Page 1 of Ghost of a Chance

T he Dead Boys were Kirsty’s favorite band. They’d gotten her through every tough time in her life—breakups, book rejections, moving into her own place…even if it was approximately five minutes from her mom.

Yeah, sure, she was thirty and still talked to her mom every day. But she liked her mom.

The Zombies Music Hall hosting the event reminded her of House of Blues but slightly seedier, which was totally her jam.

Hardwood floors were peppered with dark patches from too many feet trotting over them.

Thick velvet curtains blocked the stage from view with the Zombies logo burned into it.

A sea of bodies covered in black, ripped jeans and Dead Boys tees filled the standing room area.

Looking around the room, the last of Kirsty’s tension melted away. These were her people.

She’d downed two local IPAs and had a nice buzz going.

It was her last night to get wild. Indulge herself and be this Kirsty before she headed back to her real life.

The way things were going, she was totally hoping to hook up tonight.

It had become sort of a habit to have a one-night stand when she was on tour for a new book.

The bar was packed. The Dead Boys had been popular when she was in college.

Though not as popular now, they still did gigs like this one in smaller venues and stages across the country.

The Dead Boys were made up of three women who dressed all in black.

They had a dark academia vibe that was right up her alley.

The lead singer, who was also the guitar player, wore a long Victorian-style skirt with a slit up one leg.

Her hair was always up and she wore dark round glasses with black lenses.

Totally giving Mina Harker vibes. The bass player was a goth Britney from her “Baby One More Time” era but with Doc Martens instead of sneakers.

The drummer gave Velma from Scooby-Doo if Velma was a salacious, all-black-wearing badass.

Their songs had been the soundtrack to her latest book and the chance to see them live on her book tour was too good to pass up.

Even if it was way too people-y here.

Instead of her normal author garb—which was a basic black with subtle goth makeup framed by her thick fall of black bangs—she was wearing blue jeans and a band tee she’d ordered off the internet.

She’d been traveling all day so hadn’t had time to straighten her hair.

Instead it was up in a messy bun. And her contacts had made her eyes itchy and red, so she wore her backup glasses.

The big, red-framed pair that she liked to use when she was writing.

They made it easier to see the monitors on her desk.

Some guy bumped her, spilling some of his beer on her arm. Because of course he would. But this was a concert, and she expected to leave smelling of stale beer and weed. Just not so soon.

“Sorry. God, it’s packed tonight.”

“Yeah,” she said. Trying to make it clear that she wasn’t here to chat.

But then she took in his shaggy black hair with long bangs that fell over his forehead.

High cheekbones and a mouth that was wide and lush.

He even had on the same Dead Boys tee she did.

The band’s name and two skeletons with large fluorescent sunglasses wearing sombreros.

This man was sexy and a fan, just like her. So she changed her mind. “Good for the band that more people are into their music again, but sucks for fans like us.”

“Indeed.”

There was a sparkle in his eyes as he clocked her tee. A slow smile lit his face.

“Can I get you a drink instead of just spilling one on you?” he asked.

“I’m not sure we should leave this spot,” she said, glancing around the crowded floor in front of the stage.

“I’ve got a table in the VIP section near the stage,” he said.

VIP seats . There was more to hot T-shirt than met the eyes. She was a fan but hadn’t thought to get the VIP package.

“Nice for you.”

“You too. Want to join?”

“Duh.”

He nodded and turned toward the bar. The rear view was just as nice as the front, she thought. His black jeans were skintight, hugging a cute firm ass. His shoulders were broad and his arms were muscly. Not that she normally went for the jock type.

Not that he was a jock. With the dark hair, eyeliner and black clothing he was dressed like the goth guy type that she was usually attracted to. He had to be broken in some way—we all are.

Did he grow up with too little money? Or too much? He had VIP tickets and that look of ease that said he’d been comfortable growing up. Surely there was more than a bit of envy as she observed him. Stop analyzing it.

Her problem was that after spending so much time at her keyboard writing, she tended to break every person she interacted with down like they were a character in her book, or worse, a puzzle she had to solve.

