Page 2 of Kill Me Again: Psychics

“Sometimes.” I returned to studying my reflection.

His thoughts spilled freely. ”Why do I always go for the weird ones? He’s hot, and we had a good time, but I could have done without him tossing and turning all night after we fucked. What was that about? And what’s he doing now? Why is he just staring at himself in the mirror? Bit too much Patrick Bateman from American Psycho for my liking. Does he really have work? Or is this his way of brushing me off? I guess if he’s a psycho, I should be relieved. Lucky they caught Satanic Romeo, or I might think I just spent the night with him.”

I kept my expression neutral. At least he had some good things to say. There was nothing worse than someone mentally grading you as unsatisfactory the morning after. Well… there were worse things. Like dying. But I’d already been there and done that. Got the T-shirt. All that jazz.

“Where do you work?”

I could have told him, but mentioning the Paranormal Problems Bureau would invite questions I didn’t want to answer. People got touchy when I said I could read minds. “I don’t want breakfast.”

“Wanker!” His jaw tightened. “You want me to leave? Is that it?”

I twisted so my back was to the mirror, but I could still see my reflection, my hand sliding down my unscarred flank. My body insisted my murder had never happened. My mind disagreed. “Leave… stay… whatever.”

“Fuck’s sake!” He waited a few seconds before storming back into the bedroom. Angry sounds of dressing followed. There were thoughts too, but I deliberately tuned them out as I stepped into the shower and cranked the heat as high as I could stand. I stayed there a long time, head tipped back, trying not to think while the water poured over me. I’d missed showers when I was dead. Showers. Eating. Sex. Being cold. Being hot. Breathing.

The bedroom was empty when I returned. My phone and wallet still sat on the chest of drawers, so at least he hadn’t robbed me in a fit of pique. I was halfway dressed when my phone rang. I stared at the name on the screen.

Calisto. The man whose life I’d been dropped into while I was dead, for reasons neither of us could explain. The closest thing I had to a brother. The man who had inadvertently brought me back to life.

He should have been the one person I could talk to. He knew me. My strengths. My flaws. I’d watched him grow from a gangly teenager into a strapping man. I’d even lived with him and Asher for a while, until they’d grown sick of the revolving door in my borrowed bedroom and sat me down and told me, ever so politely, that perhaps I’d be better with my own place. “More space,” they’d said, which was a lie because Asher lived in a mansion. “More freedom.” That part might have been true.

But I couldn’t talk to Calisto. I didn’t know why. So I ignored him instead, which was impressive given we worked in the same building and he called and messaged constantly.

Sure enough, a text came through less than a minute later. I read it while waiting at the bus stop.

Morning, Baxter. Just wanted to say… well, good morning, I guess, which I’ve done already. How are you doing? Come for dinner soon. Friday? Nothing fancy. Just a takeaway and vegging out on the sofa. Asher can be there or not. Your choice. You can choose what we eat and what we watch as well. I promise not to argue (much).

I slid my phone back into my pocket without replying. The last six messages were all from Calisto. I should have answered. I just didn’t know what to say. I chewed on that for the rest of the bus ride—ten minutes on a good day, twenty in traffic. That morning fell somewhere in between. At least thinking about Calisto provided a distraction from the humdrum thoughts of my fellow passengers.

“I must remember to get milk on the way home.” Blonde woman. Big gold hoop earrings.

“I’m going to be late for work. Can’t he drive faster?” Scowling man with big, bushy eyebrows.

“I should probably wait before I text him back. I don’t want to come across as desperate. But I don’t want it to be so long he thinks I’m not interested. Why are new relationships so complicated? Why can’t I just meet someone and it be easy? Maybe I should become a nun? No. Black and white doesn’t suit me. I look like a penguin.” Middle-aged woman in a red jumper, clutching her handbag like she thought someone might steal it.

“I swear to God that if Derek tries to talk to me at work today, I’ll punch him in the face after the stunt he pulled. He better keep a wide berth if he knows what’s good for him.” Man with spiky red hair standing at the front of the bus.

“This song’s great. I should buy the album.” Teenage girl sitting so low in her seat she looked in danger of sliding off.

I still hadn’t figured out what to say to Calisto by the time I got off the bus, no excuse sounding convincing enough to avoid his proposed get together. I could go, but then there’d be questions like how are you? And is there anything you need to talk about?

The five-minute walk to the Paranormal Problems Bureau passed without incident until I reached into my pocket and realized my ID was missing.

I scrolled through my contacts, bypassing Asher and Cade before settling on the better—not perfect, but better—option. While the phone rang, I did a mental reset, shaking off the lingering effects of the nightmare. Was it a nightmare if it had actually happened? I didn’t have an answer by the time the call connected.

“Kendrick,” I said brightly. “How are you this fine morning?”

A pause. “Let me guess… you’ve forgotten your ID again.”

I winced. “Possibly.”

“Yes or no, Baxter?”

“Yes.”

“I should leave you standing out there.”

I watched a tall redhead wobble past in impossibly high heels while the silence stretched. Eventually, Kendrick sighed. “Why do you always call me? I get not calling Cade. But why not Asher? He’s your friend.”