The Ghost Wore Yellow Socks by Josh Lanyon Page B
Authors: Josh Lanyon
Tags: Romance MM, erotic MM
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any place else to go, and few places were as cheap to rent as his rooms in the isolated old house. And he wasn’t actually that chicken, although he knew no one was ever going to mix him up for a tough guy.
Something moved inside the closet.
Perry went rigid. He told himself it was his imagination.
But then the closet door banged as though someone kicked it. Perry sat bolt upright.
He fumbled for the lamp, knocking the clock off the stand.
Scrambling out of bed, his foot tangled in the sheet, and he nearly fell. His eyes never left the white, motionless closet door.
On his feet he reached the closet. His chest rose and fell, his hand shook, and yet something made him reach out, fingers brushing the glass knob.
He yanked open the door.
The Ghost Wore Yellow Socks
63
Chapter Seven
Nick tossed back the rest of his Seven and Seven and handed the plastic cup to the flight attendant as she bumped down the aisle, trash bag in hand. She smiled at him, and Nick gave her a wide, meaningless grin in return.
I must be nuts, he thought, staring out at the black slate of night sky out the little square window.
Roscoe had wanted him to stay and celebrate -- and finally he had something to celebrate. After Marie, after his discharge, after the monotony of civilian life with no job, no prospects, finally there was something to celebrate.
And what did Nick do? He grabbed the first available plane back for Vermont -- which he hated anyway and couldn’t wait to put behind him once and for all. What the hell was the matter with him?
But he kept thinking of the Foster kid. Perry. There was something not kosher at the estate, and that fragile boy was not equipped to deal with it. Not that it was Nick’s problem --
although he was now officially in the P.I. business. Well, soon. After he finished his training.
All around him on the crowded aircraft, other passengers were settling down for sleeping or reading. Nick stretched his long legs out as far as he could beneath the seat in front of him -- which wasn’t far. He’d have liked to get up and move around, but there was a woman with a baby in the aisle seat, and he’d have preferred public flogging to the risk of waking that shrieking mouth again. It was amazing the lung power in something that small.
He resettled in his seat, trying to get more comfortable, and glanced at his watch.
Another two hours before they landed. He’d have to waste another hour going through baggage claim and finding his truck, and then another hour back to the Kingdom. He sighed and closed his eyes. Might as well get some rest. It would be after midnight before he made it back to Creepsville.
64 Josh Lanyon
* * * * *
There was a fire truck parked outside the Alston mansion when Nick pulled up.
Sheriff’s department cars were angled along the drive and grass. Blue and red lights cut through the misty night like lasers. An ambulance was parked a few feet from the front door.
Nick got out of his pickup, shrugging into his leather jacket. The unease that had dogged him since he’d left the estate bloomed into full consternation.
He strode across the rain-slicked grass. A deputy sheriff tried to stop him. Nick brushed past with a curt word of explanation. His heart was thumping unpleasantly; chill premonition slithered down his spine.
In the drafty front hall, the residents had all gathered in their nightclothes -- that motley collection of pajamas and dressing gowns in which people always dressed for disaster.
“What’s happened?” he demanded.
A gray-faced Mrs. MacQueen, looking more like James Cagney than ever in a thick plaid wool robe and men’s style slippers, shook her head.
He looked at the others. Stein was nervously chewing the inside of his cheek. Teagle sat in a chair next to the unlit fireplace, his head shaking, his big, hands white beneath the freckles. That walking cadaver, David Center, stood next to the Bridger woman, his bony hand fastened on the emerald sleeve of
Something moved inside the closet.
Perry went rigid. He told himself it was his imagination.
But then the closet door banged as though someone kicked it. Perry sat bolt upright.
He fumbled for the lamp, knocking the clock off the stand.
Scrambling out of bed, his foot tangled in the sheet, and he nearly fell. His eyes never left the white, motionless closet door.
On his feet he reached the closet. His chest rose and fell, his hand shook, and yet something made him reach out, fingers brushing the glass knob.
He yanked open the door.
The Ghost Wore Yellow Socks
63
Chapter Seven
Nick tossed back the rest of his Seven and Seven and handed the plastic cup to the flight attendant as she bumped down the aisle, trash bag in hand. She smiled at him, and Nick gave her a wide, meaningless grin in return.
I must be nuts, he thought, staring out at the black slate of night sky out the little square window.
Roscoe had wanted him to stay and celebrate -- and finally he had something to celebrate. After Marie, after his discharge, after the monotony of civilian life with no job, no prospects, finally there was something to celebrate.
And what did Nick do? He grabbed the first available plane back for Vermont -- which he hated anyway and couldn’t wait to put behind him once and for all. What the hell was the matter with him?
But he kept thinking of the Foster kid. Perry. There was something not kosher at the estate, and that fragile boy was not equipped to deal with it. Not that it was Nick’s problem --
although he was now officially in the P.I. business. Well, soon. After he finished his training.
All around him on the crowded aircraft, other passengers were settling down for sleeping or reading. Nick stretched his long legs out as far as he could beneath the seat in front of him -- which wasn’t far. He’d have liked to get up and move around, but there was a woman with a baby in the aisle seat, and he’d have preferred public flogging to the risk of waking that shrieking mouth again. It was amazing the lung power in something that small.
He resettled in his seat, trying to get more comfortable, and glanced at his watch.
Another two hours before they landed. He’d have to waste another hour going through baggage claim and finding his truck, and then another hour back to the Kingdom. He sighed and closed his eyes. Might as well get some rest. It would be after midnight before he made it back to Creepsville.
64 Josh Lanyon
* * * * *
There was a fire truck parked outside the Alston mansion when Nick pulled up.
Sheriff’s department cars were angled along the drive and grass. Blue and red lights cut through the misty night like lasers. An ambulance was parked a few feet from the front door.
Nick got out of his pickup, shrugging into his leather jacket. The unease that had dogged him since he’d left the estate bloomed into full consternation.
He strode across the rain-slicked grass. A deputy sheriff tried to stop him. Nick brushed past with a curt word of explanation. His heart was thumping unpleasantly; chill premonition slithered down his spine.
In the drafty front hall, the residents had all gathered in their nightclothes -- that motley collection of pajamas and dressing gowns in which people always dressed for disaster.
“What’s happened?” he demanded.
A gray-faced Mrs. MacQueen, looking more like James Cagney than ever in a thick plaid wool robe and men’s style slippers, shook her head.
He looked at the others. Stein was nervously chewing the inside of his cheek. Teagle sat in a chair next to the unlit fireplace, his head shaking, his big, hands white beneath the freckles. That walking cadaver, David Center, stood next to the Bridger woman, his bony hand fastened on the emerald sleeve of
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