Love Me Dead

Love Me Dead

AM Riley Lex Valentine William Maltese

Price: $6.99


Can ghosts influence the living? Can they make a man fall in love? Help him see things in different lights? William Maltese, AM Riley and Lex Valentine weave four tales that pose these questions and answer the question, LOVE ME DEAD?

PUBLISHED BY: ManLove Romance Press
CATEGORIES: Romantic Fiction, Anthology, ManLove, Paranormal

EBOOKS BY ManLove Romance Press

EBOOKS BY William Maltese

COPYRIGHT William Maltese/

Long Beach


“Ri-i-i-i-i-ta!  Ri-i-i-i-i-ta!”
The voice echoed, disembodied, in the dark room. My hand tightened on the theater armrest, and something icy cold and damp touched me.
“You want another beer?” whispered Rick, leaning toward me and touching the back of my hand again with the bottle.
“Sure.” My palm closed around a chilled beer bottle, still damp from the ice chest. Millers with the twist-off caps were a staple of our ghost hunting evenings. Rick carried them in a portable chest fitted with a shoulder harness. Currently the ice chest rested at his feet, and I heard the crunch of ice as Rick leaned over and got himself another bottle as well.
We were seated in the theater of the Queen Mary Hotel. It was after 11:00 p.m., the theater was closed, and the lights were shut off. The only illumination came through a ventilation grate in the far left wall. A shaft of light angling down to the dusty parquet floor, particles of who-knew-what twisting in its glow.
“Ri-i-i-i-ta.” I could see the source of the voice, Beth Ann Tomlinson, seated several rows below me, her hair a fuzzy mass in the dim light.  Her husband Daniel sat beside her. I knew him by the outline of the knit cap he always wore.
Two rows down and over to the left I could discern the hunching shapes of the three Musketeers, George, Bob, and Ginger. Bob had some kind of recording device running that needed technical maintenance; I could hear it squeaking from several seats away. Ginger’s small digital camera made a sound every few minutes. She’d look through the pictures later for the translucent spherical dots that ghost hunters call ‘orbs’. A few seats beyond them were Amy and Dick, whose heads had been pressed together since the lights had gone out. Dick was known amongst we ‘die-hards’ as ‘Screaming Dick’, because of that one unfortunate night in the main engine room when a box had tumbled onto the floor behind him. He’d shrieked and run, banging his head on the portal door and, still running and screaming with the blood running down his face, had shattered the nerves of a group of people on a ghost tour of the HMS Queen Mary.
Ghost hunters don’t scream or run. REAL ghost hunters. Die-hards like us.
I let my gaze rest on the two-headed monster of Amy and Dick for just a little longer; thinking that though Dick was branded a coward, he had more courage than I did. He’d had the courage to reach across the dark abyss and take the hand of the one he wanted.
Something I hadn’t yet had the balls to do.
Rick’s elbow shoved into mine, and he leaned over so he could whisper against my ear, “It’s almost midnight. Let’s go.”


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