Heart So Hollow (Dire Wolves Book 1), page 2
While staring across the lake into the tree line, I contemplate the next chapter of my book. This place is its own kind of unique. In many ways, it’s just another Midwestern state park, but it also possesses a mysterious aura full of legends and ghost stories and strange creatures that stalk the forest at night. Maybe when I sell this book, I’ll get my own RV and travel to places like this just to write, breathe in wood smoke, and tramp through the woods in search of monsters.
As soon as I start back toward the lodge, I feel my phone vibrate and I already know who it is without looking at it.
BARRETT (4:03PM): Are you safe? Have you seen Bigfoot yet?
Barrett is nothing if not predictable, asking the same question she did when we went to dinner last Thursday.
ME (4:05PM): Yes. And no, not yet.
I already feel better. The stress of the previous week melts away with every breath of forest air. Before I know it, I feel myself being propelled down the path. I start jogging back to the lodge, catching a lightning bolt of motivation. I suddenly have an idea I need to write down immediately.
That, and pizza.
●●●
Cracking open another ice-cold shandy from the mini fridge, I return to the balcony and prop my bare feet up on the wrought iron railing, deep in thought. Half the pizza is gone, the box sitting on the patio table next to me. The sun dips in the sky, almost level with the treetops across the lake, and I just stare, mesmerized by the pink and purple wash saturating the horizon. My gaze shifts to my toes and I admire my purple glitter nail polish shimmering in the light.
My concentration is broken and I’m startled by the sudden ringing of the phone inside the room.
I stare at the nightstand for a few moments before realizing I should probably answer it. Half annoyed and half worried, it’s not lost on me that an unexpected call can only be one of two things—completely insignificant or an absolute emergency.
“Hello?” I pick up the phone suspiciously.
“Hi, can you please tell me where the Poplar Loop trailhead is?” The deep baritone voice on the other end of the line catches me off-guard.
“Sorry,” I begin to relax, “I don’t know.” I take another sip of shandy and listen to the silence over the line.
The voice sounds confused. “But shouldn’t you know?”
I smile to myself. “I think you have the wrong number.”
“Seriously? This isn’t the front desk at the lodge?”
“Nope, sorry. It’s just a room.”
“Oh…” There’s another pause. “Well, while I have you on the phone, have you been on any of the trails out here?”
“Yeah, a couple.”
“Any of them good?”
“Laurel Ridge isn’t usually crowded, so I’d do that one. There’s also a waterfall if it’s rained recently.”
“Yeah? OK,” he drawls like he’s mulling it over, “then I guess I’ll check that one out. Well, it was nice talking to you!”
“Yeah, you too! Have fun on your hike.”
“If it sucks, I’ll be sure to call back and complain.”
“Might be difficult if you actually dialed the front desk.”
He lets out a soft chuckle, “Alright, I’ll let you go. Thanks again.”
“You’re welcome. Bye.”
I drop the phone back onto the receiver and stare at it in ironic amusement, realizing these are the first words I’ve spoken to a human since I called the actual front desk to make sure the phones work properly.
CHAPTER THREE
Brett
One Year Ago
“What do you mean you ran your car through the bushes at Chik-fil-A?”
It’s 7:00 in the morning and the day is already off to a zesty start. It doesn’t matter that I’m on a solo micro-vacation, Barrett still calls me on her way to work, without fail, right when I’m leaving for an early hike.
“I don’t know, Brett. I was just trying to start my day with a little treat and my mom’s on the phone telling me I need to cancel my Sirius XM because satellite radio is a deep state conspiracy. I just lost it. I took the turn too quickly and almost ran through the glass window in the drive-thru.”
“I thought you lost it last weekend.”
“Yeah, but this was way worse than that.”
Frankly, it all blurs together.
“So, how are you?” she changes the subject. “Where are you? I still can’t believe you just went off into the wilderness by yourself. But I’ve got a full caseload this week, there’s no way I could take off.”