He stopped at the bar. “What do you want?”

She ordered the same craft beer he was drinking and then followed him to the table. The VIP section was literally two tables with four chairs each jammed around them. They were separated from the general admission section with a very tatty-looking velvet rope.

He gestured for her to sit at the lone table with a reserved sign. She sat down just as the house lights dimmed, the velvet curtains opened and the band started playing. The lonely sound of the acoustic guitar of her favorite of their songs… “Death is Just a Pit Stop.”

She sang along with the opening, realizing the guy next to her was singing too. Their eyes met in that way that only happens at concerts where time almost stops as you enter the band’s world. They both nodded and stood up to sing and dance. Getting lost in the music.

They had an intermission after “Hunting in a Killer Moon,” so they sat down and ordered shots. “What’s your name?”

His voice was low and raspy like hers from singing along with the band.

“Kirsty. You?”

“Jasper.”

“Nice. I bet you were the only kid with that name in school,” she said.

He flushed. “It was my dad’s name.”

“Everyone always calls me Kristy even though it’s Kirsty.”

“Annoying,” he said.

“Yeah,” she said. Growing up it had hurt.

Why couldn’t teachers and other kids remember her name.

As if she were invisible. Which had led to the one lie she couldn’t shake.

In those moments, it made her feel better to pretend a voice from the other side was calling to her and create an excuse to leave.

No one forgot her name after that, even if it did make her weird in a different way.

Tonight though, she enjoyed just being a girl who liked the Dead Boys.

Six shots of tequila were delivered to their table and after the waitress left, Jasper leaned back in his chair crossing his big arms over his chest. “Favorite song from the Dead Boys.”

“‘Death.’ I mean, that one got me through my first breakup,” she said.

True, though that the breakup was with her first literary agent—one that totally didn’t get her voice.

It made her so angry that she started writing her odd little cozy mystery series about a woman who could talk to the dead and used their help to solve crimes.

Funny that as soon as she stopped trying to write to please her big agent, she found her voice and a story that publishers actually wanted to buy.

“Nice. I found them after a breakup too. Same song. I blasted it in my room every day for two weeks. My roommate hated it and would pound on my door telling me to use headphones.”

“You can’t listen to ‘Death’ with headphones,” she said as she licked salt from her hand, glancing up to see him watching her. She dropped some salt onto his hand and arched her eyebrow at him. His pupils dilated.

He licked his hand slowly…sensually. It took all her willpower not to imagine his tongue on her hand. Then they raised their shot glasses, downing their shots and then biting into their slices of lime.

“What was your major in college?” she asked. It was hard to guess. At school she’d been able to peg everyone’s archetypes at a glance, but out in the real world it was harder.

She suspected most people struggled to know who they were. How to define themselves away from the roles they’d fallen into in school. Popular, jock, geek, misfit. The adult world blurred those lines.

Personally she was still struggling to become who she wanted to be. She had her author persona, a serious woman with a gothic edge who theoretically spoke to ghosts. And then she had regular Kirsty who still wore anime T-shirts and jeans and wanted to live close to her mom.

“Film and Television production. I’m a broadcast journalist. You?”

“Wait what?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Not as glam as you might be thinking. I’m a segment producer on a morning chat show. Basically I make sure things run smoothly.”

“That sounds cool,” she said.

“Yeah?” A surprised smile lit up his face. “What about you?”

“Medieval French literature and philosophy.”

He started laughing. “Something practical.”

“Don’t start. That’s what everyone says.

” His hand was lying on the table between them.

She wanted to thread her fingers through his—anything to touch him and make sure this guy she was vibing with was real.

Time to act first and think later. She lifted his hand, gently licking the back of it, and shook some salt on it.

He took her hand and did the same. A shiver of awareness spread up her arm at the touch of his tongue against her bare skin, tightening her nipples in a way that had her squirming in her seat.

They did another shot. As the tart lime wedge drowned the aftertaste of cheap tequila, she realized that she actually liked this guy. He was fun. Just what she needed more of in her life.