11. For Whom the Bell Tolls?

Ican"t be the only woman who orgasmed while her hot doctor was examining her. However, I have to be the first patient to ever walk in on her doctor jerking himself off afterward. The taste of his cum lingers on my lips no matter how often I rub them with my sleeve. I don"t know if I should be furious at myself or him for this confusing rush of emotions.

Like, what the fuck? I can"t believe the nerve of that doctor. Societal norms dictate I should be scared of what happened today, but I"m more turned on than scared. Obviously, the doctor is okay with assaulting and threatening his patients and then masturbating in front of them. I guess my secret's safe with him because there"s no way he would report me or turn me into the authorities.

Stomping to the funeral home entrance, I swing open the heavy double doors, expecting the chimes to ring, but they don't make a sound. Damn bell! This place is falling apart. Just add it to the list of things I need to fix.

"Hey, Brandon. It"s just me," I announce, letting him know it"s not a customer wanting to see the caskets or the parlor.

He steps out of one of the customer-designated bathrooms, looking like he"s been deep cleaning. His pale blue button-up shirt sleeves are rolled up, and his usually meticulously maintained blonde hair hangs in his eyes.

"You"ve been busy," I state, striding past him in the direction of my apartment.

"Yeah, just cleaning before the next showing." He gazes down at his feet sheepishly. "How are you feeling? I"ve been worried."

I"m not sure why he acts so shy around me. Maybe it"s because of the rumors his dad and his cop buddies help spread. Charles is never one to hold his tongue. I"m amazed he lets Brandon work here. It could be an easy way to build his resume, I guess.

Or maybe he's reserved because of the older woman, boss/superior thing. I"m only five years older than Brandon, but sometimes that dynamic bugs guys. Not that I"ve had experience with that issue. It"s only something I"ve read in books or seen in movies.

"I"m well enough to work. I"m going to get something to eat and take a quick nap. Then I"ll come back and take over," I call over my shoulder, continuing toward my portion of the building. My mind is on the strawberries in my fridge that I hope haven"t expired, not on pleasantries with my employee.

When I open the door to my home, Egor"s expecting me. He"s sitting on his haunches, puffy white tail sweeping the hardwood floor, his tongue lolling to the side. When the door clicks shut behind me, he takes that as his cue to jump all over me.

"Okay, down, boy." His claws dig into my stomach and tug on my shirt. "I"ll let you out."

It"s past lunchtime, and I"m on a mission for the fridge, but first, I"ll deal with my dog. The late afternoon sunlight brightens the kitchen as orange and magenta sneak between the blinds, streaking the walls and white tiles. Egor whines for me at the back door, and I let him out. When the fresh air hits him, he begins bouncing around, exerting his momentary burst of energy. I shake my head, my chest warming with love and happiness from watching him. The absurdity of someone giving him up is mind-blowing.

Once I"ve had my fill of admiring my fur baby, I concentrate on filling my empty belly. When I open the fridge, I"m met with instant disappointment. The fruit I was mentally crossing my fingers for is inedible. Throwing away the plastic container of rotten strawberries, I grab a few crackers and a glass of water. It"s just enough to curb that hunger that"s close to gnawing through my insides. I had been so uncomfortable from my… lady parts issue… plus adding the stress of my doctor's appointment, I forgot to eat all day. That little carb snack subsides the agony in my stomach and has my eyes growing heavy with exhaustion. The people, the appointment, and that awful doctor really took a lot out of me. I should get to that quick power nap so I can take over for Brandon. I don't want him to think I"m taking advantage of his kindness if he does another all-nighter.

After letting Egor inside and setting an alarm, I lie down among my multiple pillows and oversized fluffy comforter. As I take a deep breath, my lids slowly close. Relaxation, finally. The tension in my muscles eases, and I"m left with only my thoughts. There"s no way that doctor will turn me in. He"s crooked. I could report him for indecent exposure if he reports me.

Right? Yes, that"s right. My mind calms on that note, and my limbs become jello.

My head tinglesas fingers run through my hair and over my scalp. I scoot back farther into a cool, rigid form.

"That"s it, baby, come to me," says a voice I fantasize is Johnny"s.

