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Submitted by: V.R Morley
Standing behind him, she wished he could see her as she ran her dainty fingers through his long, salt and pepper hair. To her delight, his hair was remarkably soft. Even though he didn’t respond to her touch, she continued playing with his locks. Carolina had been dead for forty eight hours and he still had no leads as to who her killer was.
Not that it bothered her, he could take all the time he needed. In the meantime, she fancied herself his secret lover.
The older, tall, handsome, Native American man, with the deep bronze complexion, had fascinated her ever since she saw him kneeling next to her dead body. She had learned his name was Jackson
Winterborn and he was an FBI agent. Personally, she'd never liked
older men, but since the first time she saw him, it was lust as first sight.
She’d watched him during his initial investigation of her murder,
treating her dead body with care. He didn’t follow suit and succumb
to making jokes about her state of undress, or about what a shame
it was, given she had such a smoking body, as one lecherous uniformed
officer put it. It also didn’t matter to her that he was married, she was,
after all, dead. It’s not like he could see her flowing silky blonde hair
or the cute dimples that appeared every time she smiled.
She longed for him to feel her perky breasts and shapely ample hips.
She also longed to trade places with his wife, Naomi, even if it was
just for him to kiss her goodbye as he left to begin his day.
She sighed deeply as he stepped out of the shower, towel drying
his dripping wet body. He wasn’t young, but then again, he wasn’t
exactly old either, and his body, though slightly pudgy in a typical
way for a man of his years, was still desirable, and besides he was all
man where it counted, she noted with a smile.
At times he seemed to look right into her eyes. Her heart would
quicken with excitement, hoping this time he really could see and
speak to her, but to her disappointment, he'd only reach right through
her grabbing any number of items off his dresser.
Not to say she didn’t like the sensual sensation of his arm going
through her. She’d likened it to something almost as good as an orgasm.
She told herself that something, anything, was better than nothing in
this sucky afterlife.
He didn’t dress like a typical agent either. No drab blue, off the rack,
suit for him. He donned instead a pair of well-worn blue jeans and a
western style button down shirt. Watching him braid his long hair, she
wanted desperately to help, but instead, had to settle for watching his
wife take a brush, and do what she longed to do.
Kissing Naomi goodbye for the day, he ventured to his old, but
reliable, pickup truck. Carolina hitched a ride in the passenger seat.
A wet coldness hung heavy in the air. The weather had turned
unseasonable for New Mexico this time of year. Not that the cold
bothered her, in fact, since dying, she couldn’t tell temperature
differences anymore. Surprisingly enough, the afterlife seemed to be
balmy and tropical.
Seeing his office for the first time, she noted it was small and
sparsely decorated, tucked out of the way on the third floor.
The only difference from his office and any number of others in
the building, was a brown leather couch lining the back wall.
Plopping herself down on his desk, she watched him go through her case file. Gruesome pictures of her half naked dead body, punctuated with bloody bullet holes, were strewn about his desk.
Carolina had stolen a large sum of money from a known drug lord,
but did it deserve her being shot four times to death? She asked
herself. Perusing her pictures, she felt it was a bit of overkill. He closed her file, rubbing his temples in exasperation. Sure, she could have found a way to help him in finding her killer, but she was too afraid once he solved her murder, she would fade away into some other dimension, or plane, or whatever bullshit was on the other side. Nothing was going to make her leave his side.
Standing up, he arched his back, feeling a faint cracking of relief. As his habit when a case frustrated him, he decided to lay down on his couch and clear his mind. Closing his eyes, he placed his right arm up over his head. She couldn’t resist. It's not like he could feel her anyway, she reasoned, but the fact that she could feel him, encouraged her to slide her ethereal body on top of him, snuggling close into his chest. The smell and feel of him, gave her comfort her in a way she’d never experienced.
He shifted his body and opened his eyes. “Please get off me.”
He couldn’t possibly be talking to me, he can’t see me! She mused,
snuggling in tighter.
“Excuse me.” He said. “Carolina could you please get off me?”
She sat up with a jolt staring into his eyes. “You said my name? You can see me?” “Of course I can.” He said as he stood up. “But... But, how?” Jackson smiled. “It’s a trade secret, I saw your presence after my shower, you know, when you ran your fingers through my hair.” She blushed. Who knew ghosts could blush? She thought turning her head away. “Why didn’t you say something?” “I figured you liked the show.” “Well, I can’t say I didn’t.” she winked. “Time to get back to work.” Jackson returned to her case file, taking a seat at his desk. “Now that you have my attention, we need to talk about your murder. Can you tell me what you remember?” She cheekily took it upon herself to sit her ethereal form in his lap. “I don’t remember anything at all. It’s a complete mystery to me who could have shot me.” He wasn’t buying her story. Nobody he figured, gets four holes in them and doesn’t have at least some idea of who did it. Her rap sheet showed petty theft and larceny, even a charge of prostitution, but that's not what got him assigned to her case. It was her connection to certain underworld bosses that put her death on his radar. Carolina Matson was no stranger to danger. “It’s not my job to make it easy for you. You’re the detective you figure it out.” She kissed his cheek. Getting up from his lap, she walked to the couch seductively in the red stilettos she died in. Seated, she crossed her long legs that her black mini skirt barely covered, just for his benefit.
It’s not like he didn’t appreciate the view, but it wasn’t the first time he’d run into ghosts who, for one reason or another, didn’t want to cross over. Usually it was family reasons, or just plain fear of the unknown, but in her case with all of her flirting, she was different. “Why don’t you want to help me find your killer?” She licked her lips and batted her eyes at him. “I don’t know, I guess because I really like you.” “That’s it?” “For now.” She laughed flipping her hair. “You know it may take years to catch your killer, or you may even become a cold case. You could be earth bound for centuries. That doesn’t bother you?” Returning to his desk, she leaned forward to display her tantalizing cleavage in a red V neck sweater, punctuated with bullet holes. He swallowed hard staring at her perky breasts only inches from his face. Even as a ghost, she was a knockout. “No it doesn’t bother me. I plan on enjoying myself.” She giggled, running her fingers over his chest. His hand failed to grasp her fingers, only finding air, even though he could feel them seductively trailing down his chest. A look of confusion splayed across his face. Figuring out the dimensional difference as to why he could feel her touch, but not touch her back, frustrated him as a psychic and a medium. A harsh ringing from his office phone broke his thoughts. “Winterborn.” He answered. Carolina, soon bored with his long phone conversation, started looking for something to occupy her time. She once again perused her gruesome death photos on his desk. Unwittingly, she betrayed her nonchalant emotion by staring too long at one particular photo. Jackson took note of her somber expression and picked up the picture. In the background on a wall, was a small framed portrait of her hugging a man. Finishing his call, he grabbed his coat to leave. “Where are we going?” she asked. “I’m going to check on a lead. You can do what you like.” He answered. “I've got nowhere else to be, I’m coming with you.” Jackson shrugged his shoulders. “It’s your afterlife.”
* * * * *
Nobody chooses to write, writing chooses them. It's a passion that can't be denied. The blank page is our canvass. Words our various colors. Give me a keyboard and I'm compelled to paint a picture.
I reside with my family in the suburbs of Detroit. My imagination resides in various exciting locales. I have been a Paralegal, Real Estate agent, Call Center Advisor, Photographer, Artist, Craft Mogul, Dog Trainer.