Page 41 of Hounded (Fire & Brimstone)

41

Indy

The toaster oven dinged, and I rose from my art desk to meander into the kitchen. The sun had set almost an hour ago, and the trailer was lit by the TV playing The Breakfast Club for the third time in a row. The smell of melted cheese and singed bread filled the air when I lowered the oven’s glass door and inspected the pair of pizza bagels topped with pepperoni.

I was out of mozzarella and sauce, so I made do with a cheese whose name I couldn’t pronounce and watered-down tomato paste I scavenged from the pantry. But the end product looked edible enough.

When the bagels crowded onto a flimsy paper plate, I reconsidered my portion size. It looked more like a meal for two, which meant leftovers for tomorrow. Shrugging, I turned toward the living room. And then the floor dropped out from under me.

Not dropped. More like shifted. The whole trailer dipped, and the pizza bagels slid over the rim of the plate to land face down on the floor. Red sauce shot out to one side like blood splatter. Food forfeited, I grabbed onto the corner of the kitchen counter and braced for what must have been an earthquake.

Looking down the alley of the trailer’s interior, everything was at a slant. Items toppled off shelves, and the table lamp began a slow tip. I was ready to bolt forward and catch it when the Airstream rocked again, returning to level with a bouncing dip.

I glanced around, checking the windows to see if the world outside was as unstable as I was. In the dusky darkness, my view remained unchanged. Everything was quiet except for the music playing while Emilio Estevez took a drug-fueled dance break on the TV. I was distracted by the eye candy until the ratcheting clatter of the outside awning rolling up goaded me into motion.

I darted to the door and shoved it open, barely hanging onto the handle as I swung my head from side to side in a rapid inspection of my front lawn. A man stood beside the awning’s arm, turning the crank to retract it flush against the Airstream’s exterior. My pride flag was sloppily folded beside his feet.

If he hadn’t been facing me, I might not have recognized him. His face was scruffy and unshaven, and his long hair was tangled. Wrinkles were pressed into his shirt and jeans like they’d been slept in more than once.

“Loren?” I bounded down the steps onto the paver patio.

He secured the awning, then dusted his hands down his pantlegs. His lack of response gave me time to further survey the scene. His truck was backed up to the end of the trailer. Its engine was running, and its taillights glowed dimly red. Beside the Airstream’s tires, chock blocks had been pulled out and cast aside. It was like he was trying to steal the damn thing with me inside it.

I stomped over to him, looking anything but intimidating in leg warmers and booty shorts with a tie-dyed tee shirt tied above my navel. But better to be a pissed-off twink than an actual crazy person kicking the blocks out from under someone else’s trailer after dark.

He was on the move, though, headed toward the coupler on the front of the Airstream. It was already attached to the truck’s bumper hitch, and he crouched to affix the safety chain and connect the wiring harness.

I came up behind him and balled my fists on my hips. “Welcome back, asshole. What the hell are you doing to my house?”

With a testing tug on the chain, Loren stood straight and looked at me at last. “ Our house,” he corrected. “We’re moving.”

My chest swelled with the protest I spouted off. “No, we’re not. I’m not.”

He shouldered past me toward the line of plastic pickets that formed a rectangle under where the awning had previously been.

I chased him after him, shouting, “Hey!”

He was a blur of motion, faster than a person should be, stooping and scooping handfuls of something from the layer of mulch around the fence. He finished the brisk circuit with a half dozen dirt-smeared baggies tucked under his arm.

I squinted at them as he approached. “What are those?” I asked.

Passing by me again, he snatched the pride flag from the ground, speed-walked to the trailer door, opened it, and flung the items inside. Then he slammed the door.

My face stung with angry heat, and I stomped my foot again.

“God, you’re infuriating!” I exclaimed. “Will you talk to me? Loren!”

At that, he drew up short. His chest heaved with scarcely controlled breaths, and his dark eyes were intense as they fixed on mine.

My brow furrowed. “You look like shit.”

