A Ghost of a Chance
Minnette Meador
Genre
Spooky Romantic Comedy of Disasters
Publication Date
24th October 2022
Series Name
A Ghost Series
Book Number
1
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About the Book
Keenan is just your typical, everyday graphic designer. He eats, he drinks, he loves… and he lives with hundreds of pesky ghosts that only he can see. They make his life interesting in a Chinese curse sort of way. Enter Isabella, a witty, smoking-hot co-worker who turns him into mush every time he gets near her. He’s got it bad. But how can he win her over when he knows his fun-loving “friends” won’t leave it alone?
Introduce a horny succubus who visits him on a nightly basis, an angry entity that’s trying to kill him, and a burly city cop who wants to arrest him, and you have a comedy of disasters that takes this reluctant psychic and turns him into an even more reluctant hero.
Book Excerpt
Chapter Four
The Spirit Is Willing… The Flash Is Weak
After finishing his beer, Keenan left Taps and pulled his collar up around his ears. The heat from earlier had leaked out of his arms and legs. He was freezing. Walking fast seemed the best solution until the wind meandered up his legs and into his balls. But, baby, it’s cold outside…
Eventually, the moving muscles started to warm up and by the time he rounded the pathway to his front door, it was bearable. He took the painted cement steps two at a time and then stopped dead in his tracks.
His keys were in his jean’s pocket, sitting on top of his laundry, inside the locked house.
He tried the door but it was locked tight.
“Son of a bitch,” he said to the tall green door. The sinking feeling mingled with his frozen head and blasted a pang of panic between his ears.
Keenan scurried around the house, rubbing his hands together, trying to figure out what he should do next. The cold was getting worse. He searched the blank wall, forgetting there weren’t any entrances on this side. Running more to get his legs warmed up, he sped around the back of the house and then the other side testing every window. No luck.
When he got to his bedroom, he stopped. From outside, the beached mattress looked like a giant teeter-totter, but it wasn’t obstructing the window. The beer chose that moment to take over Keenan’s reasoning. It apparently figured a little more glass on the floor wasn’t going to hurt anything.
Grabbing his right fist in his left hand, Keenan lifted his elbow and slammed it against the window as hard as he could. As was expected, the glass gave way and shattered into the room. As was unexpected, pain bolted up Keenan’s arm, set bells and whistles off in his eardrums, and burst out of the top of his head.
He jumped up and down holding the injured arm, sending scattered profanities out into the street. When he saw a light go on in his neighbor’s house, he stopped. Steady, boy. The beer decided it had done enough. Keenan was instantly sober.
He flexed his arm carefully several times and knew it was still intact. He couldn’t see any blood (small comfort), but he knew it was going to be black and blue for a while.
It looks so flippin’ easy on TV. Pain radiated in a tidal wave through his arm.
The shards of glass in the window beamed back at him like funhouse teeth. He pushed one back and forth until it loosened and then pulled it out, careful not to cut himself. When he got the second and third out, he was feeling a little better, but it didn’t last long. A blinding white light threw a gigantic Keenan shadow against the outside of the house.
“Freeze. Put your hands out where I can see them.”
“Fuck.” The elongated word floated out of Keenan’s mouth like a boiling teakettle and he carefully put his hands out on the wall next to the window.
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