His mention of ‘little’ throws me off. “You mean you’re the little brother,” I counter.
“Nope,” he replies, grinning.
“You seem no older than twenty-five,” I huff out.
But then realization dawns on me. He might have passed away in his mid-twenties. That would mean Nash could indeed be his little brother. While Nash ages, he stays young, and the thought is heart-wrenching.
“How old are you?” he asks me, curiosity dancing in his eyes.
“Thirty,” I respond cautiously, my guard still up.
“I’m thirty too. Or I would be now. But you just fucked my baby brother, who is, in fact, twenty-five,” he says, still grinning.
What the fuck?
“Look at you, gotten yourself a boy toy,” he teases. I try to swat him with the spatula, but it passes right through him. He nearly topples over with laughter before adding, “Next time, maybe ask a guy for his name and age, or even better, his ID before hopping into bed with him.”
“I can’t believe this is happening,” I mutter, rubbing my face in disbelief.
“What? Gaining a new best friend or the fact that you fucked a twenty-five-year-old?” Saylor quips, earning a sharp look from me.
“How do you even know that? Ghosts aren’t supposed to have a sense of time,” I retort, my eyebrows knitting together in confusion.
“I can read the time and date on that radio just fine,” he replies nonchalantly, prompting me to glance over my shoulder.
What the hell?
“Okay, how did he get you to go home with him? I love to watch how he picks up girls. It’s hilarious. His pickup lines are terrible, but they seem to work every time. I missed the show yesterday, though.”
I already suspected that Nash was a player. There is no way he wasn’t. He was way too skilled at what he was doing. But hearing it like this hurts my ego. So I clarify, “I picked him up.”
Why am I even explaining myself to a ghost?
“Oh, really? How?” Saylor inquires, resting his chin on his fists. His expression resembles that of a child eager for a bedtime story.
“We’re not friends. I don’t talk to ghosts. Please, just leave. I can’t help you.”
“Boo-hoo, lame. Come on. Life, or better yet, death, gets pretty boring when you’re me. Tell me what you did. I’m the king of pick-up lines and can tell you if you are any better than him,” Saylor teases. Choosing to ignore him, I avert my gaze, hoping he gets the hint and leaves. “All right, I’ll share one of mine. Do you have a map? Because I’m trying to find a route to your heart,” Saylor says with a flirty tone, and I stifle a grin.
That was just terrible.
“Not a fan?” he asks, undeterred. “How about this, ‘Excuse me, are you a beaver? Becausedaaamn,girl!’” I can’t help but laugh at that one, and he grins triumphantly. “See? No one does it better than me. So, how did you pick up my little brother?”
“I told him I wanted a taste of his beer, then kissed him.” I shrug, meeting Saylor’s intense gaze.
“Fuck, that’s hot,” he murmurs, his eyes flicking between mine for a few moments before they wander to my lips.
I stand, frustration growing, and open the van’s side door again. “Could you please leave now?”
“Are you going to tell me your name? Come on. I told you mine,” he points out, making no move to go anywhere.
“I never asked for it,” I respond coldly. He gives me those puppy dog eyes again. I take a deep breath, my patience wearing thin. “If I tell you, will you leave?”
“Sure, I’ll go.” He nods.
“It’s Sloan. Now get out.” I motion at the door again.
“Sloan… that’s cute. Saylor one, Nash zero. See you later, Slo.” He winks, and in a blink, he’s gone, leaving me alone in the van.
