the rustic charm and Southwestern flavor that was so popular here in Texas and she loved the tourists who never seemed to get enough of visiting the places San Antonio touted as haunted. She just hadn’t known her apartment was included in the haunted category.

  It had been a big leap of faith to leave her job as a schoolteacher and her family to take over her grandmother’s antiques shop, but once Devon saw the shop and all of the wonderful treasures it held, she knew she’d done the right thing. Her grandmother’s passing was incentive for Devon to make a change in her otherwise boring life.

  But not the kind that involved shit only Stephen King might find amusing.

  Looking at her scattered underwear, she was not amused. Devon bent and scooped up the rest of her panties, throwing them back in the drawer, and shoved it back into the heavy oak armoire.

  Shrugging off the willies that skittered up her spine, Devon set off to take a shower, refusing to think about the bizarre happenings that had been occurring nightly since she’d moved in.

  Upon entering the bathroom she turned the shower on to let the hot water run. The pipes were old in her charming, but dated apartment so it always took some time to heat up. Devon eyed herself critically in the mirror as she brushed her teeth. Long wavy hair -- made unruly by the humid heat of Texas -- fell to her shoulders in thick strands. The new caramel highlights added dimension, giving her lightly tanned skin a nice glow. Her round, hazel eyes fringed by thick lashes were red from lack of sleep. Devon finished brushing and rinsed, then leaned back against the cool tiled wall and closed her eyes.

  She was friggin’ fried thanks to this ghost shit. As the bathroom began to steam up Devon opened her eyes and caught a glimpse of the steamy mirror. Her jaw fell open and her knees began to tremble as she watched an invisible finger write a name in the condensation that gathered on her bathroom mirror.

  Gus.

  Who the fuck was Gus? And what the fuck was he doing in her bathroom?

  Hookay, this was so not funny anymore. It was time to call someone. Anyone… Did they have a www.getitthefuckoutofmyhouse.com?

  Who ya gonna call?

  * * *

  “I have a ghost.”

  “I’m sure you do,” a male voice with a hint of a Spanish accent answered with a long, lazy drawl. Devon had picked the company off of the Internet, giving little thought to anything other than getting some help. Devon sighed. “I really have a ghost.”

  “Okay, Ms. --”

  “Masters. Devon Masters.”

  “Let’s run down a little checklist, Ms. Masters. Are your walls bleeding as of late?”

  Devon cringed. If her walls bled she was moving the fuck out of Dodge. “Um, no.”

  “Any cold spots in the house?”

  There was nothing cold in Texas. It was like the jaws of hell had opened up and exhaled hard. Hell was probably ten degrees cooler. “Um, no.”

  “Funny smells? Ya know, exceptionally sweet or really vile.”

  Devon wrinkled her nose. If you didn’t count Gaby’s cat litter, then no, no smells vile or otherwise. “No.”

  “Flies?”

  She eyed the fly swatter hanging on the wall. Texas had more flies than Africa had elephants. That didn’t count. “No.”

  “Hear any voices?”

  Minus the ones in my head? “Um, no.”

  “See any spooky stuff?”

  “Define spooky.”

  Devon heard him sigh, tempering his tone with patience. “Looming shadows, apparitions? Like big scary things that hang around your house when they aren’t there for the family reunion and go ‘boo’?”

  Funny, he was a real funny man, now wasn’t he? He wasn’t taking her seriously at all. Not one iota, and it was beginning to twist her panties. “Um, no…”

  “I think we’re wasting each other’s time, Ms. Masters.”

  “But you didn’t even let me explain.”

  “If none of those things I so patiently listed is going on, then it’s likely you don’t have anything paranormal occurring.” He rolled the letter “r” in the word occurring and it sent a shiver along her arms.

  “Oh yeah? Then how come my panties are always dumped all over my floor? And tell me, Mr. Casper Catcher, why was the name ‘Gus’ written in the steam on my bathroom mirror?” Devon heard him catch his breath.

  “Gus?” His voice held disbelief. “Did you say Gus?”

  “Gus,” Devon confirmed.

  “Where do you live, Ms. Masters?”

  “I’m not going to tell you where I live yet.”

  “Do you want me to come get the big, bad ghost or not, Ms. Masters?”

  “Will you bring the super-sonic ghost zapper?”

  “Just for you.”

  Well, that settled that. Devon gave him her address.

  * * *

  When Devon opened her door an hour later she glimpsed the man she’d found on the Internet. Well, who knew ghost whackers were so darn sexy in such a serious way? A very solemn, dark-haired man stood before her. His face was hard in the soft light of mid-morning, angled and sharp with deep crevices bracketing either side of his firm lips. Dark brown eyes assessed Devon with a cynical, narrowed sweep. His upper lip twitched briefly. An odd awareness, thick and rife with something Devon couldn’t pinpoint, rippled up her spine nonetheless. She was having trouble catching her breath.

