Page 20

Indy

The next morning started the silent treatment all over again, and I couldn’t fucking stand it.

I barely made it through breakfast before tromping into the kitchen and digging every boxed and packaged snack out of the cabinets and declaring—everything was a declaration since there was no conversation—that I was taking it all to Sully’s.

Loren bounced his brows in a sort of acknowledgment that made me want to wing a Ding Dong at his head.

Then I felt guilty.

I’d spent the whole night wallowing in self-hate.

Eaten up with it. Miserable.

Didn’t even get to enjoy my high or do much of anything besides sprawl on the bed with my arms and legs akimbo and stare at the ceiling.

There was a stained spot I hadn’t noticed before.

It had been painted over, but a hint of gray showed faintly through.

I’d wanted to spin. To dance.

To smile and reminisce.

The present was too…

present. Even more so when Loren was mad at me.

I showered and dressed, then put on eyeliner with glitter shadow and a touch of blush.

For clothes, I donned a shimmery sequined top and leather pants with a pair of boots.

The shirt’s lace-up sides exposed my ribs and the hip bones Loren loved to grab onto.

He may have been determined to ignore me, but I wouldn’t make it easy.

There was no chance of him letting me trek across town alone so, by the time I emerged from the bathroom, he was ready, too.

He also had my keys, which told me that not only was I in time out, but the training wheels were back on, too.

He did this after every relapse.

Locked down my phone, confiscated my keys, damn near documented my every move.

It wasn’t meant to be punishment, but it felt like it.

The drive to Sully’s dragged.

I hugged the bags of snack cakes in my lap and bounced my knee to the Queen song on the radio.

Loren manned the wheel, not talking, not even blinking.

Not once.

When we arrived at the gallery, I waited until Loren was out of the car before opening the glovebox and fishing out the baggie of pills I’d stashed there last night.

I stuffed them in my pocket, then gathered my bags and headed across the lot after him.

I was mad, but I wasn’t sure I had any right to be.

It was an easy thing to feel.

Uncomplicated, and that was how I knew it was wrong.

Nothing about my life was uncomplicated.

Loren could have let us into Sully’s apartment, but he didn’t.

He hung back, several steps away, and stared at his shoes while I knocked.

Despite us arriving during working hours, I expected Sully to answer the door, so it surprised me when the blond-haired Brit opened it instead.

Whitney skimmed over me with an air of scrutiny.

“Didn’t expect you again so soon,” he mused, then glanced past me at Loren to add, “Or you at all.”

I raised my armload of bags and smiled.

“I promised snacks.”

With a sniff, Whitney allowed us entry into the apartment.

Besides the bathroom and Sully’s bedroom, the flat only had one open space.

Kitchen, dining, and living areas melded into a single room that felt immediately crowded with all five of us in it.

Sully was notably absent, but Dottie was posted up under a floor lamp with a book in her hand while Gunnar leaned head and shoulders out the open window so he could scent the city air.

They both stirred to our arrival and, much like last time, their attention went straight to Loren.

I glanced at him, as well, worrying we were in for another bid for canine dominance.

But he didn’t react, just stuck to the wall with his head low and eyes averted.

Submissive. Defeated.

Gunnar maneuvered his bulky torso out of the window frame and wandered over.

His gaze dropped to my grocery bags, and he flashed a grin.

“Swiss Rolls?” he asked.

Dude might as well have wagged his tail, which answered a question I didn’t know I had.

Not all hellhounds were reticent, occasionally crabby bastards.

This one was a damn golden retriever, and I had a treat for him.

I waved him toward the kitchen island where I upended the bags onto the countertop.

Boxes scattered, bringing Gunnar in a rush with Dottie and Whitney tagging tentatively behind.

Gunnar snatched the box of Swiss Rolls and tore into it, shredding the plastic wrapping like his fingers were claws.

He stuffed the first cake into his mouth with barely a pause.

“Has Sully not been feeding you guys?” I laughed.

Gunnar shook his head.

“She’s great. It’s all great. I forgot how fucking good it is to be alive.”

“You’re still dead,” Dottie corrected.

She squinted at the label on the front of the Honeybuns box.

“Just not in Hell.”

“Close enough,” Gunnar muttered and took a monstrous bite of the second cake.

I peeled open the package of Twinkies and pulled one out to offer to Whitney.

“Wanna try? Might be kinda like a syllabub. The inside part, anyway.”

