Page 2

Chapter two

Levana

My keys hit the dish by the door with a dull clink, and I throw my coat over the back of the armchair.

No bodies in over a week.

Flower prep for two chapel services, restocking cosmetics, chasing down paperwork—that’s all it’s been. Busy enough to stay occupied but not enough to feel like I’ve actually done anything.

I should be thankful, really. It means no one’s dying. But I’m a bit restless.

I wander into the kitchen and just… stand there. I don’t know why I do it, just plant myself there like I’m buffering. Hands on the counter, fingers curling around the edge, eyes drifting over nothing in particular. The empty mug in the sink. The half-dead plant by the window that I can’t seem to keep alive no matter what I do for it. The crack in the tile that’s been there since I moved in—one of those tiny hairline splits that isn’t worth fixing but still catches my eye every time I’m in here.

I should fix it. Or clean the fridge. Or sort through the pile of unopened mail on the table.

But I don’t.

I just stay there, zoned out, until a blinking red light in my peripheral vision breaks my trance.

The landline.

It’s old as hell, the kind with chunky plastic buttons and a thick coiled chord that’s yellowed with age. But Gordon told me I couldn’t get rid of anything that came with the place, told me it was ‘part of the property’, like the faded wallpaper and the ancient gas heater that rattles when it kicks in.

The only people who ever call it on a regular basis are Gordon himself, or my mom.

If Gordon’s calling, it’s because he needs help with a late night arrival. That’s one of the main reasons I live here—tucked away into this tiny house on the same plot of land as the funeral home. I’m the closest set of hands if someone gets dropped off after hours and Gordon needs my help. He lives in a little annex apartment on the other side of the plot. Far enough to ‘detach himself from the dead’s drama,’ but close enough he can hobble there if he’s needed.

Plus, the rent’s cheap as hell, so I’d have been an idiot to turn it down.

But if it’s Mom… well.

Please be a late night body. Please be a late night body.

“Hi, sweetheart! It’s me. Just thought I’d call. Haven’t heard from you in a while. Daddy says hi. He’s not doing too well at the minute,” she adds, her voice dipping like she’s lowering it just for me. “But you know how he is—stubborn old mule. Honestly, I keep telling him he needs to rest, but he won’t listen. I told him you’d call soon. You will, won’t you? Anyway, I’ll let you go. Love you, darling.”

The machine clicks off.

Nope. I’m not dealing with that right now.

My stomach grumbles and I push off the counter to hunt for something to eat.

The inside of the fridge is bleak. A few bruised, soggy vegetables, a carton of milk that’s definitely more solid than liquid by now, and a crumpled takeout container shoved to the back. I slide it out, pry off the lid, and wince at whatever the hell that congealed mess once was.

Fuck it. I’ll just have a glass of wine and call it dinner instead. I mean, it’s made from food, right? A food that’s good for you nonetheless. So it’ll do.

But the cupboard where I keep the bottles is sad and cold. Just empty space where a bottle should be.

“Damn it, Levana.”

Twenty minutes later, I’m pulling into the parking lot of The Hollow. I haven’t been in a while, but not a thing’s changed by the looks of it. The brick’s a little weathered, the paint on the sign has faded, but the lot has enough cars to tell you it’s never empty. Inside, it smells like grease, old wood and beer. Low lights blur the edges of the room and chatter rises and falls like static.

I slide onto a stool. The bartender looks up from where he’s restocking the cooler, and offers a small nod of recognition.

“Hey,” he says. “What can I get you?”

“Coke and a burger,” I reply. “Fries too, if they’re fresh.”

He gives a smile as he grabs a glass. “Got it.”

By the time I’ve drank half my soda, he’s setting the burger and fries down in front of me, and my stomach’s growling just loud enough to make me shift awkwardly on the stool.

“Haven’t seen you in a while,” he says, wiping his hands on a rag.

“Been busy,” I say. “Life stuff, you know.”

By life stuff, I mean Elliot and I put ourselves on a temporary drinking ban after we both cried hysterically in a booth over burgers and onion rings last time we were here. It didn’t last—of course it didn’t—but we agreed not to do it in public again, at least not for a while. For the sake of our dignity.

“Yeah. That’s how it goes.” He agrees, then pushes off the bar with a wink. “Holler if you need anything.”

I’m fully in the throws of shovelling food into my mouth when the stool beside me scrapes against the floor, and someone settles in next to me.

