Page 10 of Hounded (Fire & Brimstone)

10

Loren

My phone didn’t ring.

Moira didn’t call.

I waited all night for it. Twisted and shifted in the front seat of my truck and stared at my phone screen till the battery died.

She must have noticed. Must have glared daggers at my back as I cut a hole in the wall of that dank room and ran with my tail between my legs while my hound whined. Then, I holed up in the lot outside the trailer park, bathed in sweat, and whiled the hours away.

Morning came long after I was ready for it. I dug my keys out of the center console and started the Chevy with a choke and a sputter. It was past due for an oil change, and other fluids needed topping off. The rusty old machine required more from me than it gave these days, and I was no kind of mechanic. I managed to keep it running with quick fixes and products purchased from the local automotive store, but I got the feeling an expensive repair bill was in my near future.

At the gas station, I milled the aisles looking for breakfast but found nothing that qualified. I settled on a pack of gum and a half tank of gas, then sat outside with my phone plugged into an exterior outlet to charge. By the time it reached 30% I was tired of waiting, so I climbed back into my truck and returned to Trailer Trove.

Pulling into my space, I spotted movement across the lot. A short man with a mop of brown curls dipped in and out of a black Pontiac. He opened the driver’s door, then closed it, circled the vehicle, and opened the door again. I wasn’t used to his hair being its natural color, but the outfit—a black and white striped crop top with skinny jeans tucked into platform combat boots—was all Indy.

Since the hound girl shredded my slacks, I had changed into yet another pair of jeans and buttoned up the shirt Moira put on me. It wasn’t cold out, but I’d put on a sweater anyway. I held the sleeve cuff wadded in my left hand as I exited the truck into the sun that hit me like a spotlight.

With no one else in the lot, it didn’t take Indy long to notice me approaching. He stopped and leaned against the side panel of the Pontiac, masking his previously flustered expression with a catty grin.

“Hey, Legs.”

I raised a brow. “Thought that wasn’t very creative.”

He shrugged and spun his keyring around one finger. “Doesn’t have to be if the suit fits.” His eyes sparkled in the daylight. “Speaking of suits, how about that little number from the other night? Fit you like a glove.”

Warmth blistered my cheeks as he carried on.

“Do you dress up often?” he asked. “For work or something? ”

“Yeah,” I replied. “For work.”

We’d had similar conversations before, and I usually indulged him, but the scene in the kennels last night had me on edge, so I motioned to the parked coupe.

“Everything all right?”

Indy glanced over his shoulder at the car. “Just gotta go to the store.”

“You want directions?” I asked, more direct than I meant to be.

He frowned and scrubbed the side of his head. “Maybe a ride?”

“You have a car.”

A classic, collectible car that he loved. He bought it nearly new, a glossy black Firebird with the screaming chicken decal on the hood in gold. He laughed about it the whole way home from the dealership, asking if I thought he was a screaming chicken, too.

Unlike my truck, it was in immaculate condition, and he kept it topped off, so I knew he was lying when he replied, “Yeah, well… It needs gas.” Spinning the key fob again, he gave me a coy grin. “And I figure since you didn’t pick me up from rehab, the least you can do is give me a ride now.”

My eyes dipped to his bare midriff and the arch of his hip as he popped it forward. “Okay,” I said.

He straightened. “Really?”

I held his gaze silently until he sighed in relief.

“That was easier than I expected. I thought you’d say something like, cabs are a thing.” He waved his hands mockingly in the air.

“Cabs are a thing,” I repeated, which caused his brow to furrow.

“I know. I took one yesterday.” He tipped his chin with a sort of belligerence that conveyed the anger I’d expected before. He was baiting me, waiting for an excuse or argument judging by the way he added, “When you didn’t show up.”

I held out my hand for his keys. “Where are we headed?”

He peered past me at the truck a few dozen feet away. “Don’t you wanna take yours?”

“Yours needs gas,” I replied.

His lips twisted. “It does. Yeah.”

“Then we’ll fill it up.”

The driver’s door window reflected Indy’s uncertain expression. “Do you know how to drive stick?” he asked.

I nodded. “Don’t you?”

“Must’ve slipped my mind.” He rapped his knuckles against his temple. “It’s like a sieve in there.”

It was a new loss. He’d owned the Firebird for almost fifty years and never had an issue with manual transmission. He could relearn, of course, but the shame on his face sent a spike of pain into my heart.

Better I drove him, anyway. Kept him close.

