Heart So Hollow (Dire Wolves Book 1), page 11
“Yeah,” Bowen shrugs, “thought I’d be a gentleman and leave your ass for another time.”
“You wish,” I chortle, brushing a lock of hair out of his eye with my fingertip.
“You laugh,” he kisses me softly, “but just like that tight little pussy of yours is mine and that pretty little mouth of yours is mine, that sweet little ass of yours is also mine. And soon, you’ll be begging me to fuck that, too. And when you do…” Bowen leans into the nape of my neck, biting it with a groan.
“That’ll be the day,” I snicker.
“Mark my words, darling,” Bowen radiates with arrogance as he reaches down between us, but then his face drops, “Oh, shit.”
“What?” I raise my head, my eyes darting up and down.
Bowen looks up at me, his mouth ajar, “I lost it.”
“Lost what?” I pop up onto my elbows in a jolt of panic, “Inside me?”
Bowen blinks and stares at me in silence for a few moments, “No,” his face explodes into a Cheshire Cat grin, “I got it,” he raises his closed fist and waggles his eyebrows.
I collapse back onto the sheets with relief, purging my lungs of air. Laughing to himself, Bowen crawls over me to the edge of the bed and stretches halfway off to ditch the condom in the trash can. And when he does, I do a double-take, struck by a tattoo that stretches from one shoulder to the other. It's a fox, drawn with thick, sharp, black lines. Its head curls over Bowen’s left shoulder blade, looking backward and baring its teeth, while its tail swirls over his right shoulder like a jagged black tidal wave.
How did I not see this massive tattoo across his back?
Because he hasn’t turned his back to you since coming in this room.
“Whoa,” I reach over and run my fingertips across his traps, following the black waves over his muscles, “I didn’t even see this.”
I lift my fingers when I come to a scar on his left shoulder blade. It’s hidden under the black ink and easy to miss at a distance, but the skin is raised and looks like the track of a shooting star. I leave it be, in case it’s sensitive, but I can’t imagine getting a tattoo over a scar that big. Bowen retracts back to the edge of the bed and looks over his shoulder, letting me admire his ink.
“Why a fox?” I ask.
He crawls back over me and settles between my legs again, “Ever heard the saying, don’t let the fox guard the hen house, even if the fox is really good looking?”
I give a half shrug, “Sounds familiar.”
“Foxes are cunning and sly, but so are humans,” he explains, “some are smart, attractive, and good at deceiving people. You have to recognize which ones are the foxes and always stay five steps ahead them.”
I arch my brow and nod, “I take it you’ve met some foxes, and not just the pretty kind.”
Bowen trails a lock of his hair back and forth across my forehead and smiles, “It only takes one, and you never make that mistake again.”
I gaze at my reflection in his dark brown eyes. They’re vibrant, but have a distant look when he stops speaking. But silence with him isn’t awkward or off-putting. Instead, it’s like looking through a pitch-black doorway, and knowing that beyond the doorway was something incredibly exciting, like being drawn to the void.
This is what he was talking about—this is exactly what it feels like to be with him. And now I want to go wherever he’s going.
I finally break the silence, “Are you staying or heading back?”
“Do you want me to stay?”
“Yeah,” I stretch my neck from side to side, “if you want to.”
A shadow falls behind Bowen’s eyes and he looks down at me with the same darkness he had when he flipped the swing bar shut on the door. “Then say it,” he says slowly, “tell me what you want from me, and mean it.”
I don’t know why it’s so hard to say what I need to say, especially now. For some reason, it’s easier to make demands of him while he’s fucking the life out of me rather than just telling him that I want him to stay the night. But the imminent threat of him leaving finally drags me out of the idiotic conflict in my head.
I reach up and stroke the side of his face, “I want you to stay here and sleep with me.”
Bowen’s eyes soften again and he lifts my leg, wrapping it around his waist, “Now that you’ve invited me in,” he drawls, sending a shiver over my shoulders and neck, “I’m never leaving.”
Thank God.
