A Guy Like You: Rosedale Mansion Series, #2

By Lane Zabel

Some things should stay buried,

like old flames,

and dead bodies.

Former golden boy Andrew eases his anxiety by working at the museum, preserving the past while trying to forget his own.

But when the town's favorite celebrity comes home Andrew's hard-won peace could be shattered along with his heart.

Josh brings life to other people's fears and buries his own.

But when he returns home he resurrects his own worst nightmare.

Reunited, these old friends have a chance to finally become lovers, but regrets older than their own may tear them apart.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gilpol
• Release date: Oct 17, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201200275

Lane Zabel

Lane Zabel is a restless writer of swoony and fantastical romances. She has ridden a camel in Mongolia, explored castles in Germany, and wandered the Outback. She is currently hiding from her problems in a book.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

ANDREW LEGRANDE GLARED at the box.

It was still right where he had dropped it the week before. He had been stepping around it, not getting close enough to touch it, not letting himself be tempted. That could have gone on indefinitely, but Monica had left a message on the answering machine asking if he had gotten it yet, even though she knew very well that he had.

He resented having his campaign of avoidance interrupted. Avoidance was a sacred ritual to Andrew, and he was a devout practitioner. But if he ignored Monica, she would jump on her private jet just to make sure he was fine.

Monica needed that reassurance. Ever since that dreadful night at the mansion nearly a decade prior, she had babied Andrew and Josh. And how did they cope? Andrew checked for cold spots in the mansion. Josh wrote horror novels and never visited. But none of that was Monica’s fault. That was what made it all worse. Josh and Andrew had, in typical teenage style, opened Pandora’s box and then went running for help when things got out of control.

But now there was a different box that was just as likely to fuck with Andrew’s mental state and he was being forced to open it.

He went to the kitchen. The scissors were in the knife block next to the cleaver. He paused, he did not often dwell on that moment when all the ghosts had burst through the veil like candy out of a pinata, but with the box squatting in his living room Andrew’s mind started throwing up images of that night. The cleaver that liked to wander around the mansion had been one of his favorite anecdotes for the visitor tours, until he had seen the vision of the cook chopping. Chop. Chop. Chopping away at a man’s body.

The cleaver and its owner were long gone, but that did not stop Andrew’s hand from shaking as he grabbed the scissors, and his fingers grazed the handle of the knife.

He puffed out his cheeks.

Come on, Andy, get it together.

He went to the living room and knelt in front of the box. It looked innocent enough. Monica had drawn cute smiley faces around the address label. He frowned at them and ran the scissors down the triple layers of tape.

The box popped open with a sigh.

He pushed back the flaps and the first thing to catch his eye was a list of contents—Monica loved lists—and he glanced over it.

A novelty pen.

A T-shirt.

The book.

A scribbled note off to the side insisted Andrew must read the book.

He echoed the boxes sigh. He felt like the last person on the entire planet that had not read the fucking book.

It was a graphic novel, the first in a popular series about a ghost hunter named Logan Ragg. From what Andrew had gathered, in the first book Logan encounters a troupe of clowns killed in a tragic accident while performing at a children’s hospital.

Victorian ghost clowns in a children’s hospital. Andrew shuddered just thinking about it.

He scanned the rest of the very special limited-edition merchandise, most of which was the same as what had been delivered to the gift shop. But there was something unexpected at the bottom of the list, something labeled required viewing, those two words were underlined three times in pale blue glitter-pen. Andrew looked in the box. The T-shirt was tightly folded, but he had already seen the design; it was the same as on the mug and the socks. The thin paperback was under the shirt, and he did not move to touch it. The required viewing was obviously the VHS tape with a smooshed metallic Christmas bow stuck on top.

According to the label, it was an interview from a comic convention in San Diego—an interview with Joshua Plumtree.

From the fans that came in, Andrew knew that Josh went to that convention every year.

Andrew might have enjoyed things like comic conventions if he were a completely different person. A person that liked the crush of crowds and the layers and layers of noise, rather than it all being like a cheese grater on his soul.