A muscled, gray arm wraps around my chest, pulling me closer so I"m flush against his front. Tiny pinpricks stick me, and I wiggle to avoid that slight discomfort. When I can"t find a cozier position, I roll over. I"m met with eyes like lake water with a sheen of gray overcast.

"Is everything okay?" Johnny asks, his chilled body temperature transforms into warmth the longer we nestle together.

I gingerly run fingers over the stitches that were poking me from behind. A frown tugs at my mouth. "I"m sorry, I. I." I"m not sure what I"m apologizing for, but Johnny stops me with a finger on my lips, silencing my words.

"Shhh, it"s okay. Just sleep," Johnny whispers, cradling my head to his chest.

The warm notes of cinnamon, vanilla, and apple from my Autumn"s Eve candle thread the air, weaving around me like a fluffy crocheted blanket on a cold fall afternoon. I slowly awaken right before my alarm goes off. I lift my arms over my head, stretching like a cat, working out the stiffness in my muscles.

"Shit," I grumble. I need to get moving.

I quickly get out of bed and pull my hair into a loose ponytail then throw on one of my favorite Blackcraft Cult hoodies. If I get a call tonight, they will have to get over my appearance. Plus, Johnny won't care, and that"s all that matters.

Egor is beside me the whole way to the door, nudging my legs. "I"ll come back to check on you later, bud." I pat him on the head as his tail wags vigorously. The door to leave my house creaks as it opens, like something from an old-school horror movie. My shoulders sag at the thought of extra work, but I need to oil that hinge. That"s the last thing on my to-do list around here. Honestly, who cares about creaky hinges? No one comes to my house anyway.

As I stroll through the funeral home and into the morgue, I"m hit with the strong aroma of cleaning solution. I wrinkle my nose, preventing the chaos of sneezing. I push open the heavy door and am welcomed by the cool air from the below-freezing room.

"Hey, Brandon, you"re free to go," I say in greeting.

His brows bunch with unwanted concern. "Are you sure you ate enough?" He stands from the small workstation, relinquishing his seat to me.

"Yeah, why do you ask?"

He purses his lips and shakes his head. "You seem more pale than normal."

"I was going to eat the strawberries in my fridge…," I cringe remembering how moldy they were, but trying to make light of the situation, "but they were readying for an audition in Horton Hears a Who as a furry bush. So I settled for crackers." Shaking my head, I admit, "I really need to go grocery shopping." Was that too much? I laugh, trying to ease his worries, but it"s useless. The lines on his forehead deepen with apprehension. I effectively inserted my foot in mouth.

"That"s not enough. Do you want me to go grab you something real quick?" He pulls off his jacket and stores it on the coat rack as he does every day. It"s like his Mr. Rogers sweater, but he"s burning dead bodies instead of reading to children. I appreciate Brandon"s willingness to stay, but is he offering because he sees me doing it, so he thinks he has to also? I spend all my time here because I really love it. It"s not because I feel obligated.

"No, I"ll be fine." I wave my hand, signaling for him to go.

"I don"t mind," he admits, and the softness in his gaze confirms that he really does care. Is it for me or this job? I"m not used to this kind of attention. A lump lodges in my throat at the thought of someone caring for me, but I forcefully swallow it. No. I don"t need to be cared for. I don"t need anyone. Because, ew…the living.

"Nope, I"m good," I confirm to push him away further.

Seeing the book I"ve been reading on the desk, I snatch it up, wanting to avoid seeing the disappointment of my rejection on his face. I hold the book to my nose as if it"s the most interesting thing I"ve ever read. As I turn the page, the door to the morgue clicks closed at Brandon"s departure.

A few chapters later into the horror novel, my mind drifts to Johnny. Why? Why does my brain always steer me in directions I shouldn"t go? No matter how often I"m caught in this predicament, I"m drawn to him. I mean, not even a book about some old lady who retells her life of cheating, murdering, and serving her husband to her cats can hold my attention.

That dream of him holding me warms my chest and flushes my cheeks. If there was any truth in what Dr. King said about abstaining from sex with the dead, I should heed his warning and listen to his instructions. Hopefully, he gave me sound advice, and it wasn"t a completely wasted trip. Regardless it's going to be hard following directions. The more I think about how the doctor touched me or how he fisted his cock, the hotter I get. I silently curse that man and how the mere thought of him heats my flesh. The only other time I've ever had that response is with Johnny.

