Heart So Hollow (Dire Wolves Book 1), page 22
After I finally catch my breath and realize I’m not injured and the SUV is otherwise still intact, I grab the top of the steering wheel and crane my neck to look in the rearview mirror. And when I do, my jaw drops.
“No way…”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Brett
One Year Ago
There’s a technique trauma therapists use called systematic desensitization therapy. It’s used to treat PTSD and anxiety disorders. The goal is to change the way a person responds to a situation that triggers fear and anxiety. Technically, I won’t learn about this until much later.
But this is what I’m doing at work without even knowing it.
9:32—Colson makes his first round past my office. The first time it happened, it was terrifying. It should’ve been Nate walking past my door. It’s always Nate walking past my door. Sometimes he even stops to say hello. So, that’s what I did—I called hello out the door when I heard the heavy footsteps and jingling of keys.
But it wasn’t Nate.
And as soon as I glanced up from my computer, I saw Colson’s dark auburn hair, tattoos, and pale blue eyes staring back at me. He spun as he rounded the corner, walking backward a few steps as he continued. He didn’t say anything. He just looked at me with his sweet face that probably would’ve made any other woman melt, but it nearly gave me an aneurysm.
Now, I’ve sharpened my senses and I can hear Colson’s keys jingle from his body armor as soon as he gets halfway down the hall. His radio may or may not crackle, so I can’t count on that. He comes from the east end of the hall, and my door opens north, so I can’t see him approach.
After that first day, he never turned to look in my doorway after rounding the corner. Ever.
Now, I just glare at the back of his head. And I only start to do that after one month of watching him walk the same route every day. Before that, I kept my door shut and cowered at the sound of his keys and footsteps outside my door.
But I decided I need a goal. If I can concentrate on my work, get Zen, and keep myself calm as Colson walks by, I reward myself with one of the Dove chocolates I keep in a jar on the corner of my desk. I do this for a good month, until I decide I don’t want to be a total shut-in anymore. I even start to get excited about him walking by because it means I can eat a piece of chocolate.
I’m Pavlov’s fucking dog.
11:30 to 12:30—Colson, Alex, and Nate always take lunch at the same time. They’re always in the north break room. But once it gets warmer, in mid-April, they mix things up and sometimes sit at the picnic tables under the pin oak on the west side of the building. I avoid the north break room during lunch just to be safe.
2:10—Colson makes his second round past my office. But, this time, he approaches from the north end of the hallway and walks south toward my office.
For two months, I always make sure to close my door after lunch. At 2:00, the adrenaline starts building until I hear his keys and footsteps round the corner, fading as they move east. I start eating more chocolate at this time, too, with the same effect.
Until, one day, in March, I forget to close my door.
I’m rushing to complete paperwork for a maintenance appointment the next morning when I hear the ominous jingle of Colson’s keys. But instead of drawing even more attention to myself and looking like a scared little rabbit, I do nothing. I sit, frozen, staring at my computer screen and watch as his fuzzy silhouette gets bigger and bigger until…
Nothing happens.
He rounds the corner, disappears down the dim hallway, and I’m still alive. I’m still breathing normally, and I do it without chocolate. But, still, I eat one anyway. Because I like chocolate.
11:00 on the first Thursday of every month, Conference Room B—The monthly safety meeting where I sit around a board room table with Dave, Eric, Abby, and the rest of the security detail. Some of them sit at the table, some flank the walls in loose chairs.
For the most part, I don’t speak or have any responsibilities during these meetings. The extent of my activity is usually sitting next to Abby and trying to ignore everyone else until Dave and Eric start the meeting. Once it does, I try to focus on whoever is doing the talking, but inside I’m a wreck. I know Colson is watching me. Each time I make note of where he’s sitting, but then I begin to wonder whether it’s better not to know. Maybe then I won’t obsess over which side of my body he’s staring at.
Once the meeting is over, I’m petrified Colson will try to speak to me. It’s exhausting. But, like every other time, nothing happens.
Then, one day, during the May meeting, I let my mind wander. Colson’s like a little house spider in the corner of the living room. He minds his own business, lives his life in his cobwebs, and snatches other little bugs creeping around the house. Even if you’re afraid of spiders, you don’t really care about the little house spider because it’s so quiet and unassuming, it would be absurd to kill it.
But Colson Lutz is not a tiny house spider. He’s a six-foot four grown man who wears body armor and carries a gun. But he hasn’t tried to speak to me since that first day I saw him in January. He also isn’t stupid. What can he do to me here that wouldn’t end horribly for him? I get too comfortable, too complacent, as if his arrogance is contagious. Which is why, today, I make a mistake.
I decide to look at him.
He’s sitting in one of the maroon chairs against the floor-to-ceiling windows, directly opposite my place at the table. All it takes is for me to shift my gaze and look up. I don’t even have to turn my body. When I focus, it’s like I’m back in Dr. Selter’s Popular Fiction class, looking through a portal at Colson leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, staring straight ahead with his head cocked and the light hitting his eyes so they look like glowing gemstones.
Unbothered.
