Heart So Hollow (Dire Wolves Book 1), page 18
SYDNEY: OK, so the characters are real…what about the smut?
TYLER: The smut!
BRETT: I already told you, the smut goes with the persona.
SYDNEY: So, will you name names?
BRETT: Sydney, you know I can’t answer that.
(LAUGHTER)
TYLER: That’s not fair! How do you warn people?
BRETT: There are many like him, his name doesn’t matter.
TYLER: OK, I have to ask, because this is fresh off the socials…I’m sure you’ve seen the picture that’s been circulating.
BRETT: Which one?
TYLER: The PDF of the restraining order. I think it’s fake because even without AI, it would take, like, five seconds to make. But people have been blowing up our comments all morning.
(SILENCE)
SYDNEY: Brett?
(SILENCE)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Brett
One Year Ago
“I don’t need this right now.” I slam my phone onto the counter and jam the scuffed cord in and out of the charge port, willing the tiny lightning bolt to magically appear inside the battery icon.
“What you need is a new phone,” Bowen mutters as he scrolls through emails on his laptop.
He’s right. Mine looks like it’s been run through a garbage disposal. The screen is a shattered spider web, the case is scratched, dirt and dust are lodged in every nook and cranny, including the charge port, the operating system freezes up on a regular basis, and now it won’t even charge.
“But it still works!” I can’t even convince myself anymore.
Far gone are the days when I’d find any reason to get a new phone. I’ve settled into a cozy routine where I can’t be bothered to transfer my entire digital life onto a new device.
“Not for much longer,” Bowen sniggers, pulling on his black Carhartt jacket, “how much charge do you have?”
“70%. I think it stopped charging overnight.”
“I can add a line to my plan and have you a phone by tonight.”
I stare at him from across the island and then shake my head, “You don’t have to do that.”
“Yes, I do,” he yanks his zipper up, “you need a phone, so I’ll get you a phone.”
I don’t say anything, I just walk around the island and wrap my arms around his waist.
“What?” he laughs. “Are you just not going to have a phone?”
I tilt my head back to look at him, “I can get a new one, it’s not a big deal.”
He envelopes me in a tight hug, “It’s easy enough. Then it’s just done. Remember,” he kisses the top of my head, “I take care of you.”
The most difficult part about living with Bowen is that we share one fundamental character flaw—extreme self-sufficiency. Granted, it wasn’t a flaw when it was just me, but now, the idea of someone else wanting to do mundane, everyday tasks for me feels unnatural. I haven’t had anything close to that since I graduated from high school, and now I don’t even live in the same country as my family. I have Barrett, though, and she’s the closest thing to family I have in the same zip code. But she and I aren’t about to buy each other phones and change each other’s tires.
But Bowen will.
Every couple of weeks, while Barrett tells me about her newest household inconvenience, Bowen always listens in the background, waits for her to finish, and then asks her if she wants him to take care of it. The conversation is always the same.
“You know how to do that?” she asks with astonishment.
“Of course,” Bowen replies, as if she should have already known.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” she barks in frustration.
“You didn’t ask…”
The nonchalant way he says it always pushes her buttons, and he knows it. But she always takes him up on his offers, and that’s how it is with us, too. So, when I tell Bowen he doesn’t have to do that, we both know what it means. I can’t give up that mentality completely, but I accept his help, and he accepts me.
“OK, thank you.” This is my usual response.
He winks, “Thank me later.” This is his usual response.
It’s absolutely ridiculous. Never mind the new SUV sitting in the driveway or the fact that I’m living mortgage-free in a house with him. All that is fine, but I still can’t handle Bowen replacing my ruined phone.
I can’t stick around to argue anyway. Vacation and the holiday are over, so I’m back to my regular schedule at work. But, as soon as my coworker, Abby, sits down in front of my desk, it’s apparent that we have a lot of catching up to do.
“What—” Abby zeroes in on my hand as I’m scrawling an email address on a blue post-it, “is that?”