Andrew had not gotten out after high school. He had gone to night school at the annex for his degree and gotten a job at the same mansion turned museum he had volunteered at in high school. He wrapped himself up in his work and his small circle of friends, and he tried to forget. Forget all that he was supposed to have achieved. Forget all the ways he had disappointed everyone. And he might have been successful at it, if not for what Josh had gone off and done.

Josh had left suddenly, without saying goodbye, the summer before his senior year. After graduation he had gone to art school and immediately launched a successful writing career. And that would have been fine. Of course, it would have. Josh moved away and made his dreams come true; that was good, and Andrew would have even found it in himself to be happy for his old friend. And he would have had the space to move on from that blinding, perfect feeling of first love. But over the years, Rosedale Mansion had become a Joshua Plumtree pilgrimage site.

Josh had become something Andrew could not lock away in a box along with his spelling bee trophies and awkward school photos. Or his actual Josh Box where he kept the few mementos he had of their short friendship, embarrassing tokens that he could neither display nor throw in the trash.

Joshua Plumtree was the pride and joy of Wishbone. But Andrew had become aware of his former friend’s fame the year after the first graphic novel came out when a group of kids in full cosplay invaded the quiet museum gift shop.

They had come in, all smiles and hearts in their eyes, and Andrew had been taken off guard and stripped bare as the kids artlessly told him that a super-hot and talented guy named Joshua Plumtree had once worked there.

It had been awkward. And Andrew had felt a weird possessiveness over Josh. But then it was over. They had left, and Andrew had thought that would be that. But word spread through message boards and at conventions that the abandoned children’s hospital in the story, the one with the wide marble staircase and red tile roof, was based on a real place with its own twisted history, and suddenly Andrew’s little sanctuary was famous.

They came all year long, but in August, right around the anniversary of the real-life murder at the mansion, the place was swarming with horror fans. With Joshua Plumtree fans.

They came into the gift shop wearing homemade costumes and carrying the graphic novels like religious pamphlets. And talking about the enigmatic writer that was somehow even more sexy than the leather clad hero in his books. And Andrew had to stop himself from interrogating the kids. He would not ask what Josh was like now. He would not beg for scraps of information. He would protect his fragile heart.

From the start, Monica had wanted to carry Josh’s book in the gift shop. Andrew had said no. Helen Wright, the museum’s director, had suggested changing one of the mansion’s bedrooms into a fake medical suite, but that was too far for even Monica.

In the end there was a compromise. They would carry the first book in the series and a few exclusive T-shirts and mugs. And they would be hosting an official convention, not like the one in San Diego that attracted Josh every year, just a silly little thing with prizes and special tours that Andrew would have to lead. So, yeah, Andrew really won that battle.

Andrew glanced back at the list and the glittery lines of emphasis. For the sake of not getting a lecture, and because Monica was technically his boss’s boss, he put the tape in his old VCR. But first, he grabbed a wine cooler from the fridge—he did not want to take a trip down memory-lane sober.

He changed the channel over on his television and the video blipped and then focused. Joshua Plumtree, famous writer and illustrator and internet heartthrob, was lounging in a red leather chair.

He was wearing all black. His dark hair was falling in soft waves around his face.

Brushing his hair aside, he looked into the camera. The lighting made his eyes look dark, but Andrew knew they were more like a sable tabby, striped and flecked with amber.

Andrew hit the pause button.

He had been half hoping that boredom and hormones had conjured a person that did not exist, but there he was, not in the flesh, but close.

It had been a decade since Andrew had seen Josh in more than photos. And apparently every moment of it had been kind.

Josh’s jaw was broader, balancing his wide down-turned mouth, and his nose and ears that had sometimes seemed almost elfin.

He looked just like that fallen angel statue by Guillaume Geefs. And he was looking at Andrew through the screen with an expression that was sleepy and devilishly intimate.

Andrew felt like an awkward teenager again.

Josh had only been a year older, but it had seemed like a huge difference at the time. He had been too cool for the town of Wishbone with his long hair, garage band T-shirts, and torn jeans. He had been dangerous—a convict. Okay, it had been a misdemeanor for vandalism, but it had seemed like something pretty big to Andrew.

And what had Josh thought of Andrew, with his perfect haircut and his perfect grades? And all of those golden-boy expectations. Whatever he thought, Josh had been kind. He had liked making Andrew smile and seemed to know how to break through the razor wire set out by Andrew’s anxiety.

