Heart So Hollow (Dire Wolves Book 1), page 19
“Yep,” I keep it short, “you’re all set.”
Eric walks around the side of my desk to look at the screen, “OK, come here,” he motions to Colson and points at my screen.
To my horror, Colson rounds the other side and plants his hand on my desk, leaning over my right shoulder. My eyes shift from Eric on my left to Colson on my right. My heart pounds faster as the low-key hum in my ears gets louder. I sit, frozen, my hand still on my mouse, staring at Colson’s arm just inches from me.
The underside of his forearm is covered in ink, tattooed with the silhouette of a mountain range, its undulating grey shadows extending from his wrist to the crook of his elbow. When he adjusts his stance, I see an ornate compass rose that extends the same length of his forearm. It’s beautiful, and I hate it at the same time.
Colson leans forward and points to my screen with his left hand as he asks Eric a question about hallway connectors. That’s when I see his left arm is also covered in black lines that criss-cross back and forth. As he moves his hand, I realize they’re connected by stars that form constellations.
Eric points to the schematic of the building layout on my second monitor, “This is the hallway I was telling you about…” He goes on to explain which exits will be prioritized for evacuations and which ones are designated for first responders.
If they stay in my office much longer, I’m sure I will be the one requiring the squad by the time he quits droning on about alarms and door locks. My office feels too small and both of them are entirely too close to me. It’s hot, but I’m shivering and my hands are cold and clammy.
My eyes drift from Colson’s arm to his hand, still splayed out on my desk. I still recognize his hands, even after all this time. Then again, how could I forget? Then I glance at his vest overtop his black t-shirt. I know what’s there, beneath the thin layer of cotton. And I wonder if it’s changed, after what happened…
Stop it.
Involuntary flashes of that night pelt my brain.
It’s not your problem. He tried to kill you. It doesn’t matter.
I remember thinking how clean his nails were for someone who went tramping around in the woods, climbing rocks and clearing trails all the time. That hasn’t changed. Except, now, he has a jagged scar across the top of his hand. That wasn’t there before.
I shift my gaze to his wrist. His chunky black activity tracker watch reads 10:42. Finally, after what seems like an hour, Eric and Colson stroll back around to the front of my desk, finishing their conversation like I’m not even here. But I don’t mind. If they could continue to ignore me, that would be great.
“Alright, thanks, Brett!” Eric gives me a wave as he steps into the hallway.
“No problem,” I wave back.
I look down at my computer screen and wait for everyone to vacate my office, but I hear a faint noise and glance up. And when I do, my breath catches. Colson is standing in the doorway, tapping the frame.
“So, um,” he looks me up and down and the corner of his mouth curls ever so slightly, “nice to meet you.”
Before I can react, Colson disappears around the corner, leaving me with a pit of dread deep in my gut. My hands fly to my face and I press my fingers into my eyelids, drawing in deep breaths. And then I hear his voice, taking me back to that run-down gas station on that deserted road in the middle of nowhere.
“If you’re good, I’ll mark you as mine…then I’ll bind your hands, so you won’t run when I start telling scary stories.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Brett
One Year Ago
“He actually said, nice to meet you,” I groan, twisting my fork into my pile of spaghetti.
Bowen shakes his head in disbelief, dragging a piece of garlic bread through the remaining marinara on his plate. Another perk of living with Bowen Garrison—the man can cook. And he makes sauce like some 90-year-old Sicilian grandmother.
“That’s messed up,” he mutters between chews.
The pasta falls off the prongs and I stab at my plate again, this time harder. Why is it so hard for me to get a forkful of spaghetti right now? As if I haven’t been eating the damn pasta since I was two years old.
“And what can I even do about it?” I stab my fork into a different section of the spaghetti pile, “Nothing.”
Bowen finishes chewing and slides his fork onto his empty plate, “So, he’s just—” he still looks confused, “there now?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” I finally manage to wrap enough spaghetti around my fork for a decent bite, “just working like everyone else.”
“Let me process this,” Bowen leans back and slings his arm over the back of his chair, “the last time you were with him, he put a gun to your head. And, now, he walks around the same building as you, carrying a gun, because it’s his job?”
“Yeah,” I murmur, staring down at my water, the condensation dripping into a puddle beneath the glass.
Bowen doesn’t say anything at first, but then his expression changes from contemplation to agitation.
He scoots his chair back and picks up his plate, “Maybe if you’d told someone about him back then, he wouldn’t be allowed to carry now,” he snaps and heads for the sink.
Wait…what?
I blink, unsure how to respond. The only sound comes from Bowen’s heavy footsteps followed by the clank of his dishes being loaded into the dishwasher. A steady anger begins to rise in my stomach.
“Are you saying this is my fault?” I spin around in my chair, “My fault he did what he did?”
Bowen looks up at me and shuts the dishwasher, “You know I didn’t mean it that way.”
I look down at my plate, my fork full of spaghetti hell-bent on thwarting me tonight. Now I don’t feel like eating anymore, and that only makes me angrier because this is one of my favorite comfort foods. I scoot my chair back, pick up my plate, storm over to the sink, and set it down on the counter.