His expression stayed stony as he replied, “It’s been a rough few days.”

“It’s been ten days,” I corrected. “You and I have very different definitions of how long it takes to ‘be right back.’”

During that time, my emotions ran the gamut from wounded and confused to angry and annoyed. I told myself I hoped this stoic son of a bitch never came back. That I wished he’d never shown up in the first place. That I hadn’t heard him say he loved me. That it hadn’t hurt so badly when he said he regretted it.

But he was sad and seeing that reminded me of the pictures on his cellphone. There was a gallery of awkward smiles, blush-stained cheeks, and stolen kisses. He wasn’t always sad; I made him happy. I wanted to make him happy now and, as mad as I should have been, I felt more concerned than anything.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

He paused for so long that I wondered if he would answer until finally, he shook his head.

I ventured forward to inspect his face. Pinkish lines like cat scratches marred his cheeks and neck and sparked a simmering rage I didn’t fully understand.

“What happened?” I wanted to reach for him but kept my hands at my sides. “Did somebody hurt you?”

“I did.” His eyes dropped to the ground between us.

The need to be close to him was inexplicable. Like I’d learned nothing from being repeatedly rebuffed over the last few weeks. My fingers twitched toward him, but I tightened my fists.

“How?” I asked. “Why?”

Loren, similarly, braced himself. His features hardened, and his voice was gruff as he asked, “Do you want to ride in the truck or trailer?”

It was another rejection, and it stung. I barely knew him. Why was I so obsessed with him? Was I that lonely?

At the very least, I was desperate enough that I sounded like the crazy one when I crossed my arms and huffed. “Truck. If you’re gonna abduct me, we’re at least going to talk about it.”

I started to storm past him but took only a step before he caught my elbow.

My gaze traveled from his hand to his face—how many times had I dreamed about that face?—and neither of us moved. Loren’s lips fell apart, and I thought he would speak. Explain, for the love of god but, instead, he pulled me in.

I fell against his chest, enveloped in his warmth and stunned silent when I felt the way he held me. Like I was porcelain. Like I was the most precious thing in the world. His long fingers cradled my head, and his body curved against mine .

It was the same when he kissed me. Profound. So much deeper than I knew how to feel.

I didn’t pull back until he did. Then it was my turn to catch his hands.

“Hey.” I squeezed his fingers. “It’s okay.”

His dark eyes gleamed with moisture that he quickly blinked away. “It’s not.”

Our hands were still clasped, and I brushed a thumb over his knuckles. I hesitated on his left ring finger as though I expected to find something there. It was as bare as it had always been, but I rubbed it extra anyway.

“Then it’s gonna be,” I told him. “After you get me some dinner because mine’s on the floor inside.” I tipped my head toward the closed trailer door.

His shoulders relaxed, and that small success sparked joy in me. Like the visions I chased when I took Chaz’s pills, the feeling was familiar and left me longing for more.

I’d learned not to press, so I cleared the lump from my throat and asked, “Where are we going?”

He led me toward the idling truck. Opening the passenger door, he helped me up the step side before mumbling a reply. “That’s up to you, Doll.”

My reaction to that word was almost visceral. The little voice in my head seemed to trill, echoing the term of endearment until it tumbled out of my mouth.

“Doll?” I didn’t bother to mask my idiot grin.

Loren nodded.

“Well,” I began, “I like the idea of a road trip better than a kidnapping. But you need a shower, dude.”

Loren rolled his eyes and finally, just barely, he smiled.

The smile, the pet name, the voice in my head chirping with delight, all of it crowded my brain and left no room for reason. I’d been mad, rightfully so, but he was scared. Hurt. And here. I could no longer deny how much I’d missed him.

I brushed his tangled hair aside and put my lips to his cheek, and he blushed. It was the most adorable, butterfly-inducing blush I’d ever seen.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll plan the route, you’ll wash up, then what?”

Once I was seated, he released me. His fingers grazed my knee as he pulled away and said, “Then we’ll talk.”