I glance over and do a double take.

For a second, I think I’ve accidentally projected him onto some random strangers face. But nope, it’s him. Same blonde hair, same hazel eyes and wire glasses.

The guy from the memorial garden last week. Patrick, I think?

He notices me looking and shoots me a small smile. “Levana, right?”

I nod. “Yeah. Hi.”

“What’s your poison, buddy?” The bartender asks, appearing in front of us.

“I’ll grab a beer,” Patrick glances at me. “And whatever she’s having.”

I shake my head. “I’m good, thanks.”

“Come on, it’s just a drink.”

“I’m fine.”

“I insist.”

I sigh, half-smiling despite myself. “Just another Coke then.”

Patrick ropes me into conversation. It’d be rude not to talk to him when he’s just bought me a drink, even if it was just a soda.

I learn that his full name is Patrick Dalton. He’s thirty-four, works from home doing something vague involving logistics that he doesn’t seem too interested in explaining. That’s as far as it gets with personal details. We talk about the weather, the cafés in town, the fact the post office still closes on Wednesdays for no reason anyone can explain.

We’re midway through discussing the local library when I go to take another sip of my drink and grimace, realising all that’s left is watered-down syrup and ice.

“You want a real one?” He asks.

“I should get going, really,” I say, catching a glimpse of the late-night sky through the reflection in the mirror behind the bar.

“Come on,” he says.

I laugh softly. “I can’t. I drove here.”

“So? We’ll figure that out later.” He grins, half-tilting his head like he’s daring me to argue. “Humour me.”

I hesitate, fingers curling around my empty glass. I should say no. I should grab my keys, shake his hand, and call it a night. But something about the way he’s watching me makes me pause. And I don’t really want to go home. Not yet. I’d just be going back to silence and a blinking red light reminding me I need to call my mom back.

“One,” I say, holding a finger up. “Just one.”

“Good choice,” he grins and turns to the bartender. “Two whiskeys, neat.”

“Oh god,” I mutter, but I’m smiling.

When the drinks are set down, Patrick slides one toward me, lifting his own in a toast. “To… humouring me.”

I snort but tap my glass against his anyway.

The warmth spreads over the night. Not just from the drink, but from the way the noise in the bar has softened, like everything’s shifted slightly out of focus.

Patrick’s closer than I realise, his arm stretched across the bar, fingers lazily tracing the rim of his third whiskey. A quick flash of gold catches my eye— his wedding ring —and my stomach twists. I try to ignore it, tell myself it’s not a big deal. I’m just having a drink with a guy in a bar, and it doesn’t matter if I embalmed his family or not.

But it’s not logic that stops me spiralling, it’s his damn smile. It keeps pulling me in, blurring everything else and leaving me stuck in some kind of trance.

I should stop. I should slow down, pace myself.

But I don’t.

The buzz of alcohol has left me too content, too relaxed to give a shit. And between sips, my eyes keep drifting to him. Especially to what he’s wearing.

A chunky cream sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, showing off those solid forearms. And those slacks… Good god . The man has unbelievable thighs.

I try to brush off the thought, pretend I’m just noticing things like I would with anyone, but it’s pointless. He’s hot, plain and simple. Maybe it’s the whiskey, or maybe it’s just me, but does it really matter?

I’m getting a few free drinks and I get a good view to go with them.

“You’re easy to talk to,” he says, catching me off guard.

A soft laugh escapes me. “I don’t think anyone’s ever said that to me before.”

Those hazel eyes are burning into me so hard my pulse stumbles. “That’s hard to believe.”

“No, seriously,” I say. “I’m not much of a people person.”

“You seem fine to me.”

“You’re just drunk.”

“Maybe,” he grins. “But I still mean it.”

His hand’s a hair’s width from my forearm, and the heat and scent radiating off him is intoxicating to say the least. He smells warm and sweet, like faded clove and skin. Not sharp or overwhelming like cologne, but softer, like whatever he washed with this morning has clung to him all day.

I catch myself squirming in my seat and quickly clear my throat. “I should head home.”

He tips his head, smile tugging wider. “You’ve been saying that for two hours.”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Yeah, you have.” His voice dips lower and his fingers lift, just slightly. For a second, I think he’s about to touch me, but instead, he taps his knuckles against the bar.

“We can get a taxi,” he says. “I’ll pay. We can drop you off first.”