  “Ms. Masters? I’m Gustavo Hernandez.”

  His light accent tweaked at Devon’s ears. Oh, my. Devon peeked out the door behind him and looked with disappointment. “Shouldn’t you have like a backpack full of ghost whacking stuff? Like a ray gun and those special glasses?”

  “Ms. Masters --”

  “Call me Devon,” she interrupted as she led him into her small, but quaint living room, conscious of his large presence following
close behind her.

  “Devon. I didn’t see the need to bring the ‘ghost whacking paraphernalia’.” He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a pen and a small pad as he slid past her and loomed in her small living room. His hands were broad, with long tapered fingers.

  Fingers that -- whoa. And where are your thoughts straying, miss? Enough of that. She took a gulp of air.

  Devon looked more closely at his pen. “Is that a special pen?”

  “It’s the only one I use when interviewing entities,” he said with a straight face. It caught Devon off guard as she perused the hard lines of his jaw. Rather squared, but firm and assured.

  Devon began to giggle. He was making a joke. “I’m sorry. I bet you get a lot of people who claim they’ve seen ghosts in San Antonio.”

  “Not counting the Davy Crockett sightings or the haunting at the Emily Morgan Hotel. Then, yes, we average about one hundred calls a week.”

  Devon whistled as he turned around and she wasn’t sure if it was over his stats or his ass. It was tight and well defined in his khaki trousers.

  Breathing… “That’s a lot of nut-jobs, huh?”

  Gustavo’s look was skeptical as he eyed her and cocked his dark head. “Um, yes plenty of nut-jobs.”

  Well, he said it as if he included her in the nut-job equation and she wasn’t liking it. “Look, Gus --” Whoa. Gus? Gus? “Your name is Gustavo.”

  “Astute.”

  Devon ignored his wisecrack, too freaked out by the idea that he might be the connection to this odd circumstance. “Gus is your nickname, isn’t it?” Devon said suspiciously.

  “Your genius astounds me.”

  Stupidhead… “I didn’t even look at a name on the Internet. I just looked up parapsychologists in San Antonio and it isn’t even your name on the web site, it’s your company… Your team is one of the few listed.”

  “Apparently…”

  Devon was rapidly becoming irritated with his patronizing tone, even if it was sexy and husky and accented deliciously and… well, never mind.

  She was, after all, going to pay him to open up a can of whoop ass on her ghost, wasn’t she? Despite the fact that she couldn’t breathe, clarification was in order here. Like the whole paying customer kind of clarification.

  Devon put her hands on her jeans-clad hips. “Look, Gus. I’m not kidding around with you and I’m not like those nuts that call you and tell you they’ve seen the King of the Wild Frontier! Every morning I wake up and my underthings are all over the floor. At least one pair, a risqué pair, is laid out on the bed for me, almost like this -- this -- whatever it is wants me to put them on. Each time I turn on the television to watch something, if I leave the room I always come back to find old reruns of ‘The Dating Game’ on. At first I thought it was just me, but I tested my theory and sure enough, it never fails. I leave the room -- even just to get a glass of water and I come back and the channel has changed. Oh! And I read romance novels by the truckload, right?”

  Gustavo nodded his head and yawned. Disinterested -- devoid of emotion… dirt bag…

  Anger crept up her neck and landed squarely on her cheeks in the form of a blush. “Well, my ghost seems to like the passages that contain the good stuff, if you know what I mean.” Devon paused and gave Gustavo a coy look. “I’m certain when I put my last book down, Love’s Savage Frenzy, I was at a regency ball. I come back and the pages were suspiciously turned to the bodice ripping part!”

  Gustavo’s eyebrows rose. “Bodice ripping?” he asked with another yummy roll to his “r”.

  Devon sighed impatiently. “Ya know, where they get jiggy with each other?”

  “They rip bodices in romance novels?”

  Devon shook her head, her anger fading and that heavy, delicious something or other replacing it again. “It’s an expression… never mind. Don’t you see the pattern?”

  Gustavo shook his head. His very dark, kinda yummy in a too serious teacher sorta way, head. “I’m certain I’m missing something vital,” he offered with sarcasm as his lip twitched.

  Devon narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Tell me something, Gus, why did you hightail it over here so quickly when I told you what was written on my bathroom mirror if you didn’t believe I might have a ghost?”

  Gustavo rocked back on his heels and eyed her back. His full chest expanded as he took what appeared to be one of those deep, cleansing, shut this broad up, breaths.

  Oh, what would it be like to lay her head on that chest all big and solid? She might quit breathing all together.

  “Well, you have to admit that it was a little odd to hear my name mentioned in a bathroom I’ve never been in. I was curious.”

  Devon shook her finger in the air. “No, that’s not true. What you thought was I might be legit because it was your name written on the mirror!”