He frowned but accepted while Dottie helped herself to a Honeybun.

With everyone gathered around, I was keenly aware of Loren’s absence.

I found him by the door, simultaneously as close as he could get to the exit and as far as he could get from me.

It sent a clear enough message that I didn’t bother trying to loop him in, even though I had a box of Oatmeal Creme Pies with his name on it.

Gunnar polished off one package of Swiss Rolls and ripped into another while Dottie licked the glaze off her Honeybun.

Her expression shifted from confusion to delight, making it clear this was a novel experience.

I knew Whitney was old—Loren, too—but I wasn’t sure about the other two.

I waited until Gunnar had swallowed his next bite before asking, “How long have you been in Hell? Been dead?”

That opened the door to further inquiry, more questions like the ones I’d asked Whitney on his first day with us.

Surely not all hellhounds were born from tragedy like ambushed soldiers or narcissistic lovers.

Maybe some people just…

died.

“Twenty… thirty years, I think?” Gunnar replied.

“About as long as I was alive.” He laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound.

“What about you, Dot?”

Dottie’s lips twisted in contemplation.

She had a certain vibe about her, tough girl aesthetic but not in the modern sense.

Like she would have been a member of the Pink Ladies in Grease .

Rizzo’s best pal.

“Twice as long, I imagine. Maybe more,” Dottie said.

“Eisenhower was in office. We were at war with Korea?—”

“1953,” Loren’s voice rumbled from the far wall.

I think the interruption surprised even him because when we all glanced over, he shied away from our attention and muttered, “It’s the only year those things coincided.”

The break in his silence came as a relief, even if he wasn’t speaking directly to me.

No one replied, busying themselves sampling the treats I’d brought.

Whitney dabbed his finger into the cream oozing out of the bottom of the Twinkie, then peered at it.

“It’s good,” I encouraged him.

“Sweet.”

He put his frosting-tipped finger to his tongue, then his features twisted.

“Saccharine. What’s it made of?” Despite his apparent distaste for the stuff, he gave the spongey corner of the Twinkie a nibble.

I grinned. “Pretty much just sugar, I think.”

“Little wonder,” he replied.

He smacked at the little bite of food, then mulled it around in his mouth for several seconds while I tried not to giggle.

The combination of the shape of the cake and the idea of him sucking out the cream filling was almost too much to keep to myself, so I spun toward Dottie and Gunnar and changed the subject.

“Since you guys are here for the foreseeable future, we should probably get to know each other,” I said.

“More than what they put in your obituary.”

“Sure,” Gunnar agreed, gleefully riding a sugar rush.

Dottie remained guarded and recoiled slightly as she asked, “What do you have in mind?”

Honestly, I hadn’t thought beyond getting out of the trailer and delivering the food like a Little Debbie dealer, but I could think on the fly.

“Let’s play a game,” I said.

Rounding the island, I went to the fridge and retrieved a chilled bottle of Chardonnay.

Setting it on the counter, I next searched the cabinet above the sink.

It was too much to hope to find ten identical cups, so I collected an assortment.

Coffee mugs, stemware, and water glasses were ferried from the shelves to the island, where I pushed the snacks aside then arranged the cups like pins in a bowling alley.

Ping-pong balls were not likely to be found in Sully’s apartment, but I had a plan for that.

Rummaging into the pantry, I found a roll of aluminum foil, tore off a sheet, and then shaped it into a ball.

When I waggled it in the air, Gunnar’s enthusiasm sparked anew.

“Beer pong?” He pumped his fist. “Hell yeah!”

Uncorking the wine, I poured some in each of the ten cups, then polished off the dribble that remained.

“What is this?” Whitney gestured to the spread.

Gunnar launched into an enthusiastic explanation of the rules of beer pong.

Or wine pong, in this case.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Loren watching the proceedings.

His arms were crossed and his head hung low, curtained with those silky brown-black locks I always wanted to touch.

“You gonna play, Lore?” I called over to him, and I hoped he’d say yes.

I really did.

Rather than answer, he walked to the window Gunnar had left open and stepped through it onto the fire escape outside.

A lump lodged in my throat, making it hard to swallow.

“How will this help us get to know each other?” Dottie asked.

I gave a little cough to free my voice, then replied, “People drink; people talk. It’s the best way to make friends.” Giving the foil ball one last crunch to ensure it was packed tight, I tossed it to Gunnar.

“You wanna get us started, big guy?”