Bowen glances down at my plate, and then at me, “What are you doing?”
“I’m done,” I say, my voice thick with irritation.
“No, you’re not,” he replies, as if correcting a simple mistake.
I shove the plate over the edge of the sink and send it crashing to the bottom. The plate doesn’t break, but the spaghetti is done for. A moment later, while glaring at the mess of ruined pasta, I feel Bowen’s hand around my wrist, turning me towards him.
“Hey,” his voice softens, returning to its normal tone, “you can’t act like this.”
I turned to face him, my muscles rigid, “Then what do you mean—”
“I’m not blaming you,” Bowen starts shaking his head adamantly, “I just want to keep you safe. You called me and told me this asshole is in the same building as you and there was nothing I could do. Let me just sit with it and figure it out.”
I’m still in shock that I went to work this morning and, in a few short hours, my life was turned completely upside down. And then Bowen judging my choices back then feels like a knife through my chest. It’s unexpected and gut-wrenching. I clench my jaw as soon as I feel my chin tremble and the heat of the tears in my eyes. I don’t want to cry—I refuse to cry about this anymore.
“Come here,” Bowen tugs at my waist, pulling me to his chest.
I bury my face in his neck and inhale the scent of his skin, sweet and comforting, “I don’t know what to do,” I sniff, trying to resorb all the tears threatening to flow out of my face.
Bowen runs his hand up and down the length of my back, “You don’t have to do anything. You don’t even have to talk to him. What’s he going to do while you’re there, surrounded by everyone else?”
He has a point. It’s hard enough getting actual work done on any given day without someone popping into my office or stopping me in the hallway to talk about nothing. Why should I be afraid? After a year, I’m finally known and respected there. Why should I change my daily routine just because Colson Lutz shows up out of nowhere? I shouldn’t be afraid.
But I am afraid. I feel like I’m being hunted.
Again.
●●●
Two weeks.
I haven’t seen hide nor hair of Colson, but I know he’s here. Somehow, I’ve managed to avoid him. He’s still new, so maybe his routine isn’t set yet. But I find no comfort in it because each morning I wonder if today will be the day I run into him.
This morning is no different. I shuffle from window to window in my bedroom, throwing open the blackout curtains. It’s still pitch-black outside, but it’s routine. I glance at Bowen on my way to the bathroom, still asleep, his arm slung over the pillow and covered from the waist down by the disheveled flat sheet. He keeps the house at a cool 65◦ in January, but somehow still only sleeps in boxer briefs. Meanwhile, I sleep beneath the sheet, the comforter, and a fleece blanket in fleece joggers and a long sleeve t-shirt. In the dim light, all I can see is the contrast of his black hair and tattoos. His alarm will go off at 6:00, about the time I’ll be finishing getting dressed.
By 7:00, we walk out the front door together, backpacks, tote bags, and second mugs of coffee in hand. It’ll still be dark for another hour. On autopilot, I pull the door shut and follow Bowen down the brick walkway to the gravel driveway, looking down to make sure I threw my phone and keys in the side pocket of my bag.
“The training starts at 7:30, so I’m just going straight to—” my eyes elsewhere, I almost run into the back of Bowen.
He’s stopped just behind the tailgate of his truck, staring at the gravel behind my Tahoe. I peek around him and freeze, confused by what I’m seeing. Directly behind the bumper of my Tahoe is a four-foot stack of red brick paver stones—the same stones that used to be stacked against the house by the garage. But, now, they’re sitting in the driveway, neatly stacked behind my SUV, as though they’ve belonged there all along.
I look up at Bowen, goosebumps skittering over my arms beneath my winter coat. He’s silent, his eyes moving carefully over the stack of pavers. The shadows cast by the motion sensor lights on the garage seem much more eerie all of a sudden. Bowen takes a few steps toward the pile of bricks and slowly circles it. After a few seconds, his eyes travel down the driveway into the darkness.
I finally break the silence, “What is this?”
Bowen cranes his neck to look around the side of the garage and then turns back to the bricks, “Someone moved these.” The way he says it puts me on high alert.
His eyes narrow as he peers at the stack behind my vehicle. An uneasiness creeps into my chest the longer I look at them. Someone moved them—the entire four-foot stack of them—from the side of the house to the middle of the driveway sometime during the night. Someone was here last night, while we were asleep.
My mind starts going to dark places. This happens right after Colson suddenly shows up at my workplace? It’s beyond coincidence. And he just fucks with me. All he’s ever done is fuck with me.
But, then again, there’s someone else who’s already been in our house without permission, probably more times than I care to think about. I know for a fact that Hannah doesn’t like me, she has some weird-ass fixation with Bowen, and it’s my vehicle that’s now blocked in the driveway.
When I look at Bowen, he’s scrolling on his phone, the backlight illuminating his face. The more he scrolls, the more he shakes his head.
Finally, he tilts his phone toward me, “See?” he shows me his Ring app, “Your car’s out of frame, so it didn’t pick up anything all night.”
I stare at the view of the front walk with only the back half of Bowen’s truck visible. No one drove up the driveway, which means someone walked in from elsewhere in the middle of the night and moved the bricks.
