Page 22 of Hounded (Fire & Brimstone)

22

Loren

My talk with Sully left me no more certain of where I stood with Indy or whether or not I wanted to have a relationship with him. But I’d promised to fix his shower, so that was where I found myself the next morning: standing under the Airstream’s awning with a tool bag slung over my shoulder.

I hesitated after knocking, unsure of what I would say until Indy opened the door and squinted out into the sunshine. It was early for him at 9:30, and I might have woken him. His colorful curls were mussed, and his satin robe and shorts exposed his bare, shaved legs. When he recognized me, his eyes went from narrow to wide, and he tapped his heels together in his bunny slippers.

“I didn’t realize plumbers dressed in business casual.” He nodded to my button-down shirt and cardigan. “I half-expected a red shirt and overalls.”

I looked down, shaking one leg in the hopes of smoothing the wrinkles that were hard-pressed into my jeans. After a long night in my muggy truck cab, my clothes were rumpled, and my hair was damp with the sweat that speckled my skin.

My disheveled state didn’t stop Indy from gawking or from tagging on, “You know, Mario? Italian plumber?”

I frowned.

He cleared his throat, then stepped aside to open a path to the trailer’s interior. “That was funnier in my head. Come in.”

I entered and pulled the door shut behind me. Indy had definitely been asleep. The white noise machine was whooshing, the sheets and blankets were tangled on the bed, and every curtain was drawn.

Indy shuffled across the floor, turning on lights while covering a yawn.

“You like coffee?” He indicated the espresso machine on the counter. “I guess I used to. Not sure why I have this otherwise.” Tightening the tie on his robe, he gave the carousel of pods a spin.

I nodded.

The coffeemaker was mine, left behind in the absence of an outlet in my truck. Despite Indy trying to doll up my morning brew with syrups and creamer, I preferred it, in his words, “basic.”

He dropped in a pod and fiddled with the controls until the machine began to hum. Satisfied, he dusted his hands together, then leaned against the cabinets and looked at me.

“I’m kinda surprised you came,” he said.

“I told you I would.”

Conditioned air washed over me as I surveyed the space. Clothes in all manner of skimpy and sheer were strewn about from multiple daily outfit changes. Food packages littered the kitchen counter, living room coffee table, and the art desk, which I was pleased to see had a canvas on the easel with base colors put down.

“Yeah, but you seemed pretty pissed off,” Indy said. “Could’ve changed your mind.”

The last bit of espresso dripped into the mug, then Indy carried it over to me. I took the drink in one hand and hooked the other around the strap of my tool bag.

In another life, I would have put a quick peck on his cheek to reassure him I wasn’t mad, or at least I wouldn’t stay that way forever. Instead, I stared at his guileless golden eyes and his soft pink lips, and I wanted to run away.

“I’ll get started.” I stepped around him. “Shouldn’t take long.”

Down the hall, I shut myself in the cramped bathroom, then heaved a held breath. The tool bag slid off my shoulder onto the floor, and I turned toward the cluttered sink counter. Indy’s beauty supplies covered every inch of the quartz slab. There were eyeshadow palettes, pots of body glitter, tubs of mousse, and cans of hairspray. I cleared a spot to set my coffee mug beside a stand of makeup brushes, then picked through the conglomeration to grab the bottle of perfume. Removing the gold cap, I lifted it to my nose to inhale the lightly spiced scent of ginger and vanilla.

My hound trilled enthusiastically.

I shushed him, then returned the bottle to its place.

Outside, closet doors opened and shut, and the white noise machine clicked off. Indy was on the move, which reminded me I should be, too .

Rotating my body put the shower before me. Indy’s vision for that space came straight out of a home design magazine. The pebble tiles had been hell to grout, and the built-in alcoves were barely big enough to hold Indy’s abundance of soaps, but the renovation had been worth it if only to add the rainfall showerhead so I didn’t have to duck to rinse my hair.

The cedar bench was by far the best addition, though. It created a space to sit in the warm spray with Indy in my lap, our bare skin slick as we crushed against each other, kissing, touching, and keeping close till the hot water ran cold.

The bathroom felt ten degrees warmer, and I wiped my forehead, needing a distraction before my mind ran away with me. Drawing a breath, I looked around the room and got a distraction, all right, but not a pleasant one. This bathroom held more than good memories. Bad things had happened here, too.

Indy stashed his drugs here. Got sick while kneeling over the toilet here. Passed out alone in the shower here, where I found him after untold hours, chilled to the bone and unresponsive.

