Page 91 of Hounded: Ashes to Ashes

I called after him again, causing him to draw up short.

“I think we should go to the museum,” he said before I could speak. “How’s that sound?”

His back was still to me, which seemed strange, but I nodded anyway.

“Great,” I said. “I’d love that.”

“Dinner after?” he offered. “We could make a day of it.”

I felt another rush of sensation, but this one was all in my heart. Coney Island, the Wonder Wheel, cotton candy, sex, and now an honest-to-goodness date? Maybe we’d finally had a breakthrough. Maybe we were getting somewhere. Closer to okay.

I sprang off the bed, unsteady but eager as I yanked off my shirt and undies and added them to the rumpled sheets.

“Shower, then breakfast, then the museum.” I skirted past Loren on my way to the bathroom, clenching my ass to keep from dripping cum on the floor. “I heard they have a Thierry Mugler exhibit right now. Part of his fashion line.” Pausing in the doorway, I peered up the center aisle of the trailer. Loren lingered on the steps of the bedroom loft, wearing a faraway look that made me wonder if he was listening.

“You remember him, right?” I pressed. “The ‘Glamazon’ guy?”

Loren shook his head.

“Well, it’s better than Joss Foster and his trash party.” I shrugged, then frowned. “Don’t tell Sully I said that. I liked the trash party, too, but this iscouture.”

I stepped into the bathroom and went straight to the shower, cranking the water on to hot. While I waited for it to warm up, I glanced at the piles of makeup on the sink counter. I finger-walked my way around a cup of brushes and a pot of gold body glitter, then hung my head into the hall again.

“Hey, Lore?”

He was on the steps with his arms folded across his chest, looking out the window above my art desk the same way he’d stared out our bedroom window all morning. Thinking.

I knew without asking they weren’t the kind of thoughts he would share with me.

He stirred to my summons, so fucking gorgeous in just pajama pants with his hair tousled. When he met my eyes, nerves wriggled like snakes in my gut.

“Should I get pretty?” I asked, then ticked my finger at him. “And don’t say I already am. You know what I mean.”

His smile made my already weak knees wobble.

“Yeah, Doll,” he said. “Get pretty.”

Indy

Brooklyn,New York

May 6th, 1952

When the salesclerk at Macy’s said she hoped my wife enjoyed the gift, I didn’t have the nerve to correct her. I simply took the bag with a sheepish nod and hugged it close on the subway ride home. Scuttling into the apartment, I set it on the bathroom counter, perched on the edge of the bathtub, and stared at it. The bag was innocuous, but I couldn’t stop thinking about what was in it.

Checking out had been stressful, but I’d enjoyed every second of the trip leading up to it. Wandering between the racks in the clothing department, pinching soft fabrics with my fingers, and marveling over lace trims and rows of tiny buttons had been divine. It was like strolling through a field of flowers deciding which one to pick.

I spent fifteen minutes agonizing over cuts, styles, and sizes, measuring with my hands since I didn’t dare hold anything up to my body. Then I spotted it on a standing mannequin. Satinyblue, it shimmered in the lights, as rich and deep as the ocean. I found one on the rounder that was my best estimate of a good fit, carried it to the register, and paid with trembling hands.

I was quaking again now, jittery with excitement that I shook out of my arms as I stared down at the bag on my bathroom floor. Since the cashier assumed it was a gift, she put a few pieces of tissue in the sack. They poked out the top in a cluster of soft spikes, and I plucked them out one by one, laying them on the sink counter.

It didn’t take long to unbury the thing, and I peeked in at it. It was folded and nestled in the boxed bottom of the bag, as shiny as cut sapphire. A giddy laugh bubbled out of me as I pulled it free and let it fall into shape in my grasp.

Off-the-shoulder, A-line, with ten pearl buttons running up one side, it was better suited to a cocktail party than everyday wear, but I didn’t want to look like a housewife. I wanted to play at glamor, so I set the dress aside and opened the medicine cabinet door to dig out the mascara and lipstick I’d squirreled away months ago.

I fought to keep the anxious tremors from returning as I combed the little brush through my lashes, then puffed my lips to spread vibrant red across them. Stepping back, I stared at my reflection, at myself, but not quite. The makeup made my eyes look larger, rounder, and gave my lips a distinct Cupid’s bow that hadn’t been there before.

I stripped out of my slacks and shirt before turning toward where I’d draped the gown over the tub wall. The buttons were just for show, so I used the zipper closure to open it and make room to step inside.

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