Page 17 of Hounded (Fire & Brimstone)

17

Indy

Loren’s speedy departure left me reeling and more than a little disappointed. It wasn’t that I wanted to throw myself into bed with the man, but I wouldn’t turn down the chance. Something about him struck a chord in me. He was guarded and mysterious, but his presence was the most comforting thing in an otherwise unfamiliar world. Sitting with him on the couch, using any excuse to touch him, I’d felt at ease.

Then, I kissed him, and he threw on the brakes so fast I could have sworn I heard them screeching. He probably thought I was a thirsty brat. Not a great first—second?—impression.

But he knew me. The way he described me, telling me things I didn’t even remember about myself, was so goddamn intimate. And the usually stoic set of his face had changed to something wistful and tender. He was pretty, all long hair and soft lips and muscles I’d felt when he hugged me that day at the drugstore. I wanted his arms around me again, crushing me against his chest and abs and …

Mate , the small voice in my head whispered.

I scowled and shook it off.

Dirty Dancing was playing when I wandered back inside the trailer, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. Retrieving the remote from the coffee table, I clicked the television off then funneled a handful of popcorn into my mouth. Quiet grew as I wandered the alley from the kitchen to the living area and back.

I should’ve put the laundry away. Fixed something to eat besides milk and movie snacks. but I didn’t want to linger here. It was like rehab all over again, without the miniscule socialization of group therapy. As for options of escape, my car was as good as a brick in the parking lot, and I couldn’t bum another ride from Loren. Not today.

Without pausing my stride, I pulled out my cellphone. I’d added a few apps, mostly games to fend off boredom, and my list of contacts had doubled with the addition of the art gallery owner, Sully. She seemed nice, but not someone I could call up for a hangout on a random Saturday night.

The walls felt tight around me. The Airstream was a long, bullet-shaped thing about as big as a studio apartment, and devoid of any notion of home. I’d explored every inch, dug through every cabinet and drawer, and was frankly sick of looking at the place.

I needed to get out, and a brisk walk in the fresh air wouldn’t cut it. Since leaving Hopeful Horizons, I had freedom, but I hadn’t truly experienced it. Maybe it was time I spread my wings a bit.

Opening the recent contacts on my cell, I called the cab company that had picked me up from rehab. Their estimated ten-minute arrival time gave me the perfect opportunity to change into something more exciting.

Ample closet space was definitely the trailer’s best feature, and my wardrobe did not disappoint. After washing and wearing the same four outfits on repeat for eight weeks, I’d been thrilled to branch out. The assortment of clothes and shoes told me more about myself than anything else had. There was a rainbow of color, heels of all heights, and enough fishnets and strappy harnesses to hint at an interesting sex life.

I dressed quickly in a sheer top with billowing sleeves and a pair of hotpants that I barely managed to tuck my dick into. I paused in the bathroom to add a touch of makeup and glittery lip gloss before nearly tripping over my discarded clothes on my journey out of the trailer.

Dashing to the parking lot, I found the taxi waiting. The laces of my thigh-high boots swung around my shaved legs as I clambered into the backseat, breathless and buoyant.

The cab smelled like sweaty bodies and melted vinyl, but I smiled despite it as I met the cabbie’s grizzled face in the rearview mirror.

“Where to?” he grunted.

All I’d seen of New York over the past week was Trailer Trove, the laundromat, the art gallery, and a drugstore. None of those offered the thrill I was looking for, so I shrugged and replied, “ Somewhere fun.”

Few clubs opened their doors before nightfall, but we found one. After paying my fare and leaving a generous tip, I bounded out of the cab and across the sidewalk to the cordoned entry outside a brick building with no windows and an old school neon sign that read Rhythm and Booze.

The early hour meant no line, so I was able to walk right up to the entry where a bouncer in a black tee shirt guarded the door. The man was short but broad, and his shaved head glistened with a sheen of sweat. It wasn’t hot out, and I doubted it was very strenuous standing in place for hours vetting would-be customers, so I could only guess at the cause of his strain as he crossed his arms and gave me a sweeping assessment.

“Cover’s twenty bucks for fellas and ten for ladies,” he said. “Which’re you?”

I swayed back into a mockingly offended pose and hooked my thumbs in the waistband of my shorts. “Careful, dude. That shit will get you canceled.”

The bouncer’s neanderthal brow cast a shadow across his eyes as he extended an open hand. “Twenty.”

Frowning, I fished my wallet from my pocket and pulled out a crumpled bill. I pressed it into the bouncer’s hand, and he cleared the path to the open doors of the club.

Music filled my ears before I crossed the threshold. Neon colors flashed from the dance floor and through the glass bar top. Strobe lights flickered through a haze of smoke from hidden fog machines, gathering around the legs of the dozen or so people gyrating in front of the DJ booth.

Besides the light traffic on the dance floor, a handful of patrons manned low-backed seats at the bar. My gaze lingered on them as though I expected to find someone there, a familiar shadow nursing a beer while casting over-the-shoulder glances at me. But no one looked up.

According to my ID, I was twenty-five. It was a strange thought and a momentarily bitter one. Even the most basic information eluded me. I was young enough I should have had parents alive somewhere, or even siblings. Did they know where I’d been or how to find me? Or was I a mistake they were relieved to be rid of? A black sheep junkie who chose drugs over everything else until drugs were all that remained? That was the story of a few people I’d met in rehab. Maybe it was my story, too.

