Page 62 of Hounded

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. Foodpackages 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.

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