Page 93 of Hounded: Ashes to Ashes

Perfect.

Pretty.

Doll.

The museum was a dream.

The whole day was a dream, really.

I didn’t even pinch myself because I didn’t want to wake up.

Of course, I wore a dress. A cherry red gown with a sweetheart neck that emulated the same curves I’d been chasing for sixty years. And I wore heels. They clicked on the floor as we canvassed the entirety of the Brooklyn Museum, but they made my feet ache, so I was grateful for the evening reprieve where Loren and I got to cozy up in a round booth at High Notes.

We sat shoulder to shoulder with my hand hooked around his thigh, and he seemed content. Peaceful. Unbothered by my proximity and placing occasional kisses on my forehead even though we were in public. The booth was dark, though, and semi-private. That was probably why he felt comfortable enough to tip his head against mine and rest there, listening to the music drifting from the baby grand piano in the center of the room.

The vibe was utterly Loren—relaxed and intimate. Most of the songs had been classical, and he informed me of the title of each piece and its composer. Names like Tchaikovsky, Chopin, and Brahms lingered in my mind as the woman finished playing, and the audience broke into gentle applause.

The pianist rose to take a break, and quiet conversation broke out across the room.

I turned to put my mouth on Loren’s earlobe for a playful nibble. “So, what do you want to do?” I whispered to him. “When it’s all over, I mean.”

He leaned away and tilted his head to meet my eyes. It was hard to tell in the dimness, but he looked pale. “When what’s over?” he asked.

My shoulders bounced in a shrug. “The hunt. The demons.” He still seemed uneasy, so I added, “When wewin.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed. Rather than reply, he lifted his wine glass off the table and took a long sip of the Merlot. While he drank, I gazed across the bar.

Heavy curtains blacked the windows, making it seem even later than it was. We’d wandered the museum for half the day, then made it here for happy hour appetizers. Plates of food were spread out before us. Loren had ordered bruschetta and crab cakes, and I’d made a meal of parmesan truffle fries.

I picked one of the straggler fries from the plate and ate it, giving him time to answer or at least consider. As the pause grew, the shadows on his face seemed to darken.

“I still wanna see the Hoover Dam,” I said.

Loren snorted into his wine glass.

“I mean it!” I pinched his thigh. “You know it’s basically sixty stories tall? That’s like the Chrysler Building, but a wall.”

He set the wine down and rolled his head toward me, flashing a crooked grin that stirred butterflies in my stomach. “You want to look at a wall?”

“Walk on it, too,” I insisted weakly.

“You can walk in the Chrysler Building or the One World Trade Center,” he mused. “In fact, you have.”

He grabbed another fry from my plate and aimed it toward my mouth. Those butterflies were swarming now, threatening to carry me away.

I took the offered bite, holding eye contact while my lips brushed his fingertips. His smile took on a bashful bend as I chewed, then replied, “Exactly. I’ve seen those. I’ve never seen a dam.”

I liked tall things and high places. The views in the desert would be so much different than in the city. Open. Spread out. Besides our road trip to Ohio, I couldn’t recall a time I’d been out of Brooklyn. Loren wasn’t inclined to roam or explore, but I knew he would—he’d proven as much—for me.

That wasn’t to say he was entirely wrong in his skepticism.

“And then after the dam,” I continued, “we could take a quick peek at Vegas. Just a passing glance.”

Chuckling, Loren polished off his wine, and I washed down my fries with some prosecco.

“But what about you?” I asked, harkening back to the question he’d seemed keen to ignore. “What do you wanna do?”

Surely there was something. A lot of things. Now that he was free from Hell, we could live unfettered lives. It was an unknown kind of autonomy. Might have been hard to fathom.

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