Page 121 of Hounded

“Ohio.” I laid the paper on the narrow strip of seat between us.

Indy’s glittery eyes flicked up to meet mine, and he grinned. “Is Ohio a good place to get breakfast?”

I eased into a smile of my own. “What do you want?”

His gaze rolled toward the headliner as he considered, then declared, “Pancakes.”

We merged onto the highway and traveled to the next exit, where the sign advertised attractions and restaurants, including a place called Brewed Awakening. Indy looked up the menu online and found that it offered breakfast fare and an artisan coffee bar. He rattled off the names and flavors of a half dozen lattes, oohing and ahhing over each one, before we pulled into the parking lot.

I got out and went around to open his door, where he slithered out of the blanket nest like a snake shedding its skin. He was still in his pajamas, a pants and button-down set that was modest compared to his usual fare, and he insisted on changing clothes before meeting me inside.

I got us a booth near a window. The restaurant was situated on a busy thoroughfare, neighbored by a shopping center and an auto repair store. People were out in droves. Not like the bustling streets of Brooklyn, but populated enough that I caught myself studying every face and watching passing cars as though a pack of hellhoundswould lunge from one with their teeth and claws bared.

After five minutes, I regretted leaving Indy alone in the trailer and started to stand when he bustled into the café. He was fresh and bright in a sheer tank top embroidered with flowers and a pair of wide-leg jeans that swished as he walked. He hurried to our table and dropped onto the seat beside me before bumping me with his hip.

“Scooch over,” he said.

I slid nearer to the window, and he crowded in, then snagged my hand and clasped it on top of the table.

Indy drew attention everywhere he went, but this arrival attracted more notice than usual. Patrons tracked his journey from the door to me, and several people swiveled in their seats to stare as he pushed up and kissed my cheek.

My face burned hot, and I aimed my gaze at the folded menus on the tabletop.

“You said pancakes?” I asked.

Indy tipped his head against my arm to peruse the menu as I opened it.

I felt the weight of the other customers’ notice. My hound’s ears pricked to whispers, waiting for slurs like “queer” and “fag.” The world was kinder than it used to be, but I couldn’t quell the discomfort that filled me until it overflowed.

“Sit up.” I shrugged my shoulder beside Indy’s head.

He shifted off me and glanced over with a frown.

“Sit up,” I repeated. “Please.”

His frown deepened, but he obliged, straightening and sliding a few inches away while dragging the second menualong with him. He opened it and skimmed the breakfast all day options as our waitress arrived.

The middle-aged, graying woman wore a weary smile and an apron splattered with stains that looked to be from a disastrous encounter with the restaurant’s espresso machine.

“What can I get you boys to drink?” Her eyes swept over us. Between our proximity and Indy’s outrageous wardrobe, we were undoubtedly the most interesting things in this town at nine in the morning.

Indy seemed to sense her inspection, and he laid his hand on my thigh. It wasn’t subtle, but it would have caused more of a scene to ask him to move to the other side of the table, so I swallowed my protest and consulted my menu in earnest.

“Iced mocha amaretto latte, please,” Indy told the waitress.

“You don’t like coffee,” I reminded him.

“That’s not coffee,” he replied. “It’s milk with flavor.”

I glanced up to find the waitress waiting for my order. “Can you do a quad?”

“Sure can.” She bobbed her head while scribbling on her notepad. “Do you know what you wanna eat, or do you need a few more minutes?”

“I’ll have pancakes,” Indy announced. “Blueberry.”

The waitress turned to me. “And for you?”

“Same.” I closed the menu and slid it toward her.

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