Page 65 of Hounded: Ashes to Ashes

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Loren watching the proceedings. His arms were crossed and his head hung low, curtained with those silky brown-black locks I always wanted to touch.

“You gonna play, Lore?” I called over to him, and I hoped he’d say yes. I really did.

Rather than answer, he walked to the window Gunnar had left open and stepped through it onto the fire escape outside. A lump lodged in my throat, making it hard to swallow.

“How will this help us get to know each other?” Dottie asked.

I gave a little cough to free my voice, then replied, “People drink; people talk. It’s the best way to make friends.” Giving the foil ball one last crunch to ensure it was packed tight, I tossed it to Gunnar. “You wanna get us started, big guy?”

A few rounds in, I’d missed more shots than I’d made and had to sneak down to the gallery and steal a second bottle of wine from Sully’s storage closet to resupply. One thing I didn’t take into consideration was that hellhounds couldn’t get drunk. They could down liquor like water and not have a slur to showfor it. Even Whitney, who struggled with eating, managed to power through his share of the wine. He went so far as to comment on it having a “lovely bouquet” which was, frankly, adorable.

Halfway through the match, I was pleasantly tipsy, and my loose lips led me to learning all I wanted to know about my newfound demonic buddies.

Dottie died in ‘53, as Loren had deduced. Born and raised in Chicago, she fell victim to a nationwide outbreak of polio. My assessment of her as a no-nonsense lady proved to be accurate. She used to ride motorcycles—quite the salacious activity for a woman of her time.

Gunnar’s life story was a little less fantastic. Florida boy who worked as a personal trainer, angling for a career as a bodybuilder, which explained the muscle tone. He died the way he lived. In the gym, lifting the weight that dropped on his chest and crushed his ribs, making for a slow, agonizing death.

The part I didn’t get about their stories was where damnation came into the mix. Moira, I assumed, made deals with them both, but neither mentioned her. By the time I thought to question that, we were through the second bottle of wine, and I was too intoxicated to try to navigate three flights of stairs to go after another.

“New game!” I said while Gunnar inhaled the last package of Swiss Rolls and Dottie dunked her Honeybun in a mug of Chardonnay. Whitney had set his Twinkie aside, but I’d noticed him occasionally poking at it.

Leading them to the living room, I set the empty wine bottle on the floor, then told everyone to sit in a circle around it. Gunnar chortled a laugh that let me know he got the idea, and Dottie surprised me by chiming in.

“Spin the bottle?”

“What’s this now?” Whitney asked, clearly out of the loop.

Crouching, I gave the bottle a flick that sent it twirling on the hard floor while I provided instructions.

“You spin the bottle, then whoever it points at, you have to kiss. Sometimes it’s seven minutes in Heaven, but that’s hitting a little close to home if you know what I mean.” Even without the knowledge of my run-in with Evander, they all got that joke. “So, I think a peck on the lips’ll do. But if you guys wanna go harder, by all means.”

I dropped onto my tailbone and scooched into my position in the circle. Gunnar was really vibing, ready to lock lips with Dottie, I assumed, though I would have emptied my bank account to watch him stick his tongue down Whitney’s throat.

Whitney countered Gunnar’s enthusiasm with concern and a frown while he glanced from me to the other two. “I see,” he muttered.

A scuffling sound behind me announced Loren climbing back in through the window.

I turned toward him in time to hear Whitney announce, “Ah! Another player joins the game. You should excel at this, Lorenzo. Kissing people you’d rather not was half your job in Hell.”

Loren faltered in his stride, then pinned me with a perplexed look. Of course, he didn’t say anything, and he didn’t have to because the guilt was already rolling in. What if the bottle landed on me? Would I kiss another man or woman in front of him? Right after I made a whole production about not sharing him with anyone last night?

He was mine, and I was his. No party pass-arounds, no pecks on the lips.

I tittered an awkward laugh. “Maybe spin the bottle isn’t the best idea.” I scooped up the wine bottle and clutched it to my chest. “How about a different game? Like truth or dare.”

“Truth.”

Loren’s second interruption of our conversation was no less jarring than the first. He set his stance and locked eyes with me. Spouting off with Dottie’s death date may have been an accident, but this was intentional.

After a long moment, I managed to sputter, “Huh?”

Loren folded his arms, and his expression took an increasingly serious turn. “I want you to tell me the truth,” he said.

“That’s not exactly how it works.” I stood, wringing my hands around the neck of the wine bottle. “But I’m game. What’s your question?”

“No question.” Loren shook his head. “I just want you to tell me the truth.”

The other hellhounds waited like this conversation was a strip of raw meat being dangled before them. Juicy. It was the kind of drama you could really sink your teeth into, and I had a feeling I would come out looking like the villain.

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