Heart So Hollow (Dire Wolves Book 1), page 20
The hum in my head slowly morphs into a muted version of the voices around me. It sounds like I’m underwater, until I suddenly hear my name.
“Brett will send out an overview of the new system once we get a go-live date,” Dave finishes and then turns to me expectantly.
“Yeah,” I clear my throat, “I’m expecting to hear about that in the next week or two. I’ll send out notifications about install times, likely after-hours to minimize disruption.”
And, like that, I switch places with Eric and make my way back to my seat between Abby and Colson, staring straight ahead. Sitting just inches from him, he looks bigger, like he takes up more space. It doesn’t help that every few minutes, I catch a whiff of his shampoo, bodywash, or whatever the hell it is. A musky, minty, eucalyptus scent pierces my nasal cavity in a surprise attack. And it smells good. As if I’m not already on the brink of panic, he actually smells good.
The man who tried to murder me smells good.
It’s stifling. My fingers begin to tremble, so I clasp my hands and squeeze them tightly. This is absurd; I want to flee out the door, run, and never look back, and yet I’m enjoying the scent of Colson’s goddamn hair products. I try to zone out, disassociate for the remainder of the training, trying to forget where I am for the next 20 minutes.
Finally, the faint hum turns into a buzz, which turns into a crescendo of voices all around me. People rise from their seats, pick up their belongings, and meander through the room toward the exits. When I glance to my left, Colson is already halfway down the row of chairs, following the rest of the security guards out of the room. For the first time in hours, I feel like I can breathe again.
As I reach under my chair to retrieve my bag, I feel a hand on my arm and hear Abby’s voice murmuring into my ear, “That guy sitting next to you, with security,” Abby cranes her neck as they disappear into the hall, “he is so freaking hot.”
I crumple into my chair slightly, “Mmm,” I nod, trying to engage as little as possible, but Abby doesn’t notice.
“Did you know he’s Dallas Barrera’s brother?” she continues.
I give pause and just look at her. Colson is Dallas Barrera’s brother? Dallas Barrera, in IT, who just so happens to be married to Alex Barrera? And that would make Colson Alex’s…brother-in-law?
This is too wild.
I know Dallas fairly well. She’s the one I call when the timecard page is non-responsive or whenever I’m inexplicably locked out of my computer, hoping she won’t say I’ve been fired but no one bothered to tell me. And, without fail, each time I see her name in an email, I always think of Dallas Winston from The Outsiders, which is my favorite character from my favorite book from middle school. Except bubbly Dallas Barrera is no Dallas Winston, who rumbles with soc’s and gets killed in a shootout with the cops after having a nervous breakdown.
Now that I think about it, it’s amusing that she’s married to Alex, who came to Wolfsson straight out of the Marines and looks like he never left. He’s the most manicured man I’ve ever seen, his jet-black hair perfectly trimmed and styled, always clean-shaven, perfectly clean fingernails, and never a wrinkle in his uniform. He also has the same look on his face, no matter what—serious as a heart attack. Alex is a perfectly nice person, with good manners and, from what I gather, a good sense of humor. But he’s very no-nonsense, at least around coworkers, so I didn’t even know the man had teeth until I’d been here for almost a year. Does Alex joke around with Colson?
Dallas is Colson’s sister?
They don’t even look alike. Dallas has long, straight, black hair and she’s barely five feet tall. She always wears thick-rimmed black glasses, bright red or pink lipstick, and impeccable eyeliner.
“Really?” I scrunch up my nose, “I never would’ve guessed.”
And how does Abby know any of this?
“Yeah,” she looks over her shoulder as I follow her down the row, “I saw them in the break room on his first day and I was like, please introduce me! And have you seen his eyes? Like, are they even real?”
Yes, Abby, I have. Yes, they’re real. And no, I don’t want to talk about it anymore.
Dallas Barrera is Colson Lutz’s sister.