No expectation. No angle. Just… kind. And I don’t know what to do with that.

“Yeah,” I say. “Okay. That’d be nice.”

He orders the taxi and I slide off the stool. The floor feels like it’s shifting under my feet and my hand grazes the bar when I try to steady myself. But Patrick’s already there, slipping his hand to the small of my back. “Easy there.”

Jesus Christ, Levana.

Once we’re inside the taxi, everything feels sharper—the thick, stale air, the faint plastic-car-seat smell, the way we’re sitting just a little too close.

I stare out the window, trying to focus on the blur of streetlights streaking past instead of the ridiculously handsome, inappropriately sweet man sitting right there

I shouldn’t be thinking like this, I know I shouldn’t, but we’re so close. Every time the car jolts over a pothole, his knee bumps against mine, and I can’t help but wonder what would happen if I just… leaned in.

Stop it, stop it, stop it.

The taxi slows and my stomach dips.

“You live at the funeral home?” Patrick asks, squinting out the window.

Oh, fuck.

In the haze of whiskey and warm conversation, my idiotic ass had completely forgotten that I practically live on his son’s memorial site.

“Yeah,” I say, throat tight. “I—um—I live around the back. I’ve got a little house there.”

He hums softly, like he’s turning it over in his head.

I don’t know what to do. Suddenly, it feels awkward. Like I’ve taken something casual and twisted it into something cold and uncomfortable. I feel awful. I hope he’s not too taken aback. I hope I haven’t ruined his night. I don’t know what I can do to make it any better.

So in some weird attempt to remedy the situation, I blurt out. “Do you want coffee?”

The words hang in the air. I know exactly what that sounds like—everyone on the planet knows what the universal meaning of coffee after drinks is—and judging by the flicker of amusement that passes over Patrick’s face, he knows it too.

“Coffee?” He repeats. “Sure.”

Christ, I should’ve just gone home after my burger.

“I know this is weird,” I say, filling the silence as I fumble with the buttons on the coffee machine. “Inviting you here. I mean… I don’t know.”

“It’s not weird,” he says as he leans against the counter with an easy smile on his face, like nothing about this feels awkward to him. “It’s nice. We’ve had a good night.”

I’m too clumsy, too unsteady, too full of nerves, but I keep moving.

I’m reaching for the jar of sugar when something warm fans across my cheek from just behind me, and hands are on my waist. His fingers catch a loose strand of hair near my shoulder, and he brushes it back, pressing his lips just behind my ear.

A shiver rolls down my spine. I should say something. I should pull away, laugh it off, act like it didn’t just make my stomach flip.

I could stop him if I really wanted to—step back, shake my head, pretend I can’t feel the heat raking its way through my body.

But do I want to stop him? I invited him in. I know what I want. It’s reckless, but I need the release.

I turn in his grip and my chest bumps into his.

I press my lips to his before I can think better of it, fingers curling into the wool of his sweater, dragging him closer.

He groans softly against my mouth, and his hands are everywhere. Gripping my waist, sliding up my back, tangling in my hair as he kisses me harder and deeper.

“Jesus,” I mutter, tilting my head back as his mouth finds that sweet spot just below my jaw, and teeth scrape skin.

He pauses just long enough to rip his glasses off and toss them blindly onto the counter. Then he’s on me again. Clumsy, too much teeth, not enough air. It’s messy, desperate, like neither of us knows how to slow down.

His palm presses firmly against the back of my neck, fingers pressing tight against my skin. The other grips my hip as he backs me across the kitchen until I hit the fridge.

“Is this okay?” He asks, breathless against my skin.

I can’t answer properly, so I just tip my head back, eyes half-lidded as I moan out a yes.

His hand eases beneath my cardigan, then under my shirt, warm fingers trailing higher until they curve over my breast. His thumb traces the thin fabric of my bra before slipping beneath it, and he finds my nipple, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. I swear, I feel it everywhere .

“Bedroom,” I breathe out.

We stumble out of the kitchen, locked in a kiss, and make it as far as the hallway before he slows, glancing around.

“Which…?”

“This way,” I say, grabbing the front of his sweater and pulling him up the stairs.

We’re barely over the threshold of my bedroom when he slides his hands up my cardigan, pushing it off my shoulders, mouth finding mine again. My shirt’s gone next, and he steps back just enough to look at me.

“Fuck,” he mutters, fingers skimming the strap of my bra before slipping it down my arm.