  “Look, Ms. Masters. I don’t believe or disbelieve anything until I have solid proof of the facts --”

  As Gustavo began to drone on about facts and stats on his ghostly experiences a shimmer of something caught Devon’s eye and for the second time that day her jaw dropped and her knees became weak, yet she couldn’t move and a whirring noise in her ears drowned out Gustavo’s words.

  The glass vase she’d filled just yesterday with flowers she’d picked up at the store hovered in the air just behind Gustavo’s head. It bobbed as though someone carried it, swerving around his shoulder and centering itself between them. Water sloshed out of the sides and onto her carpet as it glided toward Devon unsteadily.

  Gustavo frowned and squinted.

  Devon peeked around the side of the square vase as she sucked in more of the heavy air. “Er, Gus?” Her voice quivered with the utter insanity of what was happening right before her very eyes.

  “Yes, Ms. Masters?”

  “I realize this isn’t like a good old fashioned bleeding wall, but do you see my dilemma?”

  Gustavo ran his hand beneath the hovering vase, slicing his arm through the air, an eyebrow cocked. “Why, yes, Ms. Masters. I believe I do.”

  The vase wobbled and sloshed as it headed back in the direction of Gus’s vicinity. It lingered over his head for a mere moment, suspended, then tilted and water streamed down Gus’s head, soaking his shirt. It clung to his broad chest and while she was still speechless, Devon couldn’t help but admire his pecs. Again, she fought for air.

  Nice indeed.

  Water puddled at Gus’s feet as their eyes met. Devon’s wide with astonishment and Gus’s gleaming with excitement.

  Chapter Two

  “And? We do what about it?” Devon questioned with a screech, as they both looked at the soggy wildflowers on the floor at their feet.

  Gustavo put his notepad in his shirt pocket and shoved his hands in his trouser pockets. Yes, Gustavo, exactly what do we do about this? he asked himself. When this sultry voice of Devon Masters called he had no idea her voice would match the rest of her. As he fought to focus on her otherworldly story, he found himself completely distracted by her very earthly charms.

  In his time as a parapsychologist, he’d made contact with many entities. He traveled the world hearing stories about all sorts of strange, unexplained occurrences. Poltergeists -- malevolent ghosts who could wreak havoc in your life -- your basic everyday ghost -- friendly, but harmless and now this ghost. A ghost, who by what Devon Masters relayed, seemed to want to contact him. Everyone who knew him personally called him Gus.

  And he couldn’t say he was sorry it wanted to contact him through the very sexy Devon Masters… seeing what he’d just witnessed excited him, but he didn’t know if it excited him as much as Devon did. As dedicated as he was in his quest for any proof of the paranormal, it was sorta freaking him out.

  “So?” Devon’s husky voice sliced through his thoughts.

  “So, I think you might have something worth investigating.”

  “Investigate? What exactly does that entail?” She cocked her pretty head and ran a tongue over her lips.
/>   Gustavo fought a grin. It meant him spending a couple of nights here in her apartment with his ghost whacking stuff, is what it meant.

  Hot damn!

  No, that’s bad, he chastised himself. No cheers of joy in front of the freaked out, smokin’ chick. “With your permission I’d like to spend the night here with you. Er, I mean, with your ghost.”

  Devon looked almost relieved and then he watched her visibly gulp. “Do you think it would try to hurt me? You know, like in all those movies?”

  “Um, it tried to give you flowers, so I don’t think its intent is malevolent. Whatever kind of entity this is, it seems romantic in nature. From what you’ve told me anyway. The romance novel, ‘The Dating Game,’ the -- the -- underwear situation…”

  She pursed her pretty, full lips and crossed her arms over her plump breasts. “How much is this going to cost?” she asked skeptically.

  Gustavo tried to remain as serious as any good ghost buster should, but, hell… How about payment in the form of a roll in the old hay, wearing that underwear your ghost is so fond of? He frowned… what the hell was he thinking? No hay rolling in anything. Ms. Masters was a potential client -- even if she was hotter than molten lava. Gus decided the standard answer he gave all his clients, hot or not, was in his best interest. People thought specialists in his field were quacks already. He didn’t need to add to that by asking her if she wanted to do the horizontal mambo. Thankfully, a large, well-invested trust fund from his grandmother, a television show and a speaking engagement or two kept him in business. Parapsychology was rapidly becoming more popular overseas and here in the States, especially in a place like San Antonio, a literal burial ground for the Alamo participants.

  Paranormal occurrences did exist. Gus believed that, though in most instances there was a scientific explanation for them. He didn’t have an anomalous explanation for what he’d just seen, but he’d like one. Spending the night, when most of Devon’s experiences occurred, was logical, he reasoned. According to most research, some people were just more inclined to experience paranormal phenomena than others. It was a hard thing to prove, but he’d just experienced something he’d never experienced in his ten years of parapsychology. A floating vase…