CHAPTER NINE
Brett
Present
Judy glances up from her laptop, “How long have you and your boyfriend been together?”
Some people might be put off by that—their therapist typing away as they spill their guts—but it kind of makes me feel more important. It makes me feel like what I’m saying is worth writing down, even if she is going to use it to analyze my mental illnesses, which I’m sure haven’t all been identified yet…
That’s a loaded question. She sees my jaw tighten and my cheek muscles twitch as I try to keep a straight face.
But she lets it ride and continues, “What first drew you to him? What are your favorite qualities you see in him?”
“The way he looked at me the first time I saw him.” I don’t even have to think about it, I remember it vividly. “Like he already knew everything about me. But besides that, I don’t think he’s afraid of anyone or anything. To him, everything is just…chess pieces,” I say, letting my eyes wander across the floor. Then I shake my head, “I don’t know if I could ever be like him.”
“You hold him in very high regard, I can tell,” she smiles. “On the flipside, what are some things about him that you find challenging?”
I let out a sigh, “He feels responsible for so many people. And, because of that, he has to be in control of everything—” I tip my chin and pinch my fingers together with emphasis, “eh-ver-ree-thing!” Then I sink back into the sofa, “I get why he feels that way, but sometimes—” I clench my jaw, feeling the frustration rise, “I wish he would just fucking share some of it.”
●●●
When I emerge from the back door after showering and cleaning up, the aroma hits me and I breathe in a lungful of nostalgia. Smell memories of charcoal, cut grass, and the sweet summer heat wrap me in a protective cocoon. But I’m not back in the cozy memories of my childhood; instead, it looks like I’ve stepped into a Black Ops barbecue. Some of them I even recognize from the police department, which makes me smile.
Full-on corrupt.
They’re all people he works with or has worked with in the past. There are a couple of women I recognize from sporadic outings, but most are men with tattoos and sunglasses, wearing the same type of military-grade watch. And beards. Lots of beards.
That is, except for him.
He’s standing against the railing, dressed in black trackpants and a grey sleeveless undershirt, his long, trailing tattoo protruding from his shoulder down the length of his arm. Unlike the other guys hanging around the deck, milling about, he’s never had a beard, or any facial hair for that matter. He’s always clean-shaven with his dark hair cut shorter on the sides and longer on the top.
When he sees me, he breaks away from the group and crosses the deck, enveloping me between his broad shoulders as soon as he’s within arm’s reach. Then he reaches down and pulls my face to his in a deep kiss.
“So, where’d you go?” he asks, weaving his fingers in mine.
“Blackhorse,” I look up at him with a half-smile, “and, this time, I stayed upright.”
“You fucking better have,” he gives me a warning look and glances down at my belly, “I’ll lock you up in that house until Christmas.”
Clearly, he’s had enough of me dragging my ass home with an assortment of abrasions and contusions whenever I decide to “check out” a new trail.
“Try it,” I taunt, “you’ll just have to pay for another window,” to which he snorts under his breath and mutters a curse before wrapping his arms around me again.
Twelve months ago, he probably wouldn’t have said something like that, and I probably wouldn’t have had that response. But, in many ways, I’m a different person now. I’ve learned to accept where I am and take more risks. But a tiger doesn’t lose its stripes. I still evaluate, analyze, reevaluate, and make educated decisions. I could never be anything close to impulsive, especially now.
I glance over his shoulder and see a gargantuan figure lumbering toward us. His platinum blonde hair is tied back into a messy bun at the crown of his head and his icy blue eyes are hidden behind a pair of mirrored sunglasses. Many of the others are still in uniform, but he looks like he just rolled off a catamaran with his flip flops, cut-off t-shirt, and bottle of Corona. He’s technically the boss, but it’s never felt that way. Since the moment I was first introduced to him, they seemed more like brothers.
He wraps his massive arm around my shoulder and I have to tilt my head back to see his face. He’s like a cloud blocking out the sun.
“Hey,” I nudge him in the side, “are you wearing sunscreen?”
