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    Ghost Writer
    Ghost Writer
    Ghost Writer
    Ebook71 pages1 hour

    Ghost Writer

    By Amarinda Jones

    ()

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    About this ebook

    He closed his eyes for a moment when Megan said his name. He cleared his throat. “It’s been in the family for generations. I am the last.” Woodrow’s eyes opened and locked on hers.
    She jumped at the intensity in his gaze. The word ‘yes’ came instantly to mind. Megan had no idea what she would have been saying yes to, knowing only that it was the right thing to say to this man. Megan lifted her hand from his arm. Normally she never had problems dealing with anyone. But this man? Everything about him affected her senses. Touching him made it both better and worse. “I’m sorry.”
    “For what? Death is just a door to another world just as interesting as the one we left.”
    That was true. Megan wasn’t religious in any way but she believed there was more than just the world she knew. “Death interests you?”
    “As I believe it does you,” Woodrow responded. “You’re a Goth. You understand the dark and the needs of one soul to commune with another, be it here or in the afterlife.”
    Megan’s mouth dropped open. Yes, she did believe that but no one had summed it up quite like that. “You’re a very unusual man, Woodrow.” She liked the sound of his name on her lips. And the flash of vulnerability she saw in his eyes when she called him by name? It made her long to hold him close to her and ease whatever pain he was feeling.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherScarlet Harlot Publishing
    Release dateJul 6, 2012
    ISBN9781476166551
    Ghost Writer
    Author

    Amarinda Jones

    Amarinda Jones believes anything is possible and sometimes just asking for the impossible will surprise someone enough that they will give it to you. Writing is like that. Put it out there and wait for a response. There is always the possibility you may fall on your arse, but after all, that's what cellulite is for. Amarinda believes in taking chances, speaking her mind and aging disgracefully. Twenty years from now she plans on being the neighborhood witch that all the kids are scared of. But then, everyone has to have a hobby.

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      Book preview

      Ghost Writer - Amarinda Jones

      Published by Scarlet Harlot Publishing at Smashwords

      www.scarletharlotpublishing.com

      Copyright© 2012 Amarinda Jones

      Cover Artist: Amarinda Jones

      ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

      WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

      This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

      Ghost Writer

      ©Amarinda Jones

      Chapter One

      Prelude

      Megan Warner looked down at the piece of paper in her hands. The words were neat, spidery and looked to be written in genuine ink. Not ball point pen but ink. Who did that anymore? She looked up at the house. Despite being eight o’clock in the evening, there was enough light to see it was old sandstone with deep, leadlight windows and dark woodwork that gave it a somber Gothic feel. That appealed to Megan. She lived Gothic from the dyed blue-black of her hair, to the tips of her midnight fingernails, right down to her Doc Marten grunge Gothic boots. Megan poked her tongue out and toyed with the plain silver steel loop that pierced her bottom lower lip. She enjoyed the odd and the unusual. This could be interesting. She tucked the piece of paper into the top of her black whalebone corset and started up the eight, deep steps that led to the elaborate stained glass door.

      Yep, looks like a Woodrow Hogue would hang out here. There was no other sound but for her voice and her boots as she clumped up the stairs. Woodrow Hogue. To Megan, the name suggested he had to be at least eighty as no one deliberately named kids weird names any more. Though that Gwyneth chick had a kid called Apple, she murmured to herself as she ran her hands down her thick, stiff, black tulle skirt. While Megan made no apologies for her lifestyle or her manner of dress, she knew older people might find it daunting.

      She stopped before knocking on the door. Her friend Beulah at the bookstore had been most adamant that this had been the job for her. But then, since losing her job as a copywriter as the local Cairns radio station, Megan was grateful for any money that came her way. Not many people wanted to hire a full-on Goth. It was confronting and the likes of McDonalds had trouble contemplating how their perky little staff cap would fit over her mass of shiny black hair. And questions like, Is it necessary to wear so much black eyeliner? left the militant Megan only one response.

      Yes it is.

      Woodrow Hogue is like no other man you have ever met, Beulah said when she pressed the paper into Megan’s hand.

      To Megan, that was a good thing. She was a little over men and their arrogance. Yeah, she liked sex—loved it in fact—but she wanted more than being expected to suck dick and lie back and accept a vigorous but less than impressive shagging under some man who didn’t consider a woman to be anything more than a hole to fill. Megan wanted a lover in every sense of the word. She clung to the belief, possibly misguidedly so, that there was a soul mate for every one.

      She blew out a long breath and steadied herself. Being a Goth, who dressed to impress, confront and often frighten, didn’t mean she always had the confidence to match. Since losing her job, her self-assurance had taken a kicking. Megan had gone from steady employment to scrounging for jobs to pay the bills. She had been doing all sorts of things to make ends meet. Finding another job in the current economic climate was hard. Realistically if she changed her look, Megan knew she would fit in better and be more approachable to employers. But I am what I am, she muttered as she peered to the left, the right and then swung around to look behind her. She had the weirdest feeling she was being watched. Great, another weird job. There had been a few of those. The last private home she went to the man came to the door wearing nothing but an apron.

      Beulah, the finder of odd jobs for Megan, had been apologetic.

      I’m sorry I sent you there. He wanted someone to help him clean.

      No, he wanted someone to spank him with the end of the feather duster. If he had offered another two-hundred dollars I would have. Asses were asses. Bills were bills. Both could be dealt with accordingly if it benefitted Megan.

      Despite those who wanted to be spanked, Megan found meeting so many different people from various walks of life had given her greater insight into people. It also took her out of the staid office environment she had been working in.

      Who is this guy, Beulah?

      Woodrow Hogue? He’s a gentleman.

      No apron, no spanking fetish?

      "No. I’ve never met him. He rings his book

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