Barrett always has a full caseload. She’s a therapist at the university, and she’s one of the best. Ever since her first day, fresh out of her Master’s, when her new boss assigned her a new client experiencing a delusional pregnancy after waking up from a three-year-long vegetative state, she made a name for herself as the one who takes the cases that no one else is equipped to handle. And, because of it, she has the highest retention rate in the department.
“This is Salt Fork, not Teton,” I laugh, “and I’m staying at the lodge. There’s Wifi and a continental breakfast.”
I stroll across the lobby and collapse into a brown leather club chair. If there’s coffee nearby, I’ll stay here a bit longer and hear more about Barrett’s mom and her latest conspiracy theory involving price gouging at the local Wal-Mart.
“I guess that’s not too bad,” Barrett concedes.
“No. And after last week, I just had to get away for a bit,” I say as I pick at my cuticles. I need to stop doing this. Spontaneous bleeding is never good for clothes, especially light colors. But anxious compulsion usually wins.
I lift my head and gaze around the lobby; it’s quiet except for the hushed voices at the front desk. “I’ve already gotten a lot of writing done, though.”
My gaze wanders across the room and something catches my eye. Or, rather, someone. And I immediately freeze.
A man is standing about 20 feet way, mid-step, staring at me. He’s tall, definitely over six feet, and his jet-black hair fades up the sides to a shiny swath swooped down over his eyebrows, making him look like he belongs in a punk band. He’s wearing a Navy-blue t-shirt and fitted jeans over scuffed, brown leather boots, and when he turns his body and squares his shoulders, I see his right forearm is covered in curls and zig-zags of black ink.
He studies me with dark, striking brown eyes as I glance from side to side to see if he’s looking at someone else. But when I look back at him, he’s still staring, a curious smile crawling across his face.
He’s…hot.
I hear Barrett’s voice in my ear, but I can’t comprehend what she was saying.
Finally, the staring man breaks the silence, “Front desk girl?” he asks in a deep drawl I’d recognize anywhere.
I blink, forgetting where I am and that I’m holding a phone to my ear.
No fucking way.
“Oh. My. God.” I murmur into the speaker.
“What?” Barrett hisses.
“Let me call you back.”
“Are you OK? Are you in danger?”
“No, just let me call you back.” I mutter.
I end the call and drop my phone into my lap, “Um, yeah,” I stammer, narrowing my eyes in disbelief.
“Wow,” he grins, “this is pretty wild.”
Quickly pulling myself together, I give a half shrug, “Yeah, but I guess you’re staying here, too, right?”
“No, actually,” he shakes his head, raking his hair out of his eyes, “I’m camping. I just came in here for the vending machines.”
“Wow,” I scrunch up my nose, “that is wild.”
He takes a few steps toward me and extends his hand, “Bowen Garrison.”
I reach up and shake his hand, “Brett Sorensen.”
Bowen takes a seat in the leather chair across from me and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, “That’s a serious name.”
“Thank my mom, she’s a big Hemingway fan. My full name is actually Brett Ashley, from The Sun Also Rises.”
“What about your last name?”
“My dad’s Norwegian.”
Bowen raises his eyebrows, “So, what are you doing here?”
I smile and brush a stray curl away from my eyes. “Work was hellish yesterday, so I’m taking a few days off. And…” I pause, deciding whether to elaborate as a pair of dark brown eyes wait intently for an answer.
Fuck it.
“I’m writing a book.”
“Seriously?” Bowen leans back in the chair and grins. “That’s cool. What’s it about?”
I take a deep breath and look to the side, trying to figure out how to explain my own plot, “Revenge in a creepy mansion,” I bob my head from side to side, “with lots of murder.”
“Sounds dark,” Bowen grins.
“That’s the plan.”
“Are you a Stephen King fan or more of a Lovecraft type of girl?”
He knows who Lovecraft is?
I pause, chewing the inside of my cheek, “More like Shirley Jackson,” I cock my head, “low-key horror that gets under your skin.”
“Damn…” Bowen chuckles in a song-song tone, seemingly impressed.