My hormones must be ragging because reliving that moment in my mind has my pussy throbbing, but sleep also pulls at the edges of my mind. My body is heavy, as if it"s weighed down by a thick comforter. Maybe that little power nap wasn"t enough for me. I purse my lips in contemplation. Keep reading or take a little nap with my dead lover? The doctor said I couldn"t have sex with the dead. He didn"t say anything about snuggling with them.

With a new burst of energy, I slam my book closed and slide it to the edge of the desk, then spring to my feet. A soft tinkering of metal hitting the floor has me looking down. I glance at the porcelain tile to find a brass key attached to a keychain with a black and gray American flag with a blue line crossing through. Brandon"s key. Dang it! I"ll have to unlock the door for him in the morning. I"ll deal with that later.

Setting the key on the table, I speed walk through the parlor of the funeral home and back to my connected house. I"ll be quick. I"ll grab my blanket, return to the morgue, and curl up beside my man, almost like an actual couple.

When I open the door to my house, a strange sense of something being off stops me in my tracks. I pause my finger over the light switch, debating if I should flick it on. I hold my breath and listen to the darkness as if that"s possible. It"s quiet. Too quiet. My home is missing the noise of a fluffy tail swishing on the ground.

"Egor?" I call out, and immediately, there"s an answer. Little clicks of nails pitter-pattering along the wood floors has relief crashing over me.

My white cotton ball of a baby hurries to my side, and I give him a reassuring pat on the head. It"s more for my comfort than his. I kneel and make him look me in the eyes. "You had me worried for a second, but you"re okay. I don"t know what I"d do without you by my side." Obviously understanding my sentiment, he licks my cheek, promising never to leave me.

Smiling at the made-up conversation I just created, I straighten. I"m more settled once I turn the light on, and that ominous sensation dwindles. After shaking off the odd feeling, I go directly for my stack of blankets, searching for the chunky crocheted orange one. This will work perfectly.

Throwing it over my shoulder, I turn to my dog. "All right, Egor." I run my hands through his velvet curls. "I gotta go back to work." He whines and nudges my open palm with his snout. "I know. I'm sorry to tease you by coming back," I say with remorse, "but I"ll see you when I get off, okay?" He follows me to the door, his big brown eyes filled with the sorrow only animals of the canine variety can display.

Without waiting for another heart-wrenching look from my pup, I head back to the ice box that contains the only man I"ve ever let get close to me. Granted, he didn"t have much choice, but it"s better this way for me, at least. When I step into the large open reception area, the orange-scented wood polish almost knocks me out with its noxious fumes.

Using the sleeve of my hoodie, I cover my mouth and nose. "He must have used a whole bottle of cleaner in here. It"s almost hard to breathe," I complain to no one but the ghosts.

My chucks that are worn and formed to my feet scrap along the old threadbare green carpeting. It was all the fashion in the seventies but isn"t much sought after nowadays. I"d rip out the old flooring and lay some neutral carpeting, but the business doesn"t generate enough money for such frivolities. Apparently, there"s a touch of psychology for the reasoning behind the color my parents used. Emerald green is supposed to signify wealth or happiness without being overly cheery to make it less depressing. I guess any little way to help the mourning patrons is a good thing.

All this nonsense courses in my mind while walking through the chapel"s visitation room. I"m almost to the morgue when a loud banging from the front door causes my whole body to jerk as if my skin is being yanked from my bones. The abrupt sound stops after a few seconds, but I"m frozen, staring at where the sound originated. My heart beats wildly in my chest, and a sense of impending doom immerses my mind into a hazy fog, distorting my reality. Should I answer it? Who would come to a funeral home this late at night?

My dad kept a bat in the office in case of unruly customers or times like this. Without further thought, I run for it on the tips of my toes so that whoever is outside won"t hear. His office is only a few feet from the front door, but it"s a place I only go when we give our song and dance to potential customers. If we took them to the preparation room to conduct business, they would surely freak out and leave faster than you can say chilled human meat slabs. I turn the knob and dash into another cloud of cleaner fumes. Fuck, Brandon. Couldn"t you have toned it down a bit?