He arches his brow, which might as well be non-existent because of how they blend into his fair skin, “I didn’t know when he decided to put a baby in you that you’d become my mother, too,” he scoffs.
I glance down at the front of my shirt that now protrudes enough for people to notice, “You should be thankful I’m not your mother,” I retort.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spy a white Ford Raptor roll to a stop at the top of the hill. The dog jumps up from the edge of the stairs and starts barking his usual alert. But once he sees who it is, he quiets and lays back down. My pseudo-sister-in-law jumps out of the passenger side seat, followed by her husband. As soon as she sees us, she takes off down the hill and scurries up the stairs to the deck. She flies into my arms, nearly knocking me over, and then turns to her brother and does the same.
He keeps one arm wrapped around her as her husband approaches, to which he swings out his arm and they clasp hands. I keep trying to imagine what these two men were like in high school together—angsty teenage boys who played soccer and drove fast cars. But, in many ways, I know it wasn’t the same as my high school experience. When my angsty phase finally came to an end with the approach of graduation, his was just beginning.
Before I can say a word, she pulls out her phone and thrusts it in my face, “Look what my mom just sent me.”
“Whoa...” I rotate her phone so I can better see the photo, “are you serious?”
It’s my book, and it’s on a shelf at a Barnes & Noble, sitting right next to other authors whose books are sitting on my shelves inside this very house. She shrieks with excitement, tucking her phone back into her pocket.
Even though I’ve been seeing things like this for weeks, I still can’t believe it’s real. Probably because this book was supposed to be a trauma dump, not an overnight sensation. Granted, I hoped it would be successful, but I thought it would be a much slower process. I didn’t think it would take on a life of its own.
Maybe it does if the story is fucked up enough…
Suddenly, I notice her eyes darting back and forth between me and the ground, “What?” I give her a once-over, eyeing her suspiciously. “What are you up to?”
She shoots me a coy smile, “I came up with a really stellar PR campaign.” Her expression changes into one bordering on diabolical. “It’ll be like blood in the water. I’ll tell you about it later,” she winks.
I look away, unable to contain my smile, “You’re way too excited about this.”
But I can’t blame her. She’s been waiting for this opportunity. I may have written the book, but she’s been right there with me for all of it, and she always has been, more than most people will ever know.
“Get ready,” growls the voice one foot above my head, scanning the thick line of trees across the lawn, “now, the real fun begins.” Then he swaggers back across the deck, bobbing his head to Korn playing from the speakers next to the grill.
And, this time, I know neither of them are talking about the book.
CHAPTER TEN
Brett
One Year Ago
Early the next morning, I open my laptop and glare at the last page I typed the day before. I was so excited to have finished this chapter. I click the page break icon and stare at the cursor blinking incessantly, mocking me, and then glance down at my phone, the text still visible.
BOWEN (7:43AM): Work emergency. I had to leave early today.
He’s gone. He didn’t even wake me up. I opened my eyes and he was just…gone.
What the hell kind of emergency does a surveyor have while they’re on vacation? Did someone find another corpse in the woods?
That’s inappropriate…I throw my phone onto the bed in frustration, but it bounces onto the floor. Then, in a total Brett Sorensen move, I rush over to pick it up and make sure the screen didn’t crack.
When I saw Bowen’s text, the first thing I felt was rage followed by a sick sense of abandonment, which feels ridiculous because I’ve only known Bowen for about 48 hours. But now all I feel is insult and betrayal. I shouldn’t feel this way, but I do.
Maybe it’s because Bowen is the first guy to make me feel this way since…Colson.
And fuck him for doing what he did. Fuck both of them.
But none of it matters, Bowen’s still gone, and it infuriates me that I’m so put off by it.
Angry and motivated, I resist the urge to text him back, telling myself I won’t until I finish another chapter. I do it, too. Room service breakfast burritos give way to two pots of coffee and a room service club sandwich with kettle chips. After typing the final word of my next chapter, I glance at the clock on the side table.
