Page 90 of Hounded
Instead, I came home and lay in my bed, and I saw Loren. It came in flickers and fragments like pieces of glass tumbling through a kaleidoscope. Some of the images felt old with smooth, worn edges. Others were crisp, sharp, and new.
I saw him in the kitchen, stirring food in a skillet and smiling. I saw him lounging in the bed of his truck beside me, pointing out star constellations and telling me their names. I saw us strolling city streets, holding hands and smiling. The scenes were bursts like fireworks, bright and beautiful and then gone, leaving only smoke in a dark sky.
I lay in my bed now, alone, replaying the events of the night in the theater of my mind.
He called me his boyfriend.
He said he thought about me.
And, god, it felt good to kiss him. Every touch, press, and grab was like a holy moment. I would have gotten on my knees for him. Worshipped him, if that’s what it took to keep him here.
But I didn’t. And he left. Again.
Rolling over, I scooped my cell off the bedside table. No missed calls or messages. It was too much to hope for an explanation or apology. From what I’d observed, Loren had to be dragged into conversation. He wasn’t the type to start one.
Scowling, I clicked the phone off and flopped onto the pillows with a heaved breath. I could call him and listen to whatever excuse he gave for going cold on me again. For escaping when I thought I finally had him caught.
Where had it gotten me? Shamelessly chasing him? Had I proven anything, even to myself?
Snatching the phone again, I opened the call log and selected Loren’s number. He could have been asleep. Could have been with someone else. That notion almost made me laugh. I would sooner believe Loren was a virgin than a fuckboy. But he was a damn good kisser.
I sat up, pressed the dial icon on my cell, and waited. Two rings in, I heard the sound of buzzing nearby.
Setting my own phone aside, I rose from the bed and crept around to the foot of it, seeking the source of the vibration.
In the living area of the dark trailer, Loren’s sweater lay on the couch. Blue-white light glowed through its pocket. Clambering down from the bedroom loft, I went to the sofa and dumped the phone onto the seat secondsbefore the call rolled to voicemail. Something on the screen caught my eye.
Scurrying back to bed, I retrieved my cell then redialed, holding Loren’s phone in the other hand and watching as the incoming call registered. The name on the ID was mine, but the thumbnail photo was… not.
Well, it might have been me, if I had flamingo pink hair and an unruly mohawk. And if I’d taken a selfie while cozied up to Loren, kissing him on the cheek. He was blushing furiously with his dark eyes averted and his lips pursed in a bashful smile.
The sight made my insides twist.
It hadn’t happened—that hair, that kiss—not that I could remember. Then again, I didn’t remember much.
I clutched both phones and stared at the picture until it was replaced with another missed call banner. I dialed again, then raised Loren’s phone nearer to my face, studying every detail of the image.
It stoked a sort of fire in me. Heartache, longing, and a pervasive sense of loss. We’d been something. We’d had something. And I wanted it back.
Setting Loren’s phone aside, I clicked into mine. After having checked numerous times before, I didn’t expect anything to have changed, but that didn’t stop me from opening the photo gallery and considering the emptiness there. It had been scrubbed as clean as a crime scene, deleted like everything else about my life before rehab.
I’d spoken to Chaz at the club and Evander at the art exhibition. They both knew things Loren hadn’t shared with me. Chaz was afraid of him and, after watching him lay out that drunk asshole with ease, I didn’t wonder why.Evander didn’t seem frightened or intimidated when Loren interrupted our chat, though, more amused. But I could tell Loren didn’t like Evander at all.
I clicked into my contact list, which was slowly growing since the additions of Sully, Chaz, and Evander. All the people who claimed to be my friends. And then there was Loren. The man whose note had been in my wallet the day I checked out of Hopeful Horizons. The one who’d met me here and welcomed me home. The one who fixed my shower and taught me to drive my car. The one who told me he loved me, then said he shouldn’t have.
When he came back here after the art show, I thought we were getting somewhere. Then he left, and that seemed to be the common thread. Every time I got close, he pulled back. Maybe I pushed too hard.
Had I forced myself on him?
No, he welcomed it. He drove me here. He kissed me. But, when I pulled on his necklace, he withdrew every bit of his consent.
Collecting both phones, I tucked them into the pockets of my fleece unicorn onesie. I stood and moved from the bedroom with swift strides. My slippers were by the door, and I stepped into them on my way out.
Nighttime greeted me as I exited the trailer. Few stars were visible this close to the city, and the crescent moon provided little light, but the café lights and strings of paper lanterns hung from neighboring RVs made it easy to see across the park.
Loren claimed he had a place here, and I intended to find it. I would knock on his door, corner him, and demand an explanation, or grovel if I had to. I’d alreadytried to apologize, but it was hard without knowing what I should be sorry for.
My feet pounded the packed earth as I took off down the path. My emotions were a muddle, but one rose to the top: anger.