I marinate on this fact all the way back to my office. This information could be useful, I just need to figure out how. Dallas is one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. She’s also very chatty. And this is exactly why I make a mental note that I should take a walk across the building to her office to kill some time.
First, I just have to get up the nerve.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Hollow Watcher
One Year Ago
When something really bothers her, Brett does this thing where she goes very still and almost looks catatonic. She does it when she’s scared, too. She might scream or cry at first—like a jump scare—but then she gets quiet. And that’s when the fun really begins. She tries to work out problems in her head and resolve them instead of drawing attention to herself.
She’s admirable. She never wants to believe things are as bad as they seem. She always tries to be her own savior. But she can’t do that this time. Because she’s in deep, and I’m the only one who can save her. Eventually, she’s going to think she’s hit rock bottom, but that’s when I’ll have her right where I want her, and then I’m going to make everything all better again for her.
Watching her find that pile of bricks in the middle of the driveway was spectacular. And watching her sweat about it all day really did it for me. I didn’t even expect that. Kind of like how I didn’t expect him to show up out of nowhere to fuck shit up. I’m looking at him right now, oblivious to the fact that I’m so close. But who really looks at the people around them while they’re pumping gas anyway?
He and I are more similar than I’d like to admit; tall, nice hair, fit, clean shaven, tattoos. Her taste is pretty good, after all. And he looks strong enough to easily toss her around.
Like me.
I realize this is who she is. She likes us big enough to inflict some damage. And she hides it well. She’s always been independent and self-sufficient, with her routines and her meticulously organized life, but when you dig deep and start getting in her head, you find out she wants her man to run her shit. She’d never admit it, but she likes to be scared and she loves the adrenaline.
She likes to fight.
Eventually, she’ll get over her weak moral hang-ups and accept it. I’ve seen it before—when she’s stolen glances, when she smiled and didn’t think I’d see. She pushes back and acts like she has control over the situation, like she’s the one making the decisions. But I just have to be patient and wait her out. I’ve waited this long to find her, what’s a few more weeks…months…of playing her game?
Of playing my game.
He gets back into his vehicle and picks up his phone. He’s probably texting her. That motherfucker, trying to take what’s mine. Showing up out of nowhere like a case of herpes on prom night just to fuck with me. So, what else is new…
But I can’t blame him. Who wouldn’t want to be with Brett? I’ll let him live the dream for a little while longer and believe he has a shred of a chance with her before I make sure he never sees or hears from her again. And that’s the best part—it’ll be her that destroys him from the inside out. I’ll just sit back and watch it happen.
Not that I wouldn’t do it myself. Thinking about how he’s touched her, I wouldn’t mind lighting him up, maybe take a few of his fingers with me. And what would he do?
Call the police?
Don’t make me laugh. As if that’s even a threat. It’s not anything I haven’t dealt with before. And, just like last time, I’ll answer their questions, everyone will cry some more, nothing will happen, it’ll fade into obscurity, and life will go on.
For some of us.
I glance down at my phone sitting in the console and I feel the urge to fire a text off to her, too. She wouldn’t even have to know it was me. But I don’t. I’ll save that for later.
He pulls out of the lot and so do I. I’ll follow him a little longer, just for fun.
I wonder if she’s told him about me yet. I wish I could see the look on his face the moment she says my name. Fuck, I love it when she says my name…
I bet he’s enjoyed her just as much as I have. The girl’s a freak, he has to know that. But as much as I love thinking about her getting fucked all to hell, I also want to smash his fucking face in. If only she knew what I’ve been through—the hell I’ve been through—to finally find her. She’s everything no one else could be. And, now, I’m never leaving her. She’ll have to shoot me in the fucking face to rid herself of me.
But she won’t. When this is all over, it’ll be my lips she kisses every day, my house she lives in, my bed she sleeps in every night, my name that stays on her tongue, and my babies that grow in her belly. And if I go before her, I’m the one she’ll mourn for the rest of her life.
But if it’s her, she’ll just have to take me with her and we’ll return to the ashes together.
