Page 70 of Hounded

“Clutch first,” I said. “Push it all the way down, step on the brake, and start the car.” Reaching over, I released the emergency brake.

“What’s that?” Indy looked at the lever.

“E-brake.”

“There’sanotherbrake?” He sounded exasperated. “Is your truck automatic? Maybe we should trade.”

The thought of Indy clambering into the C10 only to be dwarfed behind the dash made me grin.

“Holy shit, you smiled,” Indy gasped.

I turned toward him, indignant. “I smile all the time.”

“No way. You’re a serious son of a bitch, but I made you smile.” He jabbed his elbow into my ribs. “Do it again.”

Leaned away, I flapped my hand at the floorboard. “Move the shifter all the way to the left and forward.”

Indy bobbed his head in exaggerated assent. “Okay, okay. All business. But I’ve seen it now. I know it’s possible.”

He followed my instructions, growing increasingly focused as I walked him through the steps.

“Let off the clutch while you ease on the gas,” I said. “Slow.”

The Pontiac navigated the parking lot in a wide loop. We made it through first gear and into second while the engine purred.

As we cut a serpentine pattern through the lot, Indy brightened. “I think this is the farthest I’ve ever gone.”

A smile eased onto my face, and Indy stabbed his finger at me.

“Twice!” he exclaimed. “Hot damn, I’m on a roll.”

With the drive going smoothly, my attention was free to wander. My eyes skimmed down Indy’s bare thighs, then up to his face. His cheeks were rosy, and his eyes crinkled with a perpetual grin.

God, he was cute, and wiggling in a way that made me want me to wrap my fingers around his knee and dig in.

Oblivious to my attention, Indy cranked the radio up to an uncomfortable level and swayed to the thumping beat of “Edge of Seventeen.” I tucked my hands under my legs so they didn’t wander, then faced forward, squinting out the windshield at the nearby sidewalk.

In the time we’d been here, only a few people had passed. None paused at the sight of Indy’s classic car doing slow donuts, so I paid them little mind. But someone had stopped.

Whitney stood at the base of a streetlamp, illuminated by its glow. A sheathed military saber hung at his hip. Left side draw.

I’d never thought my fellow hound looked especially demonic. Now, though, he appeared almost divine, his blond hair crowned with a halo of light. But I knew who his real master was.

“Stop.” I jerked on the emergency brake and threw out my arm to bar across Indy’s chest. We both pitched forward in our seats as the Firebird skidded to a halt.

Indy looked over at me, his previous cheer swapped for confusion. “Is this a test or something?” he asked.

“Move.” I lowered my arm to free him.

He glanced around the car’s cramped interior. “Move where?”

“Here.” I grabbed his elbow and pulled him toward me while I stretched my leg across the center console.

“Can’t we just get out? Chinese fire drill, right?” He reached for his door handle.

“No!” I snapped sternly enough to stop him.

My gaze flicked back to Whitney leaning against the lamppost base. He wasn’t looking our way, but that failed to ease my panic. He was smart, strategic, and he had decades of life and experience beyond mine. I glanced at his saber—the weapon that had put more scars on my body than anything else—then lunged into motion once again.

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