Ghost Walk

Part 1

The setting sun turns the evening sky into a muted purple that heralds the stars.

I sit on the steps of the public library and wait for our ghost tour to start, glancing around at the other people loitering about. No doubt, the young Japanese tourist couple are here for the tour, but I'm unsure about the woman with her toddler in a stroller, or the two guys sitting one step down from me a few feet away.

They look about my age, or maybe a few years older, and they look like those incomprehensible type of people. The let's get up at ass o'clock and go to the gym five times a week kind of people. They both appear local, but the bigger, darker guy's wearing a black T-shirt that hugs his torso and leaves no room for the imagination as to how ripped he is underneath the fabric.

I swallow and try to keep from daydreaming about pushing his T-shirt up so I can run my tongue over his lick-worthy tanned skin.

He probably tastes like the sea and sweat, with just a hint of arrogant hot guy mixed in.

"Stop it," I mumble to myself. No ogling random guys in public.

But I don't stop. My eyes keep drifting back to the two guys who are talking too quietly for me to make out much more than the low timbre of their voices. Black T-shirt Guy must feel me creeping on him, because he glances back in my direction, and our eyes meet for a split-second before I drop my gaze.

Shit. Way to be cool, dude.

I pull out my phone and busy myself unlocking it, refusing to let my eyes wander back up, even as I'm dying to see whether he's still looking at me. Only five minutes till 7:30 PM. Surely I can wait five measly minutes for our tour to start without breaking.

"Who's here for the Fort Street Hauntings tour?" a deep voice calls out.

Thank fuck, our tour guide's early.

More people converge at the announcement, and there's at least a dozen of us by the time we've gathered around our guide.

"I'm Lopaka, and if you'll all follow me, we'll get started."

Lopaka takes us across the back of the Iolani Palace toward Fort Street Mall, filling us in on non-ghosty and therefore boring stories about the Hawaiian royal family. At least, it's boring until he mentions King Kamehameha III and his 'male companion.'

"Holy shit, really?" I blurt.

Several pairs of eyes turn to stare at me, but all I see are the pretty brown eyes of T-Shirt Guy. So glad it's too dark for the flush to show up on my face, because it's on fire right now.

"Uh, I mean, that's cool. Love discovering hidden queer history in random places."

A couple of people nod and agree to my comment, but mostly it goes completely over their heads, especially the Japanese tourists. T-Shirt Guy quirks a small smile, which I take to mean that he's at least not a homophobe. Apparently I've got excellent taste in insta-crushes.

We haven't made it very far down the street towards the Topa Building when I realize I should be taking notes and not just letting all this information go in one ear and out the other if I'm going to use this for my Creative Non-Fiction assignment. I swing my bag off my back to my front and unzip it, trying to get out my pen and notepad. I have to pause, letting the tour pass me a little because my notebook is wedged underneath the shitload of textbooks.

Just as my fingers tighten around the edge of my notebook, there's a small tearing sound. The weight on my shoulders dissipates.

"Oh, fuck me," I moan.

Papers, books, and pens—the entire contents of my bag—plummet through the gaping tear at the bottom. Everyone keeps walking as I scramble onto my knees to pick my stuff up.

Black sneakers appear in the corner of my view, and then a tanned, muscled forearm. A very familiar—because I'm a total creeper—muscled forearm.

"T-shirt Guy," I mutter before I close my mouth firmly shut.

"What?" he asks, his frown of confusion doing nothing to make him less intimidatingly gorgeous. His voice is deeper and raspier up close. I want to breathe it in like smoke. Or maybe I want to swallow it. Swallow him.

Okay, concentrate. He's still right in front of you.

"You're wearing a T-shirt," I point out. Then I cringe inwardly. Probably outwardly too. He's gathered three of my textbooks and a handful of pens in the time it takes me to snap out of my embarrassment to reach for the rest of the items scattered all over the ground. He has an amused half-smile on his lips when he straightens, carrying all three giant textbooks balanced on one hand like they weigh nothing.

"I am. So are you."

"Point," I say. "But you're wearing yours..." Really well. Okay, I can't say that.