Page 63 of Hounded

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 hishair 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, passingthem 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 Igot 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.

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