Nothing gets past her, especially on the first day back in the office from a holiday. This happened last Christmas, too…and the Fourth of July, and after her two-week vacation to Tahiti. We sit in each other’s offices for hours on end, guzzling mugs of coffee, trying to remember what we do for work.
Normally, I wouldn’t even be here today. I only go into the office two or three days a week depending on my schedule. And of those days, I usually pick the opposite schedule from everyone else because I like the quiet. It’s also the reason I decided to switch offices and take up residence in the empty one on the second floor next to the server rooms. Abby calls me a hermit, but she still comes by every day to hang out and drink coffee.
As much as I didn’t want my time off to end, it’s a nice change of scenery to come in and see everyone again. Abby sets her mint green Yeti mug on my desk and leans in to get a better look at my ring. She tucks her platinum blonde hair behind her ear and gazes at the teal stone.
“Um, yeah,” I haven’t even thought about how to tell anybody about this, “Bowen asked me to marry him.”
I’m afraid that Abby’s jaw is about to dislocate and end up a swinging pile of bone and flesh on my stack of manila folders.
“He proposed?” she hisses in a hushed voice. “How long have you been dating?”
I shift my eyes to side, “Almost five months.”
I know how this looks to people, but after I met Bowen, I realized drawing our relationship out in some protracted ritual under the socially acceptable guise of dating was useless. Some might argue I’m rushing into things, but the truth is that I’ve been cautious and methodical my entire adult life.
Except for that one time…
And that ended horribly.
But this time is different. Everything is different. When I decided to go on a walk through the woods with Bowen, everything played out the exact opposite from when I decided to go out on a limb and take a drive down to Cincinnati. No lies, no deception, no blood, no guns...
Fortunately, Abby sees value in this approach, too. “That is so edgy and romantic,” she collapses back in her chair with a smile.
The fact that she can use those two words to describe me or anything I do makes me chuckle.
“Settle down,” I stick the note onto the edge of my monitor, “I am none of these things.”
“Whatever,” Abby snorts and stands up, motioning for me to follow her, “I need more coffee. Tell me everything.”
Unsurprisingly, detailing the story of Bowen’s proposal on the way to the break room elicits further gasps of excitement. On more than one occasion, Abby stops dead in her tracks and makes me repeat myself. I’m not sure whether she’s impressed or can’t understand how the ghost of a hanged man played into the perfect marriage proposal. Either way, she seems satisfied with the story.
After the break room, Abby heads back to her office and I continue downstairs to the first floor on my way to check the receiving bay for a shipment of first aid supplies. My phone vibrates as I reach the ground floor. It’s Bowen, clearly in the process of procuring a new phone for me.
BOWEN (10:17AM): Does color matter? Are you going to freak out if they don’t have the right one? Wtf is Margarita and Drunk Tank Pink?
I laugh to myself, imagining Bowen standing at the phone counter in his boots and flannel, staring in exasperation as a bubbly sales girl asked, in all seriousness, if he wants a “Drunk Tank Pink” phone.
ME (10:19AM): Are those colors?? As long as it turns on it’ll be fine. I need a new case anyway.
I tuck my phone into my back pocket, now at 60% battery, and round the corner into the open-air lobby. The charcoal carpet gives way to polished stone, amplifying my footsteps as I pass reception. The lobby is empty except for Eric Westcote, the security manager, and two other security guards. I recognize one of them as Nate, a tall, lanky guy with dirty blonde hair who makes his rounds past my office every day. I gloss over them as I pass, until I catch a glimpse of the third one.
I do a double-take and it feels like someone just punched me in the gut.
I slow down as I pass behind Eric, nearly coming to a stop. A man with dark auburn hair stands facing him and, consequently, facing me. I know him. I know his hair, I know his smile, I know the freckles on his cheeks just under his eyes.
Dear God, his eyes...
They’re vast aquamarine oceans that drown me as soon as I see them.
I know him.
