Heart So Hollow (Dire Wolves Book 1), page 13
I’m never impulsive. I don’t do things without meticulous planning and researching them to death. But, for some reason, Bowen and his invitation remind me of a time I wasn’t so structured and so…paranoid. I’m reminded of a time when I almost did do something impulsive, just because I wanted to, with someone who I just wanted to be with. And now I want to chase that feeling again.
He leans down, his nose almost touching mine, “Yes, I’m serious,” he whispers.
I just shake my head in disbelief, “Oh my god!” I blurt out, throwing my arms around his neck again.
Bowen bends down, grabs me under my thighs, and lifts me up onto the edge of the countertop, “Is this what I have to do—” he asks as he plants his hands on either side of my legs, “whenever we have a fight, I just buy you a trip somewhere?”
I shoot him a side-eye, “We’ve never had a real fight.”
“Just you wait,” he mutters, returning my look.
“We’ve also never had a real date,” I point out.
“We will on Sunday. A long one.”
He has an answer for everything, and I can’t say I mind at all. Then I pause, trying to decide how to ask the question that’s been gnawing at me since I turned around and saw him sitting next to me at Calhoun’s. And now, with what’s just happened, I need to know more than ever, but I don’t have a tactful way to ask.
Fuck it.
“Before I say anything more about this, I have to know,” I wag my finger back and forth in the space between us, “what is this?”
“What’s what?”
“What are we? Who am I to you—in regards to this trip and anything else?”
Bowen cocks his head, “You want me to label you?”
“Yes,” I say quickly, “some people don’t like labels, but I live by routines and organization and I need to know where I stand.”
And because I need a label for this new, nicely wrapped box I’ve found myself in now…
Bowen nods, running his hands up and down the tops of my thighs as he considers my request.
After a moment, he clasps his hands at the small of my back, pulling me closer, “You’re mine,” Bowen lowers his voice, “my girlfriend, my lover, my partner, whatever iteration of possession you prefer, legal or not. You told me, from your own mouth, that you’re mine,” he reaches up to hold the side of my face, “and I’m telling you now, it doesn’t matter if I’m gone for one minute or one year, I’ll always come back to you. Because I want you, I’ve chosen you, and,” he lowers his voice to a whisper, “I get what I fucking want.”
He’s definitive and aggressive and extreme and, against all logic, it reminds me of who I used to be. I feel like someone’s removed the cinderblock sitting on my chest for the past three years. I can breathe when I’m with Bowen and I’m afraid to stray too far or else I’ll drown again.
I reach up and grasp the sides of his face, “Sounds like we both get what we want.”
“Good. Because tonight—” he leans in and kisses me with painful tenderness, “I’m not leaving, and you’re not leaving.”
There’s a flash in Bowen’s eyes and, in one swift motion, he lifts me off the counter and throws my body over his shoulder. Upside down and pressed against the smooth skin of his back, I shriek at him through broken laughter as I watch the floor start to move beneath me. He carries me, one arm hooked over the backs of my knees and the other swinging at his side, through the living room and down the dark hallway.
I hear the bedroom door shut and then tumble off his shoulder, bouncing into a heap on his bed. Moments later, all I can feel is his mouth on my skin and his hands moving over me, feeling every curve and pulling each article of clothing free to be discarded over the edge of the bed. I exhale deeply against his lips, my chest heaving as he slides his hand up my throat and squeezes my jaw in the crook of his thumb.
“Tell me, baby girl,” he brushes his lips over mine, “now that you’re home, do you feel like a whore or a queen tonight?”
My cheek muscles tense under his fingers as I smile, because I am home.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Hollow Watcher
One Year Ago
My grandmother used to love watching that old TV show, Thriller. The one where Boris Karloff hosts stories about unsuspecting people befallen by supernatural phenomena or insidious conspirators getting their comeuppance. She ate that shit up, and so did I. Maybe that’s where I learned the meaning of right and wrong—how to dole out justice and retribution.