I stood, cycling through painful images until my gaze flicked upward. The ceiling vent fan was a preferred hiding spot for bottles or baggies of pills. It was out of sight but not out of range for my hound’s sensitive nose. I’d emptied the cache after Indy’s suicide and wished I could cement the plastic cover in place so I’d never have to check it again. But if he lost that spot, he would find somewhere else to tuck them away. It was better to keep things predictable .

Unzipping my tool bag, I reached inside for a screwdriver. Indy had to stand on the toilet to reach the vent cover, but my long arms could access it easily. I twisted the first screw loose, then the second, then the third. My hands started to tremble by the time I reached the last one, and I forced them to still as I removed the plate and lowered it slowly to my line of sight.

Nothing. Only a bit of dust had collected.

I sighed in relief.

The bathroom door swung open, and Indy’s head poked in.

“Not naked, are you?” he asked. His eyes were closed.

I lurched backward, fumbling with the vent cover and loose screws.

“Um… no,” I stammered.

Indy opened one eye, then the other, and grinned. “Want some help with the plumbering? I could be your Luigi. Better yet, your Princess Peach.” He bounced his brows with an implication I didn’t understand.

When his attention settled on the objects in my hands, he frowned, then looked at the open hole in the ceiling. “What’s that have to do with the shower?”

“The, uh…” I gestured to the exposed fan. “It was making noise. Stopped, though.”

“Oh.” Indy scrutinized the situation too long to make me believe I’d convinced him. But, rather than question further, he nodded. “Good.”

My cheeks burned as I hastily reaffixed the vent fan cover, then tossed the screwdriver into my tool bag.

Indy nudged the door open wider, and I saw that he’d changed into denim overalls and a babydoll tee with his hair tied back in a multi-colored bandana. It reminded me of war-era propaganda with Rosie the Riveter urging the women of the nation to fill the jobs left behind by men sent to the frontlines. Indy had lived through the same history as I had but, considering his amnesia, he probably just thought he looked cute.

“You need an extra set of hands?” he offered again. “I can hold the flashlight. Or get you a…” He glanced into my open tool bag. “Wrench? It’s a wrench for plumbing, right?”

When he fished into the bag and pulled one out, I was almost impressed. But I shook my head. “This isn’t that complicated. And it’s kind of a one-man job.”

Indy waggled the wrench, causing light to glint off the chrome. “Well, show me at least. I should probably know how to fix it myself.” He shrugged. “Can’t call you for everything.”

I remembered how he’d dismissed my offer to teach him to drive, wanting the excuse to keep my company. I worried that had changed or that it would if I rebuffed him again.

Backstepping to the edge of the shower enclosure, I waved Indy closer. “Come in.”

He brightened, then held out the wrench. “Sure you don’t need this?”

“I’m sure.”

He dropped it into the bag as I turned to the shower and cranked the faucet on. The water sputtered, then came out in a leaky stream, spraying in some parts, dribbling in others. Definitely a clog. I turned it off.

Meanwhile, Indy picked through my tools, passing them from one hand to the other and testing their varied weight. “So, what do you do for work?” he asked.

“Collections,” I replied.

Past Indy would have laughed at the joke, but this one stared blankly.

“Like, repossessions?” he asked, and it was all I could do not to snort as he continued. “Picking up people’s cars and stuff? Not cold calling, right? I can’t imagine you talking on the phone for a living.”

I grabbed the metal ring around the showerhead and began unscrewing it. “Yeah,” I answered. “Like repossessions.”

“I bet you have some crazy stories.” Indy flashed an ornery smile. “You ever get caught? Have to fight some deadbeat for missing a payment on his TV?”

The wide, round head dropped into my palm, and residual water ran out. I shook it off, then set the detached showerhead aside before peering into the exposed pipe.

“Not exactly,” I said.

The filter was a tiny mesh screen about an inch inside the pipe. I couldn’t get more than one finger in the opening, which meant tools would be needed, after all.

I extended an empty hand toward Indy. “Can you grab me a flathead screwdriver?”

He jumped at the task, diving eagerly into the bag and producing the requested tool.

I took it and angled it into the pipe.

“Speaking of deadbeats,” Indy began. “Some bouncer at the club asked if I was a boy or girl, and I realized I don’t know my preferred pronouns.”

His mention of the club made me tense. The second I got called to Hell, he wandered away from Sully’s wards and safety and into the worst possible place for a recovering addict. Was he bored? Lonely? Looking for a fix?