My breath catches in my throat as our eyes meet. He blinks, focusing on me as Eric and Nate speak to one another, completely oblivious to my presence.
Colson Lutz is staring back at me.
His eyes haven’t changed, they’re just as striking as I remember. But, now, his jawline is more pronounced and his auburn hair is cut much shorter on the sides with the top sticking up and feathered away from his eyes. His arms are crossed, and he’s glancing back and forth between me and Eric.
A familiar chill sweeps over my skin and I can’t breathe. My periphery disappears and tunnel vision sets in. But his expression doesn’t change one bit. He isn’t surprised. He’s calm, unfazed…
Unbothered.
My mind races as I try to make sense of what I see. Where did he come from? Is he being detained? But Eric is speaking to him and Nate in a normal tone. And Colson looks like them. Exactly like them.
He’s wearing black boots and the standard black pants and a black t-shirt under a black tactical vest bearing Wolfsson’s logo. He’s covered in Velcro straps filled with keys and radios and knives, which I always thought was the most asinine piece of overkill I’d ever seen. A black duty belt is strapped to his hips with an assortment of tools and, beneath that, a service weapon is strapped to his thigh.
He's one of them.
A badge hangs from Colson’s belt loop. It looked exactly like mine, with Wolfsson’s logo on it, except his face is on it.
No. No, no, no…
A sickening realization sets in and my body switches to autopilot. I smoothly turn and pick up my pace so I can focus on getting across the lobby. Once out of sight, I take a hard right and fly up the stairs. I don’t remember how I get back to my office, but I must be holding my breath until I shut the door.
Staring at the door handle, I don’t know what to do. I look down at my hands, hanging at my sides, and watch them twitch like an electrical current is running through my veins. I want to hide, but even in a state of panic, I know tearing the name plate off the wall next to my door will look too odd to ignore.
What the hell do I do?
It feels like the earth just cracked in half and I’ve fallen through a crevasse into an alternate reality. Because he’s downstairs. Colson is downstairs. He’s standing down there like he belongs here. And, not only does he belong here, he’s part of the force that’s supposed to keep outside threats from breaching these walls. He’s one of them. But none of them know what he did. Only I know.
I lean on the edge of my desk, my head down, my fingertips turning white as they press into the laminate, trying to take deep breaths. A minute later, I straighten up and decide to sit down before I fall down. Out of habit, I set one hand on my mouse. What the hell am I doing? I can’t just go back to work like nothing happened.
In a moment of clarity, I whip my phone out of my pocket, but my hands are trembling so much I drop it on the desk. This is just what I need in a moment of crisis, to further destroy a phone that no longer holds a charge. Finally, I’m able to hold it still enough to pull up my text thread with Bowen.
ME (10:24AM): Colson’s here. He works here. I don’t know what to do.
I tap my foot and stare aimlessly at my computer screen until my phone vibrates. But it’s not a text, Bowen is calling me.
I’m alone in my office with the door closed, but for some reason I still lower my voice, “Hey.”
“Are you OK? Who are you talking about?” Bowen sounds more curious than anything.
“Colson!” I hiss into the speaker.
Bowen pauses for a few seconds, “Who is Colson?” Bowen finally asks in exasperation.
I suddenly realize I never actually told Bowen Colson’s name. As if he’s Candyman who will appear behind me in a mirror if I say his name too many times. A whole hell of a lot of good that did me, because he’s here now. I take a deep breath and prepare to relive part of my past I’ve tried so hard to bury.
“Remember the story I told you at Salt Fork—about the guy who put a gun to my head back in college?”
“Yes?” Bowen deadpans.
I pick at my cuticles compulsively, “His name is Colson Lutz, and he’s here. He works here now. I saw him and he saw me, and he just looked at me like it was the most normal thing in the world, then I panicked and ran back upstairs and now I don’t know what to do.”
A thick silence hangs between us.
“Are you there?” I hiss.
“Yeah, yeah…” Bowen sounds slightly confused, “where are you?”