5:46.
I wish I’d brought my bike. I didn’t realize the loop around the lake would be a perfect way to break up the day. I grab my phone off the bed and type furiously into the Google search bar. There’s one Chinese restaurant within delivery range—barely. Food before man, always.
Once that’s done, I return to Bowen’s text and start typing.
ME: Fuck you. Lying asshole.
Then, I think better of it, and delete the message.
ME (5:48PM): No worries. I got a lot written today.
And then I immediately wish Barrett was here. She’s so much better at dealing with these kinds of things.
Just like last time…
●●●
“Juicy Lucyyy!” Barrett sings as a plate of three sliders and a pile of fries appears in front of her.
The same exact plate appears in front of me a few seconds later. I’m feeling substantially better after being back home for a few days. Plus, it’s Thursday night, which means Thursday Dinner at Calhoun’s.
It’s the little things.
Barrett and I sit among the young professionals sucking down their bourbons and craft beers after the hustle and grind while the old money sips their house chardonnay and top shelf Scotch. As it is, neither of us live for the hustle or come from old money. We just eat our Juicy Lucys and talk shit about whoever or whatever is getting on our nerves that particular day.
Tonight, the conversation is about one thing—Salt Fork.
“I sound like an absolute sap,” I mumble, still admonishing myself for having feelings.
Barrett swirls a fry around in her plastic cup of ketchup, “Shock of shocks,” she quips, “I try to hook you up with eligible men all the time, with no success, but you run off into the wilderness and come back with your soulmate. I’d sound like an absolute sap, too, if that’s the kind of micro-vacation I had.”
“Well, I didn’t come back with him, now did I?” I lament.
She shrugs and then cracks a smile, “I still can’t believe you went to some rando state park in Ohio and found a sex god.”
I stare off into space while images and soundbites flash through my mind, “Did I tell you about his tattoos?” I glance up, trying to focus on something more superficial.
“No,” Barrett shoots me a devious look.
I flash my eyes at her, “He has a tattoo of the three-headed dog, Cerberus—” I slice my hand horizontally toward my pelvis, “right here.”
“What?” Barrett leans across the table, “Did you take a picture? Can I see?”
“Oh, sure,” I shrug, “when I tore off his pants, my first thought was to crawl across the floor, dig my phone out of my shorts, and snap a photo of his dick.”
“Clearly, you need to get your priorities straight,” Barrett mutters, popping a fry in her mouth. “But he never responded to your text?” Barrett raises an eyebrow.
“No,” I shake my head, “so, I just left it at that.”
Regardless of how much I like anyone—even Bowen—I could never bring myself to fire off superfluous texts into the ether. Fishing for attention from some guy I’ve known for less than a week isn’t appealing, it’s fucking sad—even if I had some of the most amazing sex of my life and can’t stop thinking about him.
“Rude,” Barrett spits dismissively. Then she slams her glass down onto the tabletop, nearly sloshing beer out of her glass, “What if he has a girlfriend?” From her sudden change in demeanor, she’s already decided this is the case.
“I guess that would explain a lot,” I mutter, biting a fry in half, “but if he has a girlfriend, why would he let me anywhere near his family? They acted so welcoming, like I belonged there.”
Barrett chuckles to herself, “Maybe they hate her and they’re looking for a replacement.”
“Well,” I mumble bitterly, “that worked out well, didn’t it?”
Barrett scrunches up her nose in sympathy, “I’m sorry.” Then she suddenly sits up with a snap of her fingers, “Hey, this is just like Dirty Dancing!”
“How?” I hood my eyes, shooting her a dubious look, “I guess there were trees and cabins, but that’s about it.”
“And romance!” Barrett’s hand flies to her chest in dramatic fashion, “She’s like the wind, through my tree-es!” she croons across the table.
I rub the bridge of my nose in embarrassment, “Oh, god.”
She smacks the edge of the table and lets out a cackle, “Granted, I’m sure he’s no Patrick Swayze.”