A few rounds in, I’d missed more shots than I’d made and had to sneak down to the gallery and steal a second bottle of wine from Sully’s storage closet to resupply.

One thing I didn’t take into consideration was that hellhounds couldn’t get drunk.

They could down liquor like water and not have a slur to show for it.

Even Whitney, who struggled with eating, managed to power through his share of the wine.

He went so far as to comment on it having a “lovely bouquet” which was, frankly, adorable.

Halfway through the match, I was pleasantly tipsy, and my loose lips led me to learning all I wanted to know about my newfound demonic buddies.

Dottie died in ‘53, as Loren had deduced. Born and raised in Chicago, she fell victim to a nationwide outbreak of polio. My assessment of her as a no-nonsense lady proved to be accurate. She used to ride motorcycles—quite the salacious activity for a woman of her time.

Gunnar’s life story was a little less fantastic.

Florida boy who worked as a personal trainer, angling for a career as a bodybuilder, which explained the muscle tone.

He died the way he lived.

In the gym, lifting the weight that dropped on his chest and crushed his ribs, making for a slow, agonizing death.

The part I didn’t get about their stories was where damnation came into the mix.

Moira, I assumed, made deals with them both, but neither mentioned her.

By the time I thought to question that, we were through the second bottle of wine, and I was too intoxicated to try to navigate three flights of stairs to go after another.

“New game!” I said while Gunnar inhaled the last package of Swiss Rolls and Dottie dunked her Honeybun in a mug of Chardonnay.

Whitney had set his Twinkie aside, but I’d noticed him occasionally poking at it.

Leading them to the living room, I set the empty wine bottle on the floor, then told everyone to sit in a circle around it.

Gunnar chortled a laugh that let me know he got the idea, and Dottie surprised me by chiming in.

“Spin the bottle?”

“What’s this now?” Whitney asked, clearly out of the loop.

Crouching, I gave the bottle a flick that sent it twirling on the hard floor while I provided instructions.

“You spin the bottle, then whoever it points at, you have to kiss. Sometimes it’s seven minutes in Heaven, but that’s hitting a little close to home if you know what I mean.” Even without the knowledge of my run-in with Evander, they all got that joke.

“So, I think a peck on the lips’ll do. But if you guys wanna go harder, by all means.”

I dropped onto my tailbone and scooched into my position in the circle.

Gunnar was really vibing, ready to lock lips with Dottie, I assumed, though I would have emptied my bank account to watch him stick his tongue down Whitney’s throat.

Whitney countered Gunnar’s enthusiasm with concern and a frown while he glanced from me to the other two.

“I see,” he muttered.

A scuffling sound behind me announced Loren climbing back in through the window.

I turned toward him in time to hear Whitney announce, “Ah! Another player joins the game. You should excel at this, Lorenzo. Kissing people you’d rather not was half your job in Hell.”

Loren faltered in his stride, then pinned me with a perplexed look.

Of course, he didn’t say anything, and he didn’t have to because the guilt was already rolling in.

What if the bottle landed on me?

Would I kiss another man or woman in front of him?

Right after I made a whole production about not sharing him with anyone last night?

He was mine, and I was his.

No party pass-arounds, no pecks on the lips.

I tittered an awkward laugh.

“Maybe spin the bottle isn’t the best idea.” I scooped up the wine bottle and clutched it to my chest. “How about a different game? Like truth or dare.”

“Truth.”

Loren’s second interruption of our conversation was no less jarring than the first. He set his stance and locked eyes with me.

Spouting off with Dottie’s death date may have been an accident, but this was intentional.

After a long moment, I managed to sputter, “Huh?”

Loren folded his arms, and his expression took an increasingly serious turn.

“I want you to tell me the truth,” he said.

“That’s not exactly how it works.” I stood, wringing my hands around the neck of the wine bottle.

“But I’m game. What’s your question?”

“No question.” Loren shook his head.

“I just want you to tell me the truth.”

The other hellhounds waited like this conversation was a strip of raw meat being dangled before them.

Juicy. It was the kind of drama you could really sink your teeth into, and I had a feeling I would come out looking like the villain.

I took a step toward Loren, feeling the distance between us more keenly than ever.

“The truth about what, baby?” I asked.

The front door swung inward, and Sully strode in.

She surveyed the apartment and found the five of us clustered in painful quiet.

“Lore? Indy?” She glanced at us in turn.

“When did you two get here? Why didn’t you come down and say hi?”