My favorite one is about a legendary scarecrow in a small town that gets revenge on those who don’t behave. The townspeople called him the Hollow Watcher.
And maybe that’s what I am, too.
I watch Brett because there’s a gaping hole inside me that only she can fill.
Like clockwork, her blue Impreza pulls into the northeast entrance of Black Ridge at 4:26. She parks in the first space, closest to an oak that always shades the first three spaces by the time she arrives. Today’s a sunny day, which means she’ll strap her bike to the rack on the hatch of the Impreza and take it to work with her. She changes clothes at the end of the day and pulls out of the parking lot by 4:13. She does this every single day as long as it’s not raining.
She likes routine, and she’s nothing if not predictable.
I watch her unlock the straps on the rack with a small key on her pink carabiner and lift her neon yellow bike off the hatch. She taps the kickstand with her pink and grey Nikes and balances the bike on the asphalt while she pulls her long, curly hair back at the base of her skull.
Her hair...
It’s red. It’s really light, so some people call it strawberry blonde, but it’s fucking red. That’s one of the first things that made me stop dead in my tracks the first time I saw her. She walked into my line of sight and I decided there was no way she’d ever leave it. I swear, it was a goddamn sign.
She grabs her pink and orange helmet from the backseat and adjusts the straps under her chin before straddling her bike. She stands for a moment, surveying the path leading down the hill to the woods.
I can’t help but smile as I watch her from the far side of the lot, unassuming and concealed in plain sight. Just like I was the first time I laid eyes on her.
She won’t notice me until later—like before.
She won’t recognize my vehicle—right now, anyway—nor the fact that I’ve been sitting in the driver’s seat, motionless, waiting for her to appear.
I tilt my head and gaze at the back of her neck, her shoulder blades peeking out of her black tank top. It outlines the curve of her waist, ending at her hips covered by smooth, sage green leggings. Her delts and traps ripple beneath her skin as she leans forward to grip the handlebars. She’s muscular and curvy in all the right places, not some frail waif who sits on the sidelines drinking White Claws and eating amphetamines.
She looks the same as she did the first time I saw her, maybe even more beautiful.
She propels herself across the asphalt to the head of the bike path and, a few moments later, she disappears over the hill toward the woods ahead.
I won’t follow her right now. I won’t pursue her into the trees to lie in wait like some predator. There’s no need for that kind of indecency. I’d never need to do that, anyway.
I’m not some fucking loser, after all.
I don’t have to worry. She’ll come to me, just like before. It happened once, and it’ll happen again. I’ll pique her interest, she’ll hesitate, size me up, and it’ll just be a matter of time. Maybe I’ll get her going and then leave her hanging, like before. But, after that, she won’t stand a chance.
It’s 4:32. I have about 35 minutes before she emerges from the woods and coasts back into the parking lot. It might be a couple minutes longer if she stops to take a photo of a toad or a deer like last time. But I like that about her, she loves the little things and she’d be more than happy with a simple life. She just wants to write her books and be happy.
Hell, if she wants toads and deer, I’ll build her a house in the middle of nowhere on a mountaintop. Lucky for her, I can give her all that and so much more if she wants it.
Part of me is annoyed, impatient that I’m still sitting here, watching her from afar, when I could already be out there with her, enmeshing myself in her life. She could already be walking side by side with me, offering up every shred of information about herself, brushing her arm against mine, hoping I’ll reach over and take her hand. Just like last time.
But there’s a process. I’m much smarter now, and much more patient.
Not like before.
This time, my girl won’t try to leave.
And, this time, no one will get hurt.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Brett
One Year Ago
People always think October weddings will be refreshing and cool with vibrant, candy-colored leaves cascading through the air behind the bride and groom like a waterfall of cinnamon spice.
They’re not—at least in the Midwest.
