Downtime by Tamara Allen Read Free Book Online

ribbing I’d have taken if anyone had seen me wearing a nightie would have been merciless.
     
    I dropped to the bed and felt as though I’d sunk into the center of the earth. I was going to have the backache from hell in the morning. Rolling onto my side, I looked over at Derry as he shrugged off his coat. “The gift? Of what? Being thoroughly obnoxious?”
     
    A smile twitched his lips and he shook his head solemnly. “He converses with those that have passed.”
     
    “You’re kidding.” In a way, it made sense. I could tell Ezra had something of the scam artist in him. Henry was a little harder to believe. “Not making enough at the museum to pay the rent?”
     
    “I know what you’re thinking, Mr. Nash.” Derry stripped down, draping his suit over a chair. He was as solid as I’d imagined, his meaty arms and thick waist taking away nothing from his smooth musculature. He gathered back his hair with a big fist and tied it, then sheathed himself in a nightshirt. “It isn’t easy to believe, I know. But I’ve seen it with my own eyes and it’s no trick, I promise.” He climbed into bed and sank back on the pile of pillows with a sigh. “A sure blessing it is,” he murmured, closing his eyes.
     
    The last time I’d slept in a bed with a man I hadn’t had sex with, I’d been four years old. As if being hurtled backward through time to the near-Dark Ages wasn’t bad enough. “Henry chat up the ghosts too?”
     
    Derry laughed a tired laugh. “Good night, Mr. Nash.” He leaned over and shut off the lamp.
     
    It took me a while to fall asleep. The house must’ve had paper-thin walls, because I could hear almost everything going on, from footsteps creaking above to unintelligible chatter below. At one point, I heard what sounded like a violin, but I might’ve drifted off and dreamed it. I dreamed of other things too. London and Leonard. New York, a Mets game, and a bottle of beer. That was the good dream. One brief disturbing dream had me waking to feel under my pillow for my gun. It was still there. And I was unfortunately still here, years and years from where I was supposed to be.
     
    In the gray light of dawn through the bedroom curtains, I could see the lump of quilt that was Derry and hear his soft, steady snore. It was weirdly comforting. If I’d been alone, the room would’ve felt even more alien than it did. I looked over the edge of the quilt at the hand-carved mahogany and the flowery upholstery that would be cluttering antique shops in my time and I tried to convince myself this wasn’t really any different than staying at a bed and breakfast. It didn’t help. I might not know how I’d gotten here, but I knew where I was. The age of uncomfortable clothes and stifling manners. Slow travel and provincial entertainment. Infrequent bathing and untreated water. Cholera and tuberculosis.
     
    Bleak enough. But throw in the attitude toward sex—evil, unforgivable, damn-you-to-eternal-Hellfire sex, treated as if it were an invention of man on par with murder—and it was too damned depressing to think about. And that was just sex between men and women. Any other kind and a guy could find himself serving time or worse.
     
    The whole damned planet was Third World, with no safe, clean home to run to. Knowing I wasn’t going to get any more sleep, I eased up out of the big pillow that was Derry’s bed and waited a heartbeat to make sure I hadn’t wakened Derry. He slept on peacefully, and I started to look around for my clothes. The chilly room, the floorboards under my feet, and a dire need to find a bathroom gave me a Boy Scout camp flashback I wasn’t in the mood for. Ezra had all my stuff, including the suit he’d lent me.
     
    Taking my gun, I crept to the door and peeked into the hall. Dark and quiet. With a vague feeling it was inappropriate to be wandering around in only a nightshirt, I headed for the room Ezra had designated the water closet. I tapped lightly at the door, and