“He/him, generally,” I replied while struggling to corral my wandering thoughts.

Indy nodded. “That seems right. Ballsy, though, to ask. I mean, he probably thought I was trying to duck the cover charge, but—”

“Which club did you go to?” I stopped fiddling with the filter and pinned him with a suspicious look.

He missed it, having moved on from ransacking my tool bag to swatching eyeshadow on his wrist. Currently, a wide stripe of yellow was being added to the colors stacking up his forearm.

“Not sure, actually,” he replied. “I took a cabbie’s recommendation.”

Returning to the shower repair, I tried to feign disinterest, but my tension drove the screwdriver harder into the pipe, loosening the tiny round screen with a cracking sound that made me fear I’d broken it.

When it dropped into my hand, undamaged, I exhaled, then asked, “Did you have fun?”

“Sure, I guess. Didn’t stay long.” He stared at the rainbow he’d created on his skin before looking over at me. “You into clubbing?”

The screen was caked over with white, calcified grit, and I saw plenty more on the nozzle tips of the showerhead. Stepping out of the tiled enclosure, I offered the screen and showerhead for Indy to take.

“These need to soak,” I said. “Vinegar and baking soda. They’re under the kitchen sink.”

Indy’s nose wrinkled as I dropped the items into his hands. “Ew.”

“Hardwater,” I explained. “You might have to scrub them, too.”

Nodding, he exited into the hall, clearly eager to offload the scummy filter and showerhead.

With him gone, I went for my espresso gone lukewarm on the counter. I finished it before vacating the bathroom. In the kitchen, I found Indy in the kitchen filling a Ziploc bag with distilled vinegar. He dropped the showerhead and filter in, then sprinkled baking soda straight from the box. The mixture fizzed and bubbled, and Indy closed the bag then set it in the sink.

He propped his hands on his narrow hips and watched as I walked past. “So, clubbing,” he said, restarting the conversation I had intended to let end.

“Do I seem like the clubbing type to you?” I asked.

“Maybe if you had the right company.”

That prickly feeling returned, and I wove around him to set my empty coffee cup beside the stove. The club, like the trailer shower, was a place of mixed memories. It would take twenty minutes or more for the buildup to loosen on the detached head and screen, and I didn’t intend to spend that time on uncomfortable topics. Fortunately, Indy took the hint to move on. Unfortunately, the alternative subject was worse than the first.

“About your boyfriend…” He eyed me, uncertain. “The one who died…?”

“What about him? ”

Indy reached for the paper towel roll beside the sink, tearing off a sheet and wetting it to wipe the eyeshadow off his arm. He spoke slowly. “When you say ‘dead,’ do you mean it metaphorically? Like he’s dead to you but actually alive?”

In the pause, I thought I could smell the smoke. I faced toward the bedroom loft with the mattress I’d replaced and the scorched ceiling I’d painted half a dozen times. My conversation with Sully had exhausted my tolerance for reliving the recent past, but Indy was staring, waiting for the answer to a question that was too near the truth for my liking.

I turned away from the bedroom and squared myself with Indy, my shoulders stiff with tension.

“I came home from work, and he was dead,” I said. “Nothing metaphoric about it.”

A wave of confusion washed over Indy’s face. It wasn’t the response he’d expected, but that was fair. I hadn’t expected anything about what had happened, either.

When he looked away, I thought the conversation had been put to rest, but instead, he clenched his hands and faced me with more determination than I’d seen from him this lifetime.

“I remember what you said.” The set of his brows was stern, almost angry. “When you dropped me off at rehab. You told me you loved me.”

Of all the things I wished he would remember, that moment of weakness was not one of them.

Shaking my head, I started edging toward the exit. “I shouldn’t have said that. ”

Indy pursued, driving me closer to the door. “Did you mean it, though?” he asked. His voice was tremulous.

I was running away again. Waving a white flag when I needed to stand and fight. For him. For us.

Sully wanted me to think about it. Was this what I wanted? Or was I falling out of love?

My back hit the trailer door. When it opened outward, I nearly fell down the stairs in my haste.

“I need tape for that pipe,” I stammered at last. “I’ll run to the store and come back. Couple hours. Max.”

The tape was in my tool bag on the bathroom floor. The hours were for me. To drive or walk far away from here. To hope Moira didn’t call and that Whitney didn’t show up, hot on the trail of a wayward phoenix. I needed time to decide if it was all too much to endure again and to consider the alternatives. I already knew none of them were good.