It’s late October and, in many ways, it still feels like summer. The temperature won’t drop significantly until November. Meantime, I’m still sweating, digging through my makeup bag trying to find the lipstick I wear every single day—Clinique Black Honey—and today is the one day I can’t find it.
I toss my rapidly frizzing hair out of my face and look in the mirror. It’s probably in the pocket of my jacket, back at my condo, in my work bag, or concealed in something else I use every day of the week except on weekends.
Adjusting the plunging neckline of my dress, I fish out two other lipsticks, glancing between them. I toss one back in the bag and open the other—Maple Sun—testing out the rust color shade. It ends up matching my long, sage green wrap dress anyway. I straighten the straps and carefully reposition my curls that have gone awry in my frenzied search for lip color. After stepping into a pair of strappy beige heels, I step back and take one last look at myself in the mirror. Pointing my toe, I extend my leg in front of me and let the split hem of my dress fall away at my thigh.
I look good.
Throwing my makeup bag and hair dryer back into my tote, I hurry out of the room, hearing Bowen’s voice from down the hall. He’s in the kitchen, leaning over the countertop, carrying on a video chat conversation in front of my laptop screen.
I raise my eyebrows and set my beige leather clutch on the counter, “Have you all been talking this entire time?”
It’s late, and the six-hour difference between Ohio and Valencia, Spain usually guarantees my parents are either on their way out for the evening or getting ready for bed.
Bowen shoots me a sideways glance like I should’ve known better than to ask, “We have things to talk about.”
I peer over his shoulder, “Like what?”
My head has entered the chat.
My mom’s sun-bleached hair fills the frame and I recognize the pair of legs standing on top of the butcher block island behind her. This may seem odd to anyone else, but it’s my dad, and he often decides, mid-sentence, to initiate home improvements on the fly.
My mom throws her hair back and rests her chin in her hand, “Oh, there you are, hon! Your birthday present is in the mail. I sent it early this time.”
“You didn’t have to do that, but thanks!” I call over Bowen’s shoulder.
“Is that what you’re wearing?” she asks, “Step back so I can see both of you.”
I straighten up and take a few steps back. Bowen follows me, sliding his arm around my waist as he takes notice of my ensemble. I look him up and down—tall and dark as usual—wearing tailored black pants and a dark purple button down rolled up at the elbows.
“Fucking smoke show,” Bowen murmurs, pulling me closer to him.
“OK, I took a screenshot!” my mom calls from the countertop, “I’ll call you next week before we leave for the cruise.”
“OK, I love you!” I call back from the middle of the kitchen.
“Love you, Claire!” Bowen’s voice booms as he lets go of my waist and reaches for his keys from the teak bowl on the counter.
I snicker at him over the laptop screen.
“Love you both!” my mom exclaims, waving into the camera before ending the call.
She does love Bowen. She said as much after the first time she video chatted with him for over an hour, and then again after he sent her a bunch of music in a Google Drive folder. And then my dad decided he loved him, too, when that music included George Strait, my dad’s favorite. I can’t blame them. I love Bowen, too.
Two weeks after I met him, I was sprawled out on a bed with creaky springs in a lodge at the edge of the mountains, curled up against his chest, exhausted from hiking all day. The room was dark and silent except for the whir of the ceiling fan and a cacophony of tree frogs and crickets floating in through the open window. We’d been laying there for over an hour and hadn’t even bothered to change out of our dusty clothes. I thought Bowen had fallen asleep, but then I heard his deep voice cut through the darkness.
“I love you.”
I didn’t have to think about it. I heard myself say it back to him in a soft, dog-tired voice, and I meant it, without a shadow of a doubt. He’s all I want and I can’t imagine being without him. A second later, he rolled over, wrapped his arms around my waist, buried his face in my neck, and fell asleep.
And now we’re getting ready to go to a wedding together.
“Did she call to talk to you or me?” I ask as Bowen shoves his wallet and keys in his pockets.