I shift my eyes to the side, “I’m not as good as her, though.”
“Well,” he shrugs, “Shirley Jackson had to start somewhere, too, didn’t she?”
This guy has a point.
“So, you said you’re camping?” I ask, crossing one leg over the other.
“Yeah,” Bowen glances around the empty lobby, “me, my parents, my sister, and her family go camping for a week every year, so I’m here ‘til Sunday. How long are you here?”
I press my mouth together, stifling a smile, “Until Sunday.”
He arches his brow in surprise, “Are you serious?” His eyes wander to the window for a moment before returning to me, “You want to go on that hike you told me about?”
Plot twist.
“Now?”
“Now’s as good a time as any,” he says with a shrug.
I hesitate. This is not part of the plan. Normally, I don’t deviate from my plans, but Bowen’s very attractive. And although I’m usually a cautious person, I’m also not a fucking prude. Even with the innate knowledge that I, as a woman, should not go on an impromptu hike with a strange man, my sixth sense also isn’t alerting like it does in other situations.
Something about Bowen is incredibly intriguing. Maybe it’s that he pulled Lovecraft out of thin air. But while I’m engaging in a silent argument with myself, Bowen is looking at me, waiting for a response.
Finally, I make up my mind, “Only if we find coffee first.”
He rises from his chair and extends his hand to me, “Well, come on, then, Agatha Christie.”
●●●
“I know we just met, and I hope you don’t take this the wrong way,” Bowen pushes a stray branch out of his path and holds it until I pass, “but you’re kind of reckless.”
“Why?” I step past him with a sideways glance.
He takes a couple of long strides over a patch of exposed roots to catch up with me, “Because you’re stomping through the woods with a guy you met five minutes ago.”
I raise an eyebrow, maintaining my stoic demeanor, “Is it a mistake?”
Bowen shrugs, “Remains to be seen.”
He’s right, of course. Who does that—goes running off into the woods with a stranger? But, then again, who answers a wrong number and then actually meets that person the next morning when said wrong number recognizes their voice?
“It’s always safer to hike with a partner,” I inform him. “It’s statistically more likely that I’ll slip, fall, and break my leg than it is for you to turn out to be a murderer. And even if you were planning on murdering me, you’re on camera in the lobby, I texted my best friend the trail we’re on, and—” I hesitate, pressing my lips together as I stifle a grin.
“And what?”
I decide not to mention the GPS locator I carry whenever I go hiking and just cut to the chase, “I also sent her a picture of you.”
Bowen disappears from my periphery and when I look back over my shoulder, he’s standing in the middle of the trail about 20 feet behind, his eyes narrowed. “Bullshit!” he calls out.
We stare at each other for a few moments before I shoot him a smug look. I backtrack to him, reaching in my pocket to retrieve my phone. He waits for me to rotate my phone toward him and lift it up to eye level. He scans the text thread and lingers on the photo of himself standing next to the counter lined with hotel coffee and espresso machines. I don’t bother hiding the text beneath it.
ME (7:21AM): Hiking Laurel Ridge with a hot guy. If you don’t hear from me in 2 hours, call search and rescue.
Bowen glances at me and then back at the screen. “Huh,” he smirks.
After another moment, I lower my phone, lock the screen, and slide it back into my pocket. We start back up the trail in silence, Bowen walking alongside me again. I assume he’s deciding whether he’s made a mistake and I’m the one who turned out to be the creep after all. But I’m prepared to live with that. Better safe than sorry.
“That’s some covert shit,” he finally says.
“Taking your picture without you seeing?”
“No. Calling me hot to your friend but not to my face.”
“It’s just an observation,” I reply and tuck my hair behind my ear, “besides, it probably made Barrett feel better to know I’m not alone.”
Bowen glances down at my shorts pocket, “I guess you’re not so reckless, after all.”
“No, I take calculated risks. But that’s my job—safety and compliance.”
“Until you sell your book,” he flashes a wide smile that shows off two rows of straight white teeth.
