Page 26 of Hounded
“Just the nearest drugstore,” Indy said, then took on a look of exaggerated concern. “Do I lose my pin if I buy something there?Drugstore? It’d be a shame to throw away all my hard work for some hair dye.”
I huffed a laugh. “I think you’re good.”
Nodding, he reclined and kicked one leg over the other. “Maybe we could get some food while we’re out,” he said as I started the engine. “Turns out I’m not much of a cook.”
I wondered what had brought him to that realization so soon and imagined some kind of disaster in the Airstream’s kitchen. He didn’t elaborate as I backed the Pontiac out of its spot then turned out of the lot.
Indy cranked his window down, and I did the same. Warm wind whipped in, and my hound sniffed at it, searching for the smells of nature buried beneath the industrial stink of the city.
As we drove, Indy drummed his fingers across his knee, flashing nails painted neon green.
I wanted so badly to hold his hand.
“So, you’re not much of a conversationalist,” he finally said. “Do you not like to talk or just not like me?”
I must have looked surprised because he added, “It’s okay. I don’t like me either sometimes.”
“I like you, Indy,” I assured him. “We’re friends.”
It didn’t feel like enough, but I couldn’t think of what else to say.
Streets and storefronts buzzed by. It was only a fewmiles to Medimart, which had enough variety I hoped Indy could find what he was looking for. As we rounded the next corner, he spoke up again.
“What kind of friends?” he asked. “Like, acquaintances or BFFs? Would you give the best man toast at my wedding?” He leaned into my peripheral. “Have we fucked?”
My breath caught in my throat, and I coughed.
He grinned. “That’s not a no.”
Reaching up, I looped my fingers around the warm, metal links of my collar and tugged on it. Indy kept smiling as he reposed and stretched his arm out the open window into the breeze.
I found a spot curbside outside Medimart. Indy bounded from the coupe and trotted ahead while I plugged the meter and checked my phone again. No calls from Moira. No texted reprimands.
“You coming, Legs?” Indy called from the automatic doors.
His crooked smile dulled my apprehension. I slid one more quarter into the coin slot, then hurried to follow him into the store.
Once inside, Indy took off toward the area labeled Beauty & Hair Care. I retrieved a handbasket and caught up to him where he stood perusing the boxed hair dyes. A package of bleach was tucked under his arm.
Snagging a box of teal blue, he tossed it into my basket, then dumped the bleach in after.
Meandering to the next aisle, he grabbed a package of licorice and tore into it. He pulled out a twisted red rope and nipped it between his teeth before offering a strip tome.
I shook my head, and he shrugged before adding the open bag to the basket.
“You have great hair, by the way,” he mumbled around the licorice. “Skin, too. Olive. It’s pretty. You Spanish or something?”
“Italian,” I replied.
He ventured ahead, skimming the rows of foodstuffs as though he didn’t have the same and more in the trailer’s pantry.
“That’s hot,” he said while studying a display of chip dips. “Do you speak it?”
“Not anymore.”
When I was a child, learning English had been paramount to survival in Brooklyn’s gritty streets. My tan skin and black hair were damning then, slotting me into an unpopular minority. Things were different now, and I found myself in good company in New York’s melting pot, but much of my immigrant heritage had been lost.
Indy nodded. “There was an Italian guy in rehab. Had the accent and everything. His dad owns a deli, I think.” He cocked his head. “Does your family live nearby?”
