Chace leans back, smirking.
Sam raises his glass. “So, when you jerk off, is it her face or the Virgin Mary you’re seeing?” I slam my palm on the table again. “If you must know, brother, I am thinking about your mom.”
That does it. Chace howls, Sam wheezes, the girls just stare.
“This is serious, man. I’m haunted. My cocks fucking haunted!”
Sam groans, shaking his head. “Your cock isn’t haunted, Baker. Your heart is. Why don’t you just go back and see her?”
My throat tightens. I drop into the seat, running a hand through my hair, tugging at the roots. “I can’t. Her father caught me. I don’t want to make it hard for her.”
Chace deadpans, voice flat. “Sounds like that is exactly what she needs to do for you.”
Sam loses it. Chace doubles over. The table rocks with laughter, vibrating with the bass and the ache in my chest. I sit there with a ghost of a grin. Because maybe Sam’s right. Maybe my heart is haunted. By a girl with red hair I met three months ago in Portland.
The SUV lurches as we hit a pothole, and my head smacks the leather seat. Sam howls with laughter. Chace mutters something about haunted cocks.
“Haunted like a spooky STI,” I sigh.
Sam wheezes. “I’m framing that headline when it hits TMZ.”
I sprawl across the backseat, arms stretched wide, grinning like an idiot because the city outside is a smear of neon and wet pavement. Vancouver never sleeps—it just glitters and hums, electric veins buzzing like I’ve got a nightclub trapped under my skin.
The two security guys up front are stone-still—black suits, earpieces, built like quarterback’s. They’re definitely regretting their career choices.
“You boys are too quiet,” I say, leaning between the seats, whiskey on my breath. “Tell me you believe me. Tell me you believe in my haunted cock.”
The driver’s mouth twitches. The other one coughs into his fist, fighting a laugh. Sam loses it. “They don’t want topictureyour cock, man. Leave them out of your delusions.”
“Delusions?” I slap his shoulder hard enough to make him jolt. “You dragged me down into those Shanghai Tunnels, remember? You wanted ghosts. Now Iamhaunted. Ghost didn’t get my soul, didn’t get my brain—so what’s left? My cock. That’s what.”
Chace folds over in half, shoulders shaking so bad the SUV rocks with him. “Stop. Stop. I’m gonna puke.”
Even stone-face up front snorts before clamping his jaw shut. Sam points, triumphant. “Ha! Even he thinks your cursed cock’s hilarious!”
By the time we roll into Chace’s underground garage, I’m still ranting about exorcisms below the belt. Sam and Chace stumble out behind me, bent double with laughter, while the guards follow, babysitting drunk rockstars.
Upstairs, Chace fumbles with his keys until one of the guards gently takes over and opens the door, all professional patience. Warm light spills out—open-plan, high ceilings, the skyline glittering through glass. It smells like coffee, tacos, and antiseptic—a mix of comfort and recovery. Logan’s sprawled on the couch, half under a blanket, breathing steady. Mac is curled in an armchair nearby, blonde hair knotted on top of her head, eyes tired but soft. The second we tumble in, loud and clumsy, her gaze sharpens. I make a beeline for her, drop to a crouch in front of her chair, and grab her hands like I’m about to propose.
“Macadamia Nut,” I say solemnly, slurring but committed. “You gotta help me.” Behind me, Sam and Chace collapse on the couch, wheezing.
Mac blinks. “Help you with what?”
“My cock’s haunted.” Silence. Her mouth opens, then closes.
Logan cracks one eye open, voice low and raspy. “And how’s my girl supposed to help you with that?”
Samloses it. Chace’s laughter is full-body, violent.
I whirl on them. “Don’t laugh! This is your fault! You dragged me into those tunnels, and now there’s a ghost attached to my junk!”
Logan exhales, the sound halfway between a groan and a laugh. Mac’s covering her mouth, shoulders shaking.
“I’m serious,” I say, throwing my arms up. “It’s been three months. Me—Trey Baker—hasn’t touched anyone. That’s not normal. Either I’m haunted or I got blessed too hard, but either way…” I drag my hands down my face. “I’m doomed.”
“Blessed too hard,” Chace wheezes. “That’s going on your tombstone.”
Sam nearly spits his drink. “Your cock’s not haunted, man. It’s broken.”