“In my office. I can’t go back out there.”
I run my fingers back and forth over my scalp, trying to focus. A million things flash through my mind, a million seconds playing and replaying over and over again like a bad song stuck in my head.
“OK,” Bowen sounds thoughtful, “what does he do there?”
“Security,” I croak.
There’s a long pause and I start to wonder if the call actually did drop this time.
Suddenly, Bowen’s deep voice growls through the speaker, “Are you fucking kidding?” That got his attention.
“No!” I’m careful not to raise my voice too much, “I haven’t seen him in three years and now he’s here, where I work, with a gun and tasers and mace and knives stuck all over him!”
“Maybe you should go home,” Bowen suggests.
“I can’t stay there forever…” Nothing seems like a good option.
“No,” he concedes, “but it might help you today. You sound like you’re about to lose it.”
Bowen’s right, of course. For a fleeting moment, I wonder whether I’ve crossed over into an alternate universe. This kind of thing doesn’t just happen. How can he be here? The odds are astronomical, aren’t they? Then I remember what Bowen said around the campfire about Colson having three years to think about me…
“Maybe I will. But I just got back from vacation,” I waffle, “I don’t know, I’ll see what I have going on the rest of the day.”
“Alright,” Bowen’s tone still has an edge, “well, let me know what you decide to do so I know you’re OK.”
“Definitely,” I sigh, focusing on my breathing.
“Hey, Brett?”
“Yeah?”
There’s another long pause.
“Whenever you leave, watch who’s walking or driving behind you.”
And now I’m back in senior year of college, locking myself away, looking behind me, watching my rearview mirror, glancing around corners, hoping I don’t see the one person I’m trying to avoid.
But unlike last time, I don’t have an entire university campus with 62,000 students to hide among. Now, I have one office building that only takes two minutes to walk end to end. And I know I’ll not only see Colson walking the halls, but I’ll likely see him in meetings, in trainings, and any other activity that involves safety and security.
There’s a knock at my door.
“Someone’s at my door, I’ll let you know what happens the rest of the day.”
“OK, love you.”
“I love you too,” I set my phone down and type my password into my computer in an attempt to make it look like I’m doing something productive.
“Come in!” I call as I sweep a stack of folders off my desk and spin around to set them on the filing cabinet behind me.
The door opens and I hear Eric’s familiar voice, “Brett, do you have a minute?”
“Yeah, what’s up?” When I spin back around, my stomach drops and I feel an electric shock radiate all the way down to my legs.
Colson is standing in the doorway next to Eric.
“This is Colson Lutz,” Eric motions to him, “he started last week. You might’ve seen his name on the list for access approvals.”
No, I didn’t, because I was on vacation and didn’t pay attention to anything I was signing. Maybe I should’ve just stayed on vacation.
“Oh, yeah,” I clear my throat, suddenly parched, “I’ve been out of town.”
I feel like I’m shaking, but when I look down at my arm, I’m surprised to find it’s still. Colson nods to me with a faint smile. My skin starts to crawl. His expression is both familiar and unsettling. I force myself to respond with the usual idiotic pseudo-smile of acknowledgement reserved for people you pass in the hallway as to not seem rude.
“This is Brett Sorensen,” Eric turns to Colson, “be nice to her. If you want to go anywhere around here, you have to get her say so.”
Be nice to me…yeah fucking right.
“Since we have the disaster response exercise tomorrow, can you confirm he has all the clearances he needs so we don’t hit a snag in the middle of it?” Eric continues.
“Sure,” I squeak, swiveling around to my screen.
At least I have an excuse to focus elsewhere. I click the desktop icon to open the access program for our building. I search for Colson’s name and click on it to open a new window. His name shows up in large, black, block letters at the top of the screen. A list of buildings and access points stretch down the window below it, all of them highlighted in green. A map of the property is below it, filled with blocks of green and no red. Colson has all the clearances. He can go anywhere he wants, just like the rest of them.