I lingered on the edge of the room, watching the festivities while deciding where I fit. I looked too cute to ride a barstool, so I considered finding a dance partner. Getting casually physical with another guy sounded like fun, but I wasn’t looking for a hookup or to give a stranger the wrong impression.

No more than a minute went by before a body sidled up next to mine.

I spun to face a man with a pencil thin mustache and a bit of a gut hanging over his beltline. His face had an oily sheen, and his eyes bulged as they focused on me.

“Lookie here.” He grinned, showing a gold tooth. “You came back. Thought you’d moved on to greener pastures or some shit.”

What were the odds? The first time I ventured out alone, I ran into someone I knew. Or used to know. This man came with none of the familiarity I felt with Loren, none of that distant something I couldn’t quite define. He was a regular sort of stranger, but I was more than that to him.

I forced a congenial expression while offering my hand to shake. “Hey, buddy. Long time, no see.”

Rather than clasping my hand, the man cast a shifty glance around. It prompted me to follow suit, but I saw nothing of interest in the sparsely populated club.

After finishing his visual sweep, the man leaned in and whispered in a raspy voice, “Your bodyguard boyfriend ain’t hanging around here, is he?”

I glanced around again, drawn inexplicably to the bar but finding it unchanged. “Who?” I asked.

The other man snorted. “Tall guy.” He leveled a hand well above both our heads. “Bad temper. Thinks he owns you or some shit.” His raucous laugh competed with the thrumming bassline of the music.

My eyes traveled to the height he’d marked in the air, and I imagined Loren filling that space. It was already a coincidence to think I’d accidentally returned to my old stomping grounds. If I’d been here with the undeniably tall man who I couldn’t fathom having any sort of temper in tow, what did that say about our relationship? I thought to ask for more details, but the greasy man barreled on.

“Fucker almost put me in the hospital for talking to you. He don’t know we’re old pals, huh?” He slung an arm around to slap me on the back so hard it stung.

I fought off a grimace. I wasn’t eager to explain my strange situation, but the gleam in the man’s eyes and the chance he might know things I didn’t merited at least an apology.

“Sorry, I don’t…” I shirked his hand where it rested between my shoulder blades. “I forgot some things. And people. What’s your name?”

The man pitched backward again. His eyes stretched wider than should have been possible as he let out a low whistle. “Damn, kid, that’s cold. You and me go way back.”

I wished I was teasing and could let him in on the joke, but my blank look refuted nothing.

“It’s Chaz!” he exclaimed. His gaze swept the room for the third time in as many minutes, then he reached into the inner pocket of his denim jacket. When his hand came out, he flipped it over to show a tiny clear bag pinned under his palm. A round, green pill with an apple stamped into it was tucked inside.

“I’m the guy with the goods,” Chaz said. “The X-man. You remember that?”

For all the things I was unsure of, I recognized it immediately as ecstasy.

“Uh, actually, I got off that stuff.” I felt a burst of pride at the statement. “I’m clean now.”

It was easy to say no. Easy enough that I wondered if I really was cured.

The next song started, and lasers cut through the air. They spun and spiraled, panning over vacant tables and the few people thrashing on the dance floor.

Chaz’s caterpillar eyebrows seemed to crawl further up his face. “No shit?” He palmed the baggie but didn’t put it away. “You’re fucking with me. First my name, now this?” He snorted a hot breath. “Did your bruiser boytoy put you up to this?”

“Loren’s not…” The denial burst out of me, and I wondered how I was so sure that was who he meant. But who else could it be? Someone I hadn’t met yet? A problematic ex?

Questions multiplied, and I could hardly decide where to begin.

“Why do you think he’s my boyfriend?” I asked.

Chaz pocketed the pill, then braced his arms atop his saggy gut and gave me a disdainful look. “Prolly from watching you paw all over him every weekend. I don’t know how he doesn’t bust a nut having your tight little ass grinding on him all night.”

A grin teased my lips. I didn’t mind the sound of that. And every weekend, no less. With my only memories being very recent ones, they were incredibly vibrant, filling the empty space in my brain with the way Loren’s hair felt in my hands and his smell of cedarwood and smoke, woodsy and warm.

As much as the idea of pressing my body against Loren and letting his long arms wrap me up enticed me, I had to wonder, “Did he like it?”

Chaz’s attention had begun to drift as his interest in me waned. He peered across the dance floor while he muttered a response, “I’d hope so. Some people pay money for what you do to that man.”

Tingling heat prickled my cheeks. I couldn’t fight the smile any longer and found myself practically beaming at Chaz while he scowled.

“But seriously,” he added, “your sidepiece may like that, but he definitely don’t like me. Keep him outta here, all right? Can’t run a business if I’m laid up in traction.”

Considering the pill Chaz had offered, I got the impression that was entirely the point. To his request, I offered a noncommittal shrug, and Chaz gave the hem of his jacket a tug.

“Take care of yourself, kid,” he said. “If you change your mind about going straight, gimme a call.”

Before I could protest that I didn’t have his number—or anyone’s—Chaz broke into motion, angling across the dance floor where he faded into the thin crowd of bodies.