I don’t bother being shy, I just reach for the hem of his sweater and tug it up. He grins and lifts his arms to let me strip it off him.

His skin’s warm, solid, and the muscles in his chest flex under my fingers as I trail them down his stomach. His fingers fumble at the fly of his slacks and I help him, both of us frantic and feverish, too tangled in each other to get it right the first time.

The last bits of clothes come off, discarded across the bedroom floor, and he presses me back toward the bed, bumping my legs against the edge of the mattress before I collapse onto it.

He follows, caging me in with his body, one arm braced by my head, the other hand curling around my hip.

Oh god… how long has it been since I fucked someone? Months? Maybe a year?

Too long. My body’s making that perfectly clear.

I’m already aching, my thighs shifting beneath him, hips rising against his.

I’m wet— so wet— and I need him. Right now.

“I’m on the pill.”

He pauses, breath warm against my neck. “You are?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

His hand slides down my thigh, and his kisses drag lower, down my jaw, my throat, my collarbone, my sternum. I arch into his touch and his hand presses down on my hip to hold me steady.

“Fuck. You’re so beautiful, Levana.”

The way he says my name has heat splintering through my bones.

His mouth keeps moving down, down, down, until he’s hovering between my thighs. I barely have time to register the heat of his breath before he’s kissing my pussy—soft at first, just a teasing little touch, then his tongue slides right between my lips and oh, god.

I gasp, and my hips jerk up against his touch. He groans, pulling me closer as he licks me again, slower this time, dragging his tongue in long, lazy strokes that have me trembling.

He’s good— so good. The kind of good that has my fingers twisting hard in the sheets.

“Holy shit,” I gasp.

He hums against me and his fingers slip lower, two sliding inside me, pressing hard against my g-spot as he carries on working his magic with his tongue.

“Oh god… don’t stop.”

“I can feel you tightening up,” he murmurs against me, fingers driving deeper. “Fuck, yes, come for me.”

That does it. The tension snaps, and I come—hard and fast and messy. Pleasure crashes through me in waves and his mouth stays on me, dragging me through every pulse and shiver until I’m boneless beneath him.

When he finally moves back up my body, his mouth is slick and his smile is lazy, but I don’t give him a chance to breathe before I pull him into another kiss.

The taste of myself on his tongue only makes me hungrier, and I push at his shoulder, rolling him onto his back. Before he can say a word, I’m straddling him, knees braced either side of his hips, chest flush against his as I kiss him deeper.

“Sweet Hell,” he rasps against my mouth. “Look at you.”

I don’t answer, just shift my hips against him, dragging my pussy over his cock in a slow grind that makes him groan.

That sound sparks something inside me, and I chase it, grinding faster, pressing harder, driving against him until he’s practically shaking beneath me.

“You’re killing me. Christ, I want you to fuck me,” he groans.

“I know,” I whisper, biting at his lower lip as I reach between us to guide him inside me.

He swears under his breath the second I sink down, fingers flexing into my thighs, hard enough to bruise.

I don’t take it slow—I can’t. My body’s too wound up, too desperate, too needy. I don’t want to make sweet, passionate love. I want to fuck. I want to fuck, right now.

I move fast, riding him as hard as I can until my skin’s sticky with sweat and my breath’s coming in ragged gasps.

“That’s it,” he grits out. “Just like that… fuck, you feel so fucking good.”

There’s something about this whole thing that’s messing with my head in the best way. He looks so… put together. Clean cut, all quiet smiles and soft words. The kind of guy you’d picture reading a book in some corner café. Polite, mild-mannered, the type who’d apologise if he brushed your arm in passing.

But now?

Now he’s writhing beneath me, breathless and flushed, fingers bruising my hips like he’s holding on for dear life. His head tilts back, neck exposed, and his blonde hair is a complete mess.

Shit… that’s hot.

“Y-you’re gonna make me—” His voice breaks off, his body bucking up beneath me, muscles going tight.

Fuck… am I gonna come again?

I bite my lip, chasing it—chasing him.

Fuck, yes . He’s losing it. So am I.

“Come with me,” I gasp, nails digging into his chest as I slam my hips down again. “Come with me.”

His head tips back, breath breaking into a jagged groan, dragging me down against him. The heat of his come floods through me and I unravel seconds later—my whole body tightening before I fall apart, gasping his name into the sweat-damp skin of his neck.