The wine bottle in my arms was damning enough.

The cups and mugs littering her countertops more so, and goddamn that guilt was coming at me from all sides.

When no one replied, she indicated the snack cake boxes and wine pong remnants.

“There’s a party at my place, and I wasn’t even invited?”

It wasn’t a joke, and nobody laughed.

Loren was the first to move.

He made for the exit too quickly for me to call after him, so fast Sully’s skirt fluttered as he passed by.

He left, and he took my keys with him.

“Fuck,” I groaned. At being left behind, at having my chance to apologize interrupted, at breaking something I didn’t know to fix.

Sully tried to track Loren’s departure, but he was long gone.

When she faced forward again, she asked me directly, “What did I miss?”

“A few things,” I replied.

Whitney, Dottie, and Gunnar got to their feet as Sully pushed the door shut and made her way to the cluttered kitchen island.

“Well, you can tell me about it while you help clean this up.”

“Yes, ma’am.” With a nod, I shuffled into the kitchen and dropped the wine bottle into the recycling bin.

Sully and I took turns loading cups into the dishwasher while the hounds busied themselves with anything else.

The counter was clear, and I was stocking the pantry with the extra snack cakes when Sully spoke again.

“Glad to see you all getting along.” She closed the dishwasher and started the cycle before turning toward me.

I shut the pantry door, then leaned against it, sighing.

“Not all of us.”

Her smile came with a side of sympathy.

“Loren?”

I bobbed my head.

“He’s real mad at me, Sully.”

“What happened?”

Knowing the hellhounds were in range to hear every word made me reluctant to share, but I needed to tell someone.

Sully understood; she’d lived with me.

I didn’t expect her to take my side or anything— I wasn’t even on my side—but talking to anyone was better than hitching a cab ride home and dealing with Loren’s mute avoidance for the rest of the day.

So, I told her everything.

It turned out to be a pretty short story since I left out the parts about Evander, and Sully kept her reactions to a minimum.

Her lack of surprise was a statement in itself.

When I finished, Sully chewed her lip before responding, “I doubt Loren’s mad so much as?—”

“Please don’t say disappointed.” I grimaced.

“Resigned,” she said, and that word was like a shovelful of dirt topping off the grave I’d dug for myself.

It was real fucking deep, too.

Decades of deception and dysfunction and an addiction I couldn’t kick.

The pills were in my pocket right now, and they felt like an anchor, pulling me toward dark depths.

Frowning, I dug the baggie out and showed it to Sully.

Two Green Apples nestled inside.

“I tried to get him to take these,” I said.

“But he told me to keep them.”

He hadn’t meant that.

“I don’t want them,” I continued.

“But I-I can’t get rid of them. Can’t just throw them away…”

Someone needed to take the damn things, otherwise I would.

They looked like candy even now, and my fingers quivered with the temptation to tear into the bag and down them both in one gulp.

“I’ll take them.” Sully plucked the pills from my hand, and my shoulders slumped with relief.

“ You’re going to get rid of them, though,” she added.

I peered over at her.

“I just said I can’t.”

Sully opened the nearest drawer and dropped the baggie inside.

“I’ll hold onto them until you’re ready,” she said as she slung the drawer shut, “but me throwing them away doesn’t help you. It has to be your decision.”

I wanted to tell her I knew that.

Learned all about it in rehab.

Rehearsed it at those dumb NA meetings.

Somehow, without me sharing those thoughts, she managed to infer them.

“When’s your next meeting?”

“Uh…” I paused.

“Friday night.”

“Do you want me to take you?”

The last time she’d offered, I’d thought Loren might go with me instead.

I wanted his support and his company.

I could have asked for it.

Instead, I kept secrets and made bad decisions all on my own.

It only seemed fitting I should go to the meetings on my own, too.

“I think I’ve got it. Unless Lore doesn’t give back my car.” My laughter sounded hollow.

“Well, let me know,” Sully replied.

“I’m happy to chauffeur.”

“Thanks.”

I hugged one arm around my middle, feeling ridiculous having come over here, made a mess of the place, gotten tipsy, and been subsequently ditched.

I was all dressed up with nowhere to go, and I wasn’t ready to return home.

“You mind if I come down and work with you for a while?” I asked as Sully opened the fridge and began rifling for a last-minute snack.

She popped up and grinned at me with carrot sticks and a cup of hummus in her hands. “I’d love that.”