Once again, I have my arm covering my mouth and nose to keep from coughing while I search behind the large antique desk. There"s a bookshelf against the back wall with achievements and certificates my dad achieved hanging on either side. I don"t come in here often, but when I do, I try to focus on my task and not on the memories these placards and pictures hold. In this moment of panic, my gaze gets snagged on them, interrupting my search.

My father"s Golden Rule Award shines in the gloom of the room. The weathered-looking parchment paper with intricate scrollwork is hung next to a picture of me in his arms when it was presented to him by The Funeral Home Society. He"s received numerous honorable mentions from them over the years, each displaying a picture of me and him alongside it. I was his mini protege.

My father told me it was an elite organization and an honor to be a part of it. The letters of condolence came and passed, and then there were fewer and fewer invites to their celebrations. I"m not sure why they started distancing themselves, but part of me thinks it"s too painful for certain members to see me because they were really close to Dad. He may have worked with the dead, but he had a knack for making friends with the living.

Another loud knock startles me. Shaking my head and pushing those sentimental thoughts aside, I continue my current task. The baseball bat, where it has been for years, is tucked between two silver filing cabinets along the wall perpendicular to the desk. My cheek presses against the cool metal of the cabinet as I reach into the small space. Although my arm fits perfectly, it"s too short, and I have to strain to reach the bat. The muscles around my shoulder joint pull taunt as I push through the gap.

This isn"t working!

Huffing, I pull my arm from between the filing cabinets. There"s no way I can attempt to move one of them. They"re way too heavy and would probably make too much noise. If I"m able, I don"t want to alert the creeper who"s knocking in the middle of the night at a funeral home. Is there anything I can use here to give me extra reach? Paper, pens, desk chairs, books… ruler. That could work!

Creeping to the bookshelf, I remove the lone ruler. It"s long enough and not too thick to fit into the space. Cautiously, I return to the filing cabinets and guide it down along the wall until they reach a stopping point. I push it down and put my leg in the space to ensure the bat doesn"t clatter to the floor. The bat lightly scrapes along the side of one of the filing cabinets before falling with a soft thump against my thigh. Perfect.

Once I get back into the foyer, there"s another rasp against the door. My heart thuds loudly between my ears, and my palms sweat against the handle of the bat. I silently tiptoe closer to the heavy wooden double doors. They are more ornamental than utilitarian, so there"s no peephole for me to look out of. There"s only a two-by-five metal slot for mail. What if it"s a masked killer, and I look through the rectangular opening to a knife through my eye socket? My breathing escalates at the thought, but I can"t turn back. If I don"t investigate it now, then all night long, I"ll jump at every little sound, thinking someone is after me. At the speed of a baby sloth, I unlock the door while repeating: You can do this. You can do this. This night is putting me on edge between feeling something was off in my apartment and now having someone at the front door. It has to be a weird coincidence. No one knocks on a funeral home door in the middle of the night unless it"s the Grim Reaper.

Oh, that was a bad thought to have right now.With the knob in one hand and the bat in the other, I squeeze and slowly turn the handle, welcoming in whatever trouble lies in wait. When the night is revealed through the open door, there"s… nothing, not a soul in sight. I peek out and look side to side, viewing more of the dense black night. I hear nothing except the buzzing of nocturnal bugs, filling the air with their chatter. I apply pressure to close the door but then notice a plastic carton of white chocolate-covered strawberries with a black bow on top. Setting the bat down to lean against the wall, I bend to pick up the container and bring it to eye level. It"s fresh. The sugary sweet concoction hasn"t set or hardened like it would have if it had come from a store and been made hours ago. No, it"s dripping from the top. Someone went out of their way to make this at home. The organ in my chest squeezes as if there"s a fist wrapped around it.

Brandon.

Dang it. I forgot he left his key. I was on edge for nothing. Looking at this gift, my mind conjures Brandon's forlorn face from earlier. I can't take these, I tell myself. Brandon is only trying to be nice because I"m his boss. After closing and locking the door, I"m back to my mission of sleeping with my dead man.