Andrew flopped back on the couch and hit something hard with pointy edges. He reached back and pulled out the book of wallpaper samples he had brought home from work.

He needed to pick something for the Lodge House’s kitchen, the contractor had been pestering him for weeks, but he could put it off a bit longer. He needed to focus on getting through the convention that weekend, then he could get back to all of his other problems.

He grunted and plopped the wallpaper samples onto the coffee table next to his well-loved copy of Graham Rosedale’s collection of stories from the AIDS crises. Graham and Monica’s first book together about the real-life murder at Rosedale Mansion was on Andrew’s nightstand.

He glanced down at the box of merchandise. The graphic novel’s cover was not visible, but he had it memorized. A man in tall leather boots and a long coat was shown from the back, looking up at a building with a familiar red roof. The title was written in jagged script that seemed to slice through the sky like lightning.

Andrew reached across the arm of the couch and flicked off the gold brass and green glass lamp. He pulled his knees to his chest.

Sitting curled up in the dark, the image of Josh was the only thing filling the room. Andrew pulled his frayed quilt up around his legs even though the air conditioner was still working on the lingering heat from the day.

He hit play and Josh came back to life.

The tape seemed to have missed the first part of the interview, as Josh was in the middle of describing the process of writing a graphic novel. He gestured with one hand as if holding a pencil.

He had beautiful hands with long tapered fingers and slim wrists. Andrew had forgotten how much he had loved watching Josh do perfectly normal things at the gift shop like fold T-shirts or ring up customers.

Andrew had never watched Josh draw. He had been pretty private about that, but Andrew had imagined what it would have been like to sit close and watch those hands create worlds.

The interviewer said, Most graphic novels are not solo efforts. Was there a reason you took on all of the writing and artwork?

I didn’t know any better. Josh’s voice was different, lower, velvety. I wrote it. And I did the art, but I have a brilliant colorist, Tori Johnson. And we formed a strong bond. She always understands what I want and what the story needs. And I continued to do it that way, because I liked how it came out that first time.

Andrew realized he was gnawing on his bottom lip and his body was warm from more than the blanket. He flicked the light back on.

A lot of other people agree, the interviewer was saying. She giggled. It spent months on the bestseller list. One of the biggest debut graphic novels of all time. Quite an accomplishment for someone so young.

Josh shifted in his chair and let his hair fall forward. I am so grateful to everyone that has read it and everyone that has come today to see me.

Yes, the line today was long, I heard some people waited five hours for an autograph. How is your hand? She reached as if to touch him, and Andrew curled his hands into his blanket.

Josh made a close proximity to a laugh and pretended to cradle his hand. I’ll ice it in my hotel tonight, I think. But it was worth it to see all of the creative costumes and to get to spend time with the friends I’ve made here over the years. I really look forward to this con all year.

Your fans have come out here in force, but this is not the only place they turn up. We visited Goring Hospital earlier this year.

The Rosedale Mansion, Josh corrected.

Andrew remembered the camera crew that had come through, taping long shots of narrow doorways and perfectly innocent shadows, the interviewer had not been with them and the whole thing had been over in a few hours.

The woman was not letting Josh off the hook. It was the inspiration for your novel though—the real place? It exists.

Well, if you are asking if Rosedale is haunted by Victorian clowns, it is not. Josh leaned against the arm of the chair and rested his chin in his hand. He still wore a simple braided bracelet like he had in high school. But I did base Goring Hospital, the building in my first novel, on it.

But Rosedale is notoriously haunted. The interviewer said it in that joking way people talked about ghosts. She was staying on the topic, but she did not really believe—or she was just trying to tease a scary story from a famous horror writer.

Josh just gave her a small nod and said, That is what people say.

You spent time there as a kid, did you ever have an encounter with a ghost?

Josh gave the camera a cheeky smile and said, That is between me and the ghost.

Andrew paused the video again.

His heart was doing a breakdancing routine in his chest. He reached down into the box and grabbed the book, but it slipped from his hands and fell to the floor. He threw aside his blanket, as he leaned forward.

The book had landed open, face up, and boxes of tiny masterpieces stared up at him.

Washed out blues