“That’s the plan,” I glance at him, “as long as I make it back from this hike alive.”
Bowen steps up onto a massive slab of sandstone jutting out of the earth, “Well, I wouldn’t want to wreck your plans. And besides,” he turns to extend his hand to me, “whether man or animal, I promise you’ll get home in one piece.”
After hoisting me onto the boulder, he lifts the hem of his t-shirt to reveal a black Glock tucked into a holster inside the back of his jeans. It’s the same firearm my coworkers in security carry. But I’m not at work, I’m in the woods. So, that’s a problem.
Bowen lets his shirt fall back over his hip and hops off the sandstone, reaching for me again. I jump down next to him and my muscles tense, a familiar chill creep over my skin. It’s already 75°, but my body trembles as if all the warmth has been sucked out of the air. I bounce my shoulders and jiggle my arms, trying to shake the feeling. This hasn’t happened in a long time. I thought, for sure, it was over. Instead, I’m fighting the adrenaline. Why does this have to happen now? Why was it still happening, after all this time?
Not right now, not right now…
I feel for the hair tie I looped around my wrist this morning and stop in the middle of the trail. I throw my head forward, doubling over, and begin gathering my mass of strawberry blonde curls at the crown of my head. Upside down, I take a few slow, deep breaths, and close my eyes trying to center myself. I can buy some time like this.
Get a grip, Sorensen.
Muscle memories rear their ugly heads at the most inconvenient times.
I slowly twist the elastic band around my hair and tighten it with a couple tugs, allowing my heartrate to slow. I raise back up to see Bowen watching me from about 30 feet ahead. I take a deep breath and jog toward him to catch up. Once at his side, I straighten up and exhale with a sigh.
He cracks a smile, “You good?”
I focus on his eyes, dark and intense, which works better than I anticipate, “Yeah,” I nod toward the path ahead, “I think it gets rockier as it goes up.”
Bowen gives a nod, motioning down the trail as we start walking again, “There’s a really good view from the top.”
“Are you always packing?” I motion to his waist.
“Not always. My family owns a surveying company. Everyone carries when they’re out in the field, so it’s become habit when we’re in the woods. To each their own, but you run across some real weirdos in the middle of nowhere.”
“I know the feeling,” I smirk, throwing him a side eye.
The corner of his mouth curls as we continue up the hill, him glancing over at me every few feet. Soon, we reach a rocky outcrop, slowing down to traverse the rough terrain. When he reaches up to stabilize himself on a smooth rockface, I can finally make out the tattoo on his right arm. The curls and zig-zags are a collage of leaves and grass that extend from his wrist all the way up to his elbow. Intermingled with the grass are bell-shaped flowers shaded with vibrant, royal blue ink. It’s so subtle that I couldn’t even see the color until now.
“What does your tattoo mean?” I ask, following him through the jagged rocks.
“They’re Texas bluebells,” Bowen responds over his shoulder, “they mean a lot of things, but the Comanche tribe has a story about sacrificing their most prized possessions after a really hard winter. They built a fire and one little girl threw in her doll with a blue feather on it. The next morning, they went outside and found the entire hill covered in blue flowers,” he explains. “They’re tempting to pick and take for yourself, but they’re also poisonous, so you have to leave them be and admire them from a distance.” Bowen glances back with a smirk, “The ultimate tease.”
That one earns an eyeroll, “Is that where you’re from—” I ask, stepping around another sandstone boulder, “Texas?”
“No, I’m from Canaan, about two hours from here. You?”
I look over my shoulder and smile at him, “I know where that is. I live in Longview.”
Bowen arches his brow before turning his focus back to the rocky terrain, “City girl,” he smirks and tosses his hair out of his eyes, “You’ve been just across the river all along.”
When we reach the top of the hill, it’s deserted except for a couple of Scarlet Tanagers screeching and fighting among the deadfall. Even at the top of the ridge, the canopy is still heavy, blocking the morning sunlight and casting a mellow shadow over the clearing.