Except, now, he’s older. His muscles are more defined and, for some reason, his hands look bigger. They shouldn’t. That doesn’t happen, does it? Maybe it’s because of the size of his watch or his tattoos. His jawline is sharper and his eyes more striking, lined with the type of intensity that can only be acquired from years of being exhausted and jaded.
Or traumatized.
It reminds me of the same look—the same darkness—that Bowen has. Maybe that’s why I can’t stop looking at Colson. But where has he been? What’s he been doing all this time? I never wanted to know until now.
I’m so focused on him that I don’t realize he’s staring right back at me. Once I see him, a jolt shoots through my chest and I look away.
Colson glances at Alex, who’s sitting on his left, also looking at me with a shadow of a smirk. Colson’s mouth curls at the corner. He saw me. He fucking saw me. And so did Alex. Probably because of Alex.
Brett, you idiot! Oh my god…what have I done?
Now they’re both looking at me.
My heart races as I stare intently at Eric in the front, droning on about renovations, keypads, and gate repairs. I can’t hear anything. I feel like I’m underwater. And am I sweating? I feel like I’m sweating.
I sit, frozen, trying to melt into the leather chair. I should be used to this by now—low-key freaking out in the middle of my workday. Out of habit, I lift my pen sitting on my notebook. What the hell am I going to write? Nothing. I just want to look busy, but I still look like an idiot. There’s no way I’m looking anywhere except the front of this god-forsaken room until this is over.
God, when will this meeting end?
After such a humiliating mistake, my world instantly gets even smaller. What will be the least mortifying; shutting the door and letting Colson know he got to me, or keeping it open and knowing he’s looking at me, thinking about how he caught me staring at him? I split the difference and hide in Abby’s office eating candy until 2:10, when I hear Colson’s keys and his footfalls on the carpet.
I didn’t think this incident—or the past couple months in general—would’ve taken such a toll on my pride. I spent the last three years organizing my life in such a way that I’m never caught off-guard. I have specific routines, healthy coping mechanisms, a good—albeit sometimes faraway—support system, I stay active, I eat well, I get enough sleep, and I even managed to unexpectedly find Bowen.
But then, one day, I walk into work and my entire world comes crashing down as soon as I see Colson’s face. But isn’t that what tormentors do—show up when you least expect it? Don’t they decide to show up out of the blue and wreck everything? If Colson’s not going to wreck me physically, he’s going to wreck me mentally. And it’s not fucking fair.
What did I ever do to him?
I’ve only ever been kind to him. I even gave him another chance after he was such a dick to me in college, only for me to suffer terror and emotional abuse at his hands. Why can’t I just rage out and live a normal life out of spite? I thought I was doing better, at least until the meeting today.
But I let the intrusive thoughts win. I let my guard down and retreated to the good memories that still exist in the far reaches of my brain, to the point where I sat there staring at him like a starstruck fangirl.
You fucking idiot!
I decide to stop admonishing myself as soon as I walk out to the parking lot at the end of the day. I need to refocus and gather my nerves before I humiliate myself further. This is always the moment I relax and let my mind start to wander, on the walk to my car, back to guaranteed safety, maybe even to a bike trail for a ride.
I reach for my keys and I sigh with disappointment. I rode yesterday and didn’t plan to today, but today is when I need a good endorphin rush. I need to feel the wind in my face and work out all the pent-up stress settling in my back and shoulders. I grab my door handle, muttering and whining to myself about how it’s a beautiful day and I’m missing out on a good bike ride.
“Brett?”
My eyes fly open and I go rigid, “Jesus!” I jump in fright, catching myself against the door.
There’s no mistaking the deep baritone voice behind me. I spin around to see Colson standing between the bumpers of my Tahoe and the black Infiniti parked next to me.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” He holds his hands out in front of him, eyes wide and mouth open.
I stand motionless, my eyes darting around like pinballs.
Fight or flight, still an option.
I become acutely aware of the brick wall at my front bumper and the fact that Colson is blocking my only path of egress into the parking lot. But the threat of embarrassment wins again and I just stand there gripping the door handle with white knuckles. We look at each other, waiting to see who will have the courage—or audacity—to speak first.
“Sorry,” Colson begins, lowering his arms to his sides, “I just saw—”
“What the fuck are you doing?” I bark, cutting him off and losing my fear for an instant.
Apparently, I’m not so traumatized that I can’t cuss him out in the middle of the parking lot. Maybe I’ll die with some dignity, after all, rather than a sniveling pile in the dirt as I feared.
“Um,” Colson pauses, biting his bottom lip like he’s trying not to laugh, “I saw you walking out and I wanted to catch you before you left.”
I look him up and down. He’s not wearing his gun, his body armor, or his duty belt chock full of other deadly implements. He’s otherwise dressed head to toe in his usual ensemble of black boots, black pants, black t-shirt, and black watch.
I squint one eye suspiciously, “Why?”
Colson shrugs and plants his hands on his hips before glancing around the parking lot, “You actually looked at me this morning instead of acting like I don’t exist, so I figured it was a good sign.”
My cheeks flush with his confirmation of my worst fear—they saw me. Maybe it’s not my worst fear, but the fact that he’s calling me out for it makes me want to melt into a greasy spot on the asphalt.