Because now that I’ve found her, I’ll burn this world to the ground before I ever leave her again.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Brett
One Year Ago
Peeking out my doorway, I scan the hallway. Muted voices float out of open office doors, but it’s otherwise deserted. It’s a good time to make my getaway. Like a criminal in my own building.
I cringe in disgust at my paranoia, but still scurry down the hallway toward the stairs. It may be idiotic, but I still don’t want to have any unexpected encounters. The arctic blast of air on my face as soon as I push through the glass doors is surprisingly refreshing. It also means I’m a few steps further from the awkward mess that is my job now. As I trudge through the parking lot toward my SUV, I feel my phone ring.
I reach into the pocket of my bag and fish out my Drunk Tank pink phone. Hildy’s name flashes across the screen. Apparently, my contacts transferred properly, after all.
“Hey, where are you?” Hildy’s voice sounds distant, I’m probably on speaker.
“Leaving work. What are you doing?”
“Want to go to Costco?”
“Sure,” I laugh to myself. This is typical Hildy. “Let me text Bowen and see when he’s—” I don’t even finish my sentence before Hildy cuts me off.
“He’s still out with Dad. They’re about 45 minutes out, so they won’t be back for a bit.”
“God,” I scoff, “I should just call you instead of him.”
“I can always find him,” she laughs.
Hildy’s right, after all. Between working together and the twin connection, if anyone knows where Bowen is at any given time, it’s her.
“Shocker,” I roll my eyes, “OK, I need to stop at home to let Waylon out and then I’ll come over.”
As soon as I get into my car and shut the door, I get a text from Bowen.
BOWEN (4:10PM): Hildy said you’re going to Costco so I’ll start dinner when I get home
A second text comes through a few seconds later.
BOWEN (4:10PM): Can you get some of those voodoo mama juju pretzels
I snort as I text my response.
ME (4:11PM): The Zapp’s pretzel sticks? You got it.
BOWEN (4:11PM): Love you
After letting Waylon out and making sure he’s safely back on his bed by the fireplace with his favorite rawhide, I disappear into the bedroom to change into a pair of jeans, a sweater, and boots. I slip off my wedge ankle boots and tuck them against the wall under my clothes hanging on the left side of the closet.
I pause, my eyes wandering along the floor to the space where I found the photo of Bowen and Hannah. I shake my head, still astounded by the audacity that woman has to come in here and leave shit on my closet floor. Then I recall that night—New Years Eve—only a few days ago when I secretly watched the heated exchange between her and Bowen in the parking lot of the bar. He never did mention it, and I never asked about it.
I check the time and head into the bathroom to give myself a once-over. I straighten my sweater in front of the mirror and give my hair a scrunch. For some inexplicable reason, during the winter my lips drain of color as soon as my lip balm absorbs, transforming me into a walking corpse. Digging in my work bag, I find my reliable tube of Black Honey, which immediately turns out to be not so reliable. The metal edge scrapes across my lips, the tube all but empty. Reluctantly, I toss it into the garbage can with a groan, making a mental note to order more as I start digging through my makeup bag for a different tube.
Maple Sun saved me at the wedding, and it’ll save me again for the time being. Except that my fingers come back empty. The black tube with the gold band around the middle is gone. I pause, glance around the vanity, and then dig into the makeup bag a second time. The outcome is the same. When did I start misplacing things and losing everything?
I don’t.
I don’t just misplace things, much less multiple things in such a short amount of time.
My gaze shifts to the mirror, staring at my reflection, thinking. When I leave the bathroom, I stop in front of my vanity and stare at the drawers. A lot of things have gone missing lately. I turn and stroll out of the room, a black powder of suspicion igniting deep in my gut. I sweep my coat off the back of the couch and head back out to my SUV, pulling the front door behind me with a slam.
I’m still thinking about it as Hildy speeds down the county roads toward Costco like they’re about to run out of everything in the next 10 minutes.
