Page 25 of Hounded

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.

“Cabsarea thing,” I repeated, which caused his browto 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 hisown car. I couldn’t blame him.

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

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