Page 126 of Hounded
Grimacing, I pushed off the couch. “I’ll get it.”
As I started toward the bathroom, Indy tagged along, protesting.
“Just tell me where—”
“I know where it is,” I said. And I would be faster. The longer we sat parked, the more time Abigail had to race back to Hell and gather reinforcements.
Shuffling toward the bathroom, I stepped inside, then slid the pocket door closed. I would have benefitted from a shower but that, again, took time we didn’t have, so a wipe down would have to do.
I yanked a towel off the wall hook and wadded it in the sink, then turned the faucet on to soak it. Indy’s requested Band-Aids would be too small to cover the gaping claw marks on my arms and chest, but butterfly bandages, tape, and gauze might help.
My ruined shirt was pasted to my skin. I peeled it off gingerly, then dropped it onto the floor.
The sink was pooling with water, so I cranked the faucet off, then retrieved the towel and wrung it into the drain. I daubed the terrycloth over my face, masking hisses of pain with heavy sighs. Scratches raked down the side of my skull, matting my hair to my scalp. One even tore through my lip beneath the mess they’d made of my nose.
I wondered if there would come a time when Indy would find me more gruesome than pretty. More beast than man. The thought made me frown, which made my battered face ache, which made me even more frustrated. I flung the towel onto the counter, where it knocked over half a dozen of Indy’s beauty products and sent a few clattering into the sink basin.
“Everything all right?” Indy called from outside.
“Yeah,” I muttered without being sure if he would hear.
Grabbing the towel, I tossed it onto the floor and started righting bottles and containers. I fished the items out of the sink and set them in the scarce empty space where I noticed a loose screw on the countertop. I pinched it between my fingers and raised it for inspection. My sight was blurry with both eyes blacked and swollen so I strained to study the thing that seemed so out of place.
I wasn’t sure what made me look up, but that was where I saw it. The hole the screw came out of. In the corner of the vent fan plate. When I’d removed it a week prior, I’d been careful to put it back the way I found it. That meant the screw had been removed recently by someone else.
Staring harder, I noticed the other three screws weren’t flush to the plate, only finger tight, and my stomach dropped.
I knew, I knew, Iknew, but I checked anyway. I had to.
Removing the plastic cover was harder than it should have been while I prayed my intuition was wrong. When I lowered the plate and saw the clear baggie resting on top of it, I damn near threw the thing across the room. I snatched the bag and balled it in my fist, ready to crush the pills inside to powder.
Four Green Apple ecstasy pills, the usual fare, and I realized Indy’s jittery state wasn’t because of the hound attack. Was that what he’d been doing while I was in the automotive store? Sneaking away to get high?
I whirled toward the door and slung it aside to find Indy leaning against the wall outside. His swollen pupils fixed on me as I shoved the baggie at him.
“What the fuck is this?” I shouted, almost roared.
He flinched back and his eyes darted around, looking everywhere but at the pills being thrust into his line of sight.
“I…” He swallowed, then licked his lips, probably thirsty. Drugs dried him out. Then I remembered the water he’d drank so greedily, and I felt even more foolish.
Going to the club. Talking to Evander. Buying drugs. He’d been out of rehab less time than he’d been in it. Was it all for nothing?
“How did you find those?” he asked.
“You were clean,” I said. I was shaking.
His tongue snaked across his lips. Tweaking. So damnhigh.
“I’m not,notclean,” he hedged.
“Bullshit.”
I barged back into the bathroom where I fumbled with the zipper top of the bag until I settled to rip it instead. Flipping open the toilet lid, I dumped the pills into the pool of blue water, then flushed them down.
“Loren,” Indy whined. The mournful sound raised my hackles.
What was he more upset about? A wasted hundred bucks? Or the fact that he had managed to cut me deeper than any hellhound ever could?