“You’re a dead giveaway,” she snickers at me from the driver’s seat.
“What do you mean?” I glance up from my phone, pausing mid-text.
Hildy scoffs and rolls her eyes, “You’re texting Bo, right?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s obvious,” she flips the Yukon’s turn signal, “you wear your emotions on your face, especially when you’re texting.”
I screw up my face in disbelief, “How?” Until now, I always thought I had my poker face on lock.
It goes hand-in-hand with an avoidant personality.
“Oh, please,” she hits me with a side-eye, “whenever you’re looking at your phone, you get this sneaky little grin on your face. You’re probably sending him nudes, aren’t you?” she laughs.
“I am not!” I shriek.
At least that’s not what I’m doing right now…
Hildy’s right about everything else, though. Bowen’s spicy pretzels are sitting on the floorboards next to my feet and I can’t wait to get home and see the look on his face when I set them on the counter. More than that, I can’t wait to walk through the door and see him standing at the kitchen island with his back to me, his muscles showing through his shirt, and his buzzed hair fading into the black swath that hangs over his eyes by the end of the day.
So, yes, Hildy is probably right about how I look when I text him.
“Yeah, whatever, liar,” she smirks. “Oh, do you mind if we make a quick stop? I told Hannah I’d run by her apartment, bring in her mail, and check on her cat since she’s out of town.”
I may not be able to hide my facial expressions when it comes to Bowen, but I can remain stoic in about every other situation. Hildy doesn’t notice the small fire ignite in my chest, the tiny spark in my eyes, or the subtle malice clawing its way from the back of my mind. She only sees the cheerful smile and agreeable nod.
My mind begins to wander—back to my makeup bag, back to my vanity, back to the creased photo on the closet floor, and back to every little flirtatious smirk Hannah gives Bowen.
Before I know it, Hildy throws her car into park and we’re suddenly sitting in front of a nondescript apartment complex with white vinyl siding and a pond out front. I follow her up the stairs to the second door on the right and wait for her to unlock the door with a gold key attached to a Bone Collector bottle opener keychain. Once inside, a black and white cat trots across the living room, its tags jingling, and rubs against Hildy’s leg.
“Hey Marco,” Hildy’s voice shoots up an octave as she bends down to scratch his chin.
Hannah’s apartment looks strangely how I imagined it would.
A light grey sectional takes up most of the living room, accented with white wooden furniture and shabby chic decor. While Hildy busies herself with feeding Marco, I wander over to a tall shelf next to the sliding glass door leading to the deck. It’s smattered with small potted plants, tactfully arranged books, and framed photos.
I immediately recognize one of the photos. Next to an overflowing pothos is the same photo that’s on Bowen’s wall—the one with Hildy, Jay, Hannah, Bowen, and the redheaded girl I now know as Evie Maguire. I glance over my shoulder at Hildy scuttling around the kitchen and meander away from the shelf toward the hallway. From the edge of the hallway, I see two doors. One leads to a bathroom and the other to the master bedroom.
As I stare into the dark bedroom, an idea slowly forms. My eyes relax, glazing over as they fixate on the corner of a yellow comforter just visible in the residual light from the kitchen. I bet there’s something interesting in that room. Maybe a few interesting things. Maybe I could take a peek and try to find them…
“All set!” Hildy calls, flipping off the kitchen light.
And that’s that. We head out the apartment door and I wait as she locks the deadbolt before following her back down the wooden staircase to the parking lot. But I make sure to look over my shoulder at the black numbers marking the edge of the building.
Snuggling into my winter coat on Hildy’s heated leather seats, I indulge in the same deep thoughts I had prior to arriving at her house. Except, this time, I have a new plan. It forms gradually, as we make the drive back out to the Garrison compound, Hildy’s cargo area filled with bulk paper products, 2-pound bags of coffee, and a cardboard box of 5-dozen eggs. And once we arrive, I help Hildy lug every single thing inside, happily lingering at her kitchen counter, waiting and watching.
