Chapter 1
Hunter
The thing about being haunted is that you don't always know it's happening. Sometimes your ghost is subtle. Sometimes they're just good at making you think you're lucky. Sometimes they watch you jerk off in the shower every Tuesday and Thursday like it's their personal porn collection, but you won't figure that out until much later.
Fifth Street Coffee hummed with its usual morning chaos—the espresso machine's aggressive hissing, the milk steamer's high-pitched shriek, Red Dirt country barely audible over the cacophony of caffeine addicts getting their fix. October 31st meant half our customers wore some version of cat ears or devil horns, and someone had drawn surprisingly artistic jack-o'-lanterns on all our tip jars with chalk markers.
“Hunter, how the hell do you do that?” Andi stared at the latte I'd just poured, where a perfect heart floated in the foam. Not just any heart—this one had wings, delicate feathers etched in micro-foam that belonged in those latte art championships they held in Portland.
I glanced down at my handiwork and shrugged. “Practice?”
Except I hadn't made those wings. I'd been aiming for a basic rosetta, the usual back-and-forth motion. The wings had just... happened. Like they always did lately. Like how I always found parking spots right in front of wherever I needed to go, even during peak hours on South Congress. Like the way my rent check never bounced despite my perpetually optimistic math. Like how I'd never gotten a single parking ticket in three years despite Austin's meter maids being notoriously ruthless. Like every traffic light turned green just as I approached it.
“Practice my ass.” Andi hip-checked me away from the espresso machine, her zombie makeup from last night's pre-Halloween party still smudged under her eyes. “You're like some kind of coffee witch. Share the wealth.”
“Gotta respect the talent,” I said with a smirk, but fuck, if only she knew how close to the truth that was. Though 'witchcraft' might be generous for whatever was responsible for my supernatural barista skills.
Guardian angel? That’s what I thought at first. But angels probably didn't watch me strip after work. They definitely didn't make the temperature spike when I touched myself, creating heat wherever my hands wandered like something was tracking every stroke.
No. Whatever was haunting me was definitely not an angel.
The morning rush hit full force—a stream of office workers from the surrounding downtown buildings, state employees from the Capitol complex, UT students cutting through, and the usual collection of freelancers who'd claimed the corner tables as their personal offices.
“Medium oat latte for James!” I called out, sliding the cup across the counter. As James reached for it, the cup did this little shimmy-slide that positioned the handle perfectly towardhis hand. Physics definitely didn't work that way, but I'd given up questioning it.
James dropped a five in the tip jar, the paper bill somehow landing perfectly flat instead of crumpled. “Keep the change, magic hands.”
Magic hands. Right. If only he knew what these hands did when I got home. How I'd strip down to nothing, cock already half-hard from anticipation, knowing something was watching. How I'd take my time, one hand working my shaft while the other played with my nipples, tweaking them until they were hard and sensitive. How the air would grow thick and electric, invisible touches following my fingers like something was learning my body.
Three years of this, ever since I moved into my apartment down on East Cesar Chavez. Three years of dates ending in disaster, hookups interrupted by “freak accidents,” and potential boyfriends mysteriously losing my number. At first, I'd blamed Austin dating culture—all those tech bros and commitment-phobes. Then my deodorant. Then my personality. But after Manny and the exploding wine bottle, Drake and the car alarm symphony, and Ryan and the indoor lightning storm, well, even I couldn't stay that oblivious.
My apartment was haunted, and my ghost was a massive cockblock.
“You coming to Kelly's party tonight?” Andi asked, pulling me from my brooding. “Everyone's going. Jordan's DJing.”
“Yeah,” I said, already mentally planning my costume from the sad contents of my closet. “I'll be there.”
“Good. You need to get laid, Hunter. You've been wound tighter than your espresso tamps lately. When's the last time you got properly fucked?”
If she only knew.
It had been over a year since I'd had a cock in my mouth. Fourteen months and six days, to be exact, since I'd been bent over and fucked until I forgot my own name.
Since then? Nothing but my hand and the bizarre sensation of being watched while I came.
Kelly's apartment was packed with every twenty-something in East Austin who wasn't already at the bars on Rainey Street. Her place took up the entire top floor of a converted Victorian in Hyde Park, with original hardwood floors that creaked under the weight of too many people and windows that rattled with the bass from Jordan's professional speaker setup.
I'd gone with “sexy librarian”—my reading glasses, a cardigan that was purposely too small to show off my arms, and jeans tight enough to display exactly what I was offering. The jeans left nothing to the imagination, my cock clearly outlined against my thigh. Low effort, but it worked. At least three people had already asked if I could help them with their “late fees,” and one guy had straight-up grabbed my ass while suggesting we find somewhere quiet to “study.”
The apartment smelled like craft beer, legal weed, and that specific mix of competing colognes that meant everyone was trying to get lucky. I spotted the tarot reader in the corner, at a card table covered in black velvet, ornate deck that looked actually vintage rather than Hot Topic. I recognized him from the coffee shop; he came in a couple of times a week, ordering cortados with a slice of lemon loaf. Tonight he wore all black except for a deep purple vest that should have looked costume-y but somehow seemed natural on him. When he looked up, scanning the room like he was reading everyone's energy, our eyes met.
He smiled, this knowing little quirk of his lips that said he saw something interesting, and I felt my cock twitch in my too-tight jeans. Those eyes weren't just brown; they were the color of expensive whiskey in good lighting. His hands moved over the cards with practiced grace, long fingers that made me imagine them wrapped around my dick. Then his client said something, pointing at the cards spread between them, and he turned back to him.
Too intense, I decided, even as my hole clenched at the thought of those fingers inside me. The kind of guy who'd want to sage your apartment before fucking you raw.
Which is how I met Vampire Guy instead.
His name was Brett, and he had shoulders that filled out his vampire cape nicely. We talked about nothing while standing progressively closer until I could feel his erection pressing against my hip. We drank. We grinded to the music, his hands palming my ass, pulling me against him so I could feel exactly how big he was.