Indy passed me his keys, and we piled into the Firebird. The seat was so close to the steering wheel that it forced my knees into my chest, and I had to practically collapse to keep from hitting my head on the way in.

Indy snickered from the passenger seat while I adjusted the seat and mirrors, then checked the gas gauge and found it one tick shy of full. So, he’d been embarrassed to admit he didn’t know how to drive his own car. I couldn’t blame him.

I decided to forgo the gas station and asked again where he needed to go.

“Just the nearest drugstore,” Indy said, then took on a look of exaggerated concern. “Do I lose my pin if I buy something there? Drug store? It’d be a shame to throw away all my hard work for some hair dye.”

I huffed a laugh. “I think you’re good.”

Nodding, he reclined and kicked one leg over the other. “Maybe we could get some food while we’re out,” he said as I started the engine. “Turns out I’m not much of a cook.”

I wondered what had brought him to that realization so soon and imagined some kind of disaster in the Airstream’s kitchen. He didn’t elaborate as I backed the Pontiac out of its spot then turned out of the lot.

Indy cranked his window down, and I did the same. Warm wind whipped in, and my hound sniffed at it, searching for the smells of nature buried beneath the industrial stink of the city.

As we drove, Indy drummed his fingers across his knee, flashing nails painted neon green.

I wanted so badly to hold his hand.

“So, you’re not much of a conversationalist,” he finally said. “Do you not like to talk or just not like me?”

I must have looked surprised because he added, “It’s okay. I don’t like me either sometimes.”

“I like you, Indy,” I assured him. “We’re friends.”

It didn’t feel like enough, but I couldn’t think of what else to say.

Streets and storefronts buzzed by. It was only a few miles to Medimart, which had enough variety I hoped Indy could find what he was looking for. As we rounded the next corner, he spoke up again.

“What kind of friends?” he asked. “Like, acquaintances or BFFs? Would you give the best man toast at my wedding?” He leaned into my peripheral. “Have we fucked?”

My breath caught in my throat, and I coughed.

He grinned. “That’s not a no.”

Reaching up, I looped my fingers around the warm, metal links of my collar and tugged on it. Indy kept smiling as he reposed and stretched his arm out the open window into the breeze.

I found a spot curbside outside Medimart. Indy bounded from the coupe and trotted ahead while I plugged the meter and checked my phone again. No calls from Moira. No texted reprimands.

“You coming, Legs?” Indy called from the automatic doors.

His crooked smile dulled my apprehension. I slid one more quarter into the coin slot, then hurried to follow him into the store.

Once inside, Indy took off toward the area labeled Beauty & Hair Care. I retrieved a handbasket and caught up to him where he stood perusing the boxed hair dyes. A package of bleach was tucked under his arm.

Snagging a box of teal blue, he tossed it into my basket, then dumped the bleach in after.

Meandering to the next aisle, he grabbed a package of licorice and tore into it. He pulled out a twisted red rope and nipped it between his teeth before offering a strip to me.

I shook my head, and he shrugged before adding the open bag to the basket.

“You have great hair, by the way,” he mumbled around the licorice. “Skin, too. Olive. It’s pretty. You Spanish or something?”

“Italian,” I replied.

He ventured ahead, skimming the rows of foodstuffs as though he didn’t have the same and more in the trailer’s pantry.

“That’s hot,” he said while studying a display of chip dips. “Do you speak it?”

“Not anymore.”

When I was a child, learning English had been paramount to survival in Brooklyn’s gritty streets. My tan skin and black hair were damning then, slotting me into an unpopular minority. Things were different now, and I found myself in good company in New York’s melting pot, but much of my immigrant heritage had been lost.

Indy nodded. “There was an Italian guy in rehab. Had the accent and everything. His dad owns a deli, I think.” He cocked his head. “Does your family live nearby?”

“No.”

But they were buried near here. My father and mother made the journey to America to die in disease-ridden tenement housing. I avoided a similar fate by catching the interest of a well-to-do law student who wanted someone to warm his bed. Falling into Moira’s favor had happened much the same way: by surprise and for reasons I couldn’t entirely control.

“Do I already know this stuff?” Indy spun toward me with his hand propped on his hip. “I mean, did I? I don’t know if they told you what happened, but I kinda… fried my brain. With the drugs.”

I fought to keep my expression neutral. I hadn’t been updated about what happened after I dropped Indy off at Hopeful Horizons. They must have assumed the overdose caused his memory loss because there was no better justification.

“They told me,” I lied.