I don’t want to think about this.
The realization that I have to get to work breaks me out of my stupor, but there’s no way I can move my vehicle. The bricks block the full width of the back bumper and the front is too close to the garage door to pull forward. Being rational, my first thought is to start moving the bricks, one by one, so I can get out.
I glance up at Bowen, “Should we…move them?” I murmur with apprehension.
He looks more irritated than anything—slighted, even.
“OK,” he unclips his keys from his belt loop, “I want you to take my truck today, and I’ll drive yours.”
“What are you going to do?”
Bowen looks down at the stacks of bricks, “Move them.”
With no other options, I reluctantly take Bowen’s keys and drive his F250 the 20 minutes south to work. I don’t have time to argue, I’ll probably be late anyway. Today, I have to be at work early for a four-hour long safety training. Of all days, I have to get up and speak about reporting suspicious behavior at the same time my home feels like the target of all of the suspicious behavior in the world.
Split into two sessions, half the employees attend one that occurs in the winter and the other half will attend the one in the summer. I arrive with two minutes to spare, scurry through the lobby, and search the crowded conference room for a seat. It doesn’t take long for me to spy Abby waving to me from the front row.
“You made it!” She sifts through a folder of papers as I tuck my bag under the chair.
“It’s been a morning,” I sigh, straightening my shirt and settling into my seat.
When am I supposed to be presenting? I can’t even remember.
“Me too,” Abby empties the rest of her coffee into her mouth, “I woke up late, and while I was rushing to get out of the garage, I forgot to open the door before I started backing out.”
“What?” I snort.
Abby gives a disgusted sigh, “The door’s dented to hell and my bumper’s scratched. It’s amazing I got out.”
“OK,” I chuckle, “you win.”
I figure this is a good pivot. There’s no way I’m going to tell Abby about the creepy pile of bricks sitting in the middle of my driveway or who I think left them and why. Even though I’m shaken, I’m at work now. This place is like a vault, surrounded by fences and gates, filled with key card entries, motion sensors, and cameras. I know people here, and they know me. I’m still in one of the safest places I can think of, regardless of who else is walking the halls.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the row of seats next to me fill with a wave of black. A group of security guards file through the door on the left side of the room and straight into the seats as Dave and Eric make their way to the table at the front of the room. As Eric greets everyone with his booming voice, I feel a tap on my right arm and look to see Abby mouthing to me, do you have any gum? I nod and bend down, pulling my bag halfway out from under my chair. I retrieve a piece of cinnamon gum from the outside pocket and hand it to her, still bent over, before shoving my bag back under my seat.
When I straighten back up, a jolt of terror shoots through my chest. Colson’s profile is less than two feet from my face. He’s sitting right next to me, staring straight ahead, his head slightly cocked to the side, like always, and the same expression on his face.
Unbothered.
His arms would’ve been crossed, I’m sure, but now he wears the same tactical vast as the rest of them and the front pockets and straps are crammed to the gills with equipment that makes doing so nearly impossible.
This isn’t happening.
I try to move as little as possible, like he won’t notice me if I don’t move. But that’s idiotic, of course he knows I’m sitting right here. I’m trapped in the front row where I can’t escape without drawing attention. And besides, where would I go? I can’t disappear, I have to present a segment on chemical spills.
Fucking hell, I have to present while Colson is staring straight at me from the front row!
And before I know it, 45 minutes passes and I hear Dave say my name from behind the laptop. For a moment, I’m not sure whether the groan of dread I exhale is audible to anyone but me.
From the moment I stand up, I manage not to make eye contact with Colson, or anyone else, for that matter. Somehow, I manage to stand at the podium, give my usual spiel, and drone on about points of contact and security notifications and emergency responses. After what seems like an hour, I make it to the end of my slides. It would be a relief, except I don’t know which is worse—staying up front with all eyes focused on me, or sitting down next to Colson again. Then, someone shouts a question.
Alex Barrera sits in my direct line of sight, right next to Colson, with his finger raised, “Do we know when the new security system will be online?”
Before I can answer, I see Dave raise his hand in my periphery. I gladly give the floor to him. At least I don’t have to talk anymore. I glance back and forth between Alex and Dave, but for a split second, I let my eyes wander, which is a mistake because I suddenly find myself locking eyes with Colson.
My startle reflex sends a shiver through my chest, burning my muscles as it radiates through my arms and legs. For a moment, I can’t look away. I just freeze, trying not to draw attention to myself.
Colson stares back at me, Alex’s steady voice the backdrop for his piercing aquamarine eyes. My heart pounds in my ears, the familiar hum getting louder in my head. He doesn’t blink, just looks back at me. Then, he smiles.
He actually smiles.
I immediately look away, my stomach turning to concrete. I try to focus on Dave and Alex’s conversation, but it’s not working. My eyes glaze and my mind races. The conference room seems like a strange planet. I recognize the grey paint, the blue carpet, logos plastered across the walls, and the plastic maroon chairs lined up in front of the screen, but now everything seems surreal. It’s like there’s a tear in the time-space continuum and Colson and I exist on the same plane when we aren’t supposed to.
