Rock N Soul by Lauren Sattersby

him suspiciously. “What’s got you all chipper?”
    “Nothing,” he said. “Well . . . actually, it’s being out in the sun.”
    I stared up at the sky. It was frigid, especially in the wind, but there wasn’t a single cloud anywhere and the sun was pretty nice. He had a point there. “I guess the sun is okay.”
    “It’s weird,” he went on. “I guess you don’t realize how much of a night owl you are until you get up early to go find psychics with a bellboy.”
    “I’m pretty much a night owl too, you know,” I told him. “I have late shifts most of the time and I’m almost never up this early.”
    “Well, I guess this is unusual for both of us, then.” He walked through a cast iron streetlight pole and puffed out his chest, smiling over at me.
    “It’s not really impressive that you can walk through stuff,” I pointed out. “You are a ghost, after all.”
    He gave me the stink eye. “I can’t have sex or play my guitar or eat ice cream ever again. Let me have my small pleasures.”
    “Touché,” I said. “So . . . I think this is it.” I stopped in front of the store, which was almost identical to Madame Destiny’s except more . . . orange.
    “I don’t know about this plan,” he said, raising one eyebrow while lowering the other. “I think these people are probably all con artists.”
    “You’re probably right,” I said, “but I don’t have any better ideas.”
    He looked up and down the street. I shivered and then crossed my arms to conserve body heat. After a second, he nodded toward a coffeehouse nearby. “You’re cold. Let’s run down there and get you some coffee or something to warm you up.”
    I felt a rush of gratitude, but his motives were suspicious. “What’s in it for you?”
    “You just look cold, okay?” He seemed genuinely offended, so I decided to let it go.
    I unfolded my arms and started walking toward the coffeehouse. “Okay. Thanks. I’ll even let you smell my coffee if you want.”
    “Oh my God, that would be wonderful,” he practically moaned. “I’m going to miss coffee. And ice cream. And sushi. And bananas. And—”
    “Jesus, shut up. You’re making me hungry and it’s not time for lunch yet.” I pushed open the door to the coffeehouse and let myself enjoy the warmth and the heavy scent of coffee and pastries.
    Chris walked over to the pastry case, ghosting straight through a hipster couple to survey the selection. “Can you buy one of these blueberry scones?”
    I maneuvered my way around the hipsters so I could be closer to Chris. I looked less crazy when I could speak softly. “Why?”
    “So I can watch you eat it,” he said, his voice weirdly earnest.
    “Because that’s not creepy. Not at all.”
    “Ghostly pleasures, man,” he reminded me.
    “Fine,” I muttered. “I’ll get you a scone and I’ll eat it for you.”
    “Will you . . . Will you tell me how it tastes?” His eyes were big and pleading.
    I swore under my breath. “Oh my God. You’re going to drive me insane.”
    “Probably,” he said, cheerfully. “So . . . scone? Oh, and a caramel macchiato.”
    I glared at Chris, then noticed the barista giving me a funny look. “Caramel macchiato,” I told him. “And a blueberry scone.”
    Chris legitimately cheered, pumping his fist in the air and then doing the devil-horns rock-and-roll hand gesture with both hands.
    “You’re a dork,” I whispered to him. “You think you’re this big sexy rock star, but you’re actually a huge dweeb.”
    He just grinned at me and did the devil-horns thing again, this time sticking his tongue out. I rolled my eyes at him.
    The barista called out my order, and I picked it up and retreated to a tiny table by the window. Chris followed me, making sure to leap straight through the body of every customer he encountered and grinning to himself. I settled down to eat my scone, and he sat on the chair across from me and focused his eyes on the scone with an intensity bordering on