We made it to the front of the store where Indy raided the checkout lane for chewing gum and a bottle of soda. At the end of a short line of customers, he stopped and faced me again.

“It’s weird,” he said. “Like… I know I had a life before, but it almost feels like I woke up in rehab. Or maybe I’m asleep and dreaming now. It’s hard to explain.”

I hung at his heels, comparing this conversation to others we’d had in the past. I’d tried a dozen ways of welcoming him back to the world. Full transparency yielded skepticism or fear. I insisted on our relationship once or twice, assuring him we loved each other and always would, but it felt forced, and fake, and it filled me with doubt.

Indy took the shopping basket and hefted it onto the conveyor belt. When it came his turn, rather than advancing toward the cashier, he rounded on me with his features pinched.

“You know there’s only one phone number in my contacts?” he asked. “Yours. That’s either a real sad commentary on my life, or I’m missing something.”

I stood, stricken. The intermittent beep of items being scanned seemed to mark the seconds dragging by.

This never got easier, and I wasn’t sure it was right to keep secrets from him. But him blaming the drugs for his predicament was an unexpected blessing. Maybe he would stay clean this time.

When I didn’t reply, Indy shook his head, sweeping curls across his brow. “I’m missing everything, I guess. It’s my own fault.”

He spun away and flashed a sunny smile at the checker. Their small talk reduced to a drone in the back of my mind while I gazed out the windowed storefront. People passed in singles or pairs, but one man stood still. I wasn’t used to seeing him in casual clothes, and I wondered if the trousers and V-neck Henley were more his style than the suits and skimpy garments Moira so often dressed him in. Even though his outfit had thrown me, his sandy hair and verdant eyes made him unmistakable.

Whitney.

My heart seized in my chest, and I didn’t breathe except to cough, drawing Indy’s attention briefly from his conversation with the checker.

I pointed to the door, away from the hellhound now peering through the window.

“Wait,” I told Indy, gulping down the nerves that tried to silence me. “Wait here.”

“Why?” He frowned, but further argument was squelched by the cashier announcing his total.

I put my supernatural speed to use as I rushed out of the store. On the sidewalk, I turned and found Whitney a dozen feet away, looking right back at me .

No need to wonder why he was here. I’d brought this on myself. Moira didn’t need to harass me with calls or texts. She could send her favorite pet to do it for her.

I swallowed again, then once more, unsure of where to go, or what to say or do. How long could I trust Indy to stay inside? And, if he came out here, how would I explain him to Whitney?

The other hound strode forward, and I poised to run. We would make quite a spectacle racing down the street, but I would draw the attention of everyone in Brooklyn if it would lead this threat away from my phoenix.

Before I could bolt or even decide which direction to go, Whitney spoke.

“You’re surprised?” he asked, then shook his head. “You shouldn’t be.”

My mouth opened and closed so many times I must have looked like a fish blowing bubbles. Whitney didn’t venture to Earth often since I did most of the retrieval work. I expected him to be unsettled by the flurry of activity going on around us. Between the constant rumbles and honks of passing cars and the pedestrians weaving by, my attention was certainly divided, but he remained focused.

“What’s Miss to think of you trotting off?” he demanded. “What should I tell her? You don’t even have hunting as an excuse this time.”

What excuse did I have? I’d carried on in my secret life for so long without interruption, without notice, and while I’d considered what I would say if I was ever called into question, those thoughts escaped me now.

“I like to…” I tugged on my collar. “Familiarize my self. With the city. With people…”

Whitney tracked my nervous gesture but didn’t comment on it. Instead, he cast a sweeping glance around us. “What sorts of people?”

His inspection covered the city block first, then turned on the drugstore beside us. When he peered through the glass, I made a soft, strangled sound that failed to capture his attention.

“He’s interesting.” Whitney gestured at the scene beyond the window. Indy stood near the checkout counter with a few plastic bags lined up his arm. He swung them idly while scrolling through his cellphone.

“I saw you talking to him,” Whitney said.

Shaking my head caused my hair to swish across my shoulders. “Exchanging pleasantries. That’s all.”

It was unconvincing. Desperate.

“Do you smell that?” Whitney tipped his head back and scented the air.

I almost thought he meant the sweat prickling down my back, but I knew better.

“Poor air quality here,” I said between increasingly rapid breaths. “Pollution, smog—”

“It’s sweet.” Whitney sniffed the wind again. He turned toward Medimart’s automatic doors as they swished open and a woman exited. “It’s coming from inside.”