He glances at me with the faintest of smiles and starts for the garage door, “That’s none of your concern.”
I pick up my clutch and follow him, “She probably likes you more than me, now, anyway.”
“That’s the plan,” Bowen replies as he opens the door for me and presses the garage door opener.
Every time I walk across the concrete floor, I can’t help but laugh and think how much of a bummer it must be to build a new house only to realize your truck is too big to fit in the garage. But what does Bowen care? I know it doesn’t bother him. He spends most days outside, which sounds nice until you realize “outside” also includes 100° summers and 10° winters.
He opens the passenger side door and holds out his hand. I take it and carefully step onto the side bar with the toe of my shoe, hoisting myself into the seat.
“I didn’t bring the lipstick I wanted,” I lament while evaluating my lip color in the mirror one last time, “the one I always wear, Black Honey.”
Bowen glances at me and then back at the windshield, “That’s not what you have on?”
“No, this is a different one.”
He slides his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose, “They look the exact same.”
“This one’s more brownish than pink.”
“You know,” he reaches over the console and slides his hand under the slit of my dress to my bare thigh, “you wouldn’t have to deal with all this if you just moved in with me.”
I smile and glance out the window at the walls of honeysuckle whipping by. Three weeks after Black Canyon, Bowen asked me to move into his house. I said I’d think about it. The idea of selling my condo and moving in with Bowen after dating for less than two months was a bit much. It’s a big deal, a bigger deal than forgetting my lipstick.
“It would be nice to only pay half a mortgage,” I muse.
“What mortgage?” he mutters, not taking his eyes off the road.
I pause, then turn to Bowen, “Really?”
He shoots me a brief glance and then turns back to the road. I can’t see his eyes, but I know exactly how entertained he is with my oversight.
“Wow, OK,” I scoff.
I should’ve known, and now that I do, the prudent, financially savvy part of me thinks shacking up with Bowen sounds very appealing.
“Come on,” Bowen squeezes my leg, “sell your condo, save your money, write your books, get fucked every day, live the dream.”
He looks at me with the same wide grin I loved so much the first time I laid eyes on him. And when he puts it like that, it sounds pretty good.
“Let me think about it,” I nod, “seriously.”
●●●
Hildy waves to us as she dashes down the hallway carrying an armful of bouquets; peach roses and baby’s breath. The skirt of her Navy blue off-shoulder bridesmaid dress flutters in the air behind her as she disappears around the corner.
I’ve already forgotten the names of the bride and groom. All I know about this wedding is that one of Hildy and Bowen’s childhood friends is getting married and Bowen said that I’ll probably meet the entire population of Canaan in one evening.
“This is Brett Sorensen...”
Bowen doesn’t have to elaborate. Everyone seems to know who I am before I even open my mouth. Everyone knows him and, by default, they all know me, too.
Everyone.
I’ve known him since he was five…his mom and I went to school together…his dad and I used to work together…I played soccer with him in high school…I babysat him and his sister when they were toddlers…
And this is how it goes from the moment I step through the ornate mahogany doors of the country club, winding through a sea of people, my hand perpetually clasped in his. I stop keeping track of who everyone is by the time we get to the opposite end of the foyer. By this point, I’m just along for the ride.
Hildy finally appears again as the dishes are being cleared away at the reception, collapsing into the empty chair next to Jay. At the same time, a pair of arms come out of nowhere and stretch over Bowen’s shoulders. I flinch and lean away as a woman leans over and wraps her arms around him. She’s wearing the same Navy blue off-shoulder dress as Hildy, her blonde hair affixed in a French twist at the back of her head. Bowen turns his head slightly to see who it is, and once he recognizes her, he relaxes again.
“What’s up?” he asks while chewing the last of a dinner roll, not bothering to look behind him.
The woman plants a hand on her hip and runs her other hand back and forth across his shoulders. Oddly enough, I recognize her. She’s in one of the framed photos on Bowen’s wall.