“And I really just need to tell you something,” he hesitates for a few moments, “I’m sorry for what I did to you.”
Oh, God...
My face falls and I press my mouth together, my chin trembling while tears pool in my eyes, threatening to spill over any second.
Can we please not do this? Especially in the middle of the parking lot at work…
Every muscle in my body feels like it’s about to shatter. I still want to forget it all. I never will, but that doesn’t mean I’m not content in spending the rest of my life trying. I take a breath, tamping down any emotion that threatens to expose itself, and shake my head. Maybe if I dismiss it like it’s nothing, he’ll accept it and disappear for another three years.
“I’m not doing this to get you to talk to me again.” Colson’s voice is firm and determined, “I need to tell you what happened because you deserve to know.”
I relax slightly, but I still hold fast to the door handle of my SUV, “OK.”
Colson stares down at the white paint between the cars, “It’s a sleep disorder,” he begins. “After I did what I did to you, I was so freaked out that I went to the hospital. The doctor didn’t really believe me until he asked if I had any sleep partners who could corroborate it. And I said no, I don’t, because I tried to kill my girlfriend last night and that’s why I was there.”
My stomach drops and the adrenaline rises.
Don’t fucking cry. Get a grip. Pull it together.
I clear my throat and try to swallow the lump, “Then what happened?”
Surprisingly, it’s better when I speak, like it’s a distraction from the involuntary neural responses bombarding me.
Colson also seems relieved when I start asking questions, “Normally, you have paralysis during your REM cycle. But when you don’t, you act out your dreams—or nightmares. It’s like sleepwalking, except when you wake up, you’re completely lucid and you can remember everything.”
“OK,” I furrow my brow, “so, what were you dreaming about?”
He doesn’t miss a beat, “The guy that murdered my sister.”
I stare at him, my mouth half open, having no idea how to respond. Dallas is his sister. He has another one? I suppose I didn’t get to find out much about him before everything went to hell back then.
“Yeah,” Colson scratches the back of his head, “it happened years ago and it was…a lot, obviously. Anyway, after that, I started having nightmares, talking in my sleep, and then later the sleepwalking started. But nothing like this.”
“Do you know what causes it?” If I keep talking, everyone will remain calm, and everything will be OK.
Colson shakes his head, “Genetics, depression, drinking, lack of sleep, PTSD…” Colson grins, “basically everything I’d been doing since high school. And after I met you, I thought everything was getting better, until—” he stops himself, not wanting to say anymore.
Everything was getting better…
That phrase is way too loaded for me to even deal with right now, so I keep asking questions. If I keep asking questions, I’ll notice if he slips up. Maybe I’ll know if he’s lying…
“Is there any treatment?”
“Oh, yeah,” he grins, “medication.”
Colson reaches into his pocket and tosses a white bottle at me. It rattles as I catch it against my chest. When I turn it over, I see the sticker labeled with “Colson Lutz” next to his birthday, November 14. I examine the name of the drug printed below his name, filing it away to look up later.
“It’s never happened again. I just can’t drink,” he cracks a smile, “but that’s better than the alternative.”
I turn the bottle over in my hand, “Why—” I clear my throat, “why didn’t you say anything until now?”
“I didn’t even know where to start. I figured out pretty quick that you hadn’t told anyone, so I just let it ride.”
You could have said something, but you didn’t.
“And when you didn’t answer any calls or texts,” he continues, “I thought you just wanted me to leave you alone.”
Liar. You couldn’t leave me alone if you tried. Maybe it was just your plan to make me live in terror for the last three years.
But Colson’s right, I wanted him to disappear. I wanted to disappear.
“How was I supposed to explain any of that to you or anyone else?”
I examine the medicine bottle once more and toss it back to him, “Just like you are now,” my voice is even and I’m not shaking anymore.
Colson nods, glancing over the row of cars toward the building.
“I’m glad you told me,” I feel myself continue to relax, “even after all this time.”
It’s not like I can forget what happened even if Colson apologizes, even if there’s an explanation—albeit a bizarre one. But, right now, I just need a way to move forward. And this is the first shred of anything resembling that. I don’t know what to say, so I just stand there trying to process the onslaught of information Colson just unloaded onto me.
“Anyway, sorry for dumping all this on you in the middle of the parking lot after work,” Colson takes a deep breath, “I didn’t do it to make you feel sorry for me.”
I arched my brow and stare at him for a few moments, “I don’t.” Then, to my utter shock, I smile.
“You know,” Colson glances down at the asphalt, “I’ve missed that look.”
“Which one?”
“The fuck around and find out one.”
“Well,” I snicker, turning my keys over in my hands, “some things never change.”
“I just wanted you to know that I’m not some serial killer.”
I lean against my car door and shift my eyes to the side, “Isn’t that what someone would say if they were a serial killer?”
Colson takes a step toward me, but I keep my eyes on his boots, only looking up once they stop, “That depends, have you written your book yet?”
He remembered.
“And are you angry enough at me that you made me the killer?”
I laugh and shake my head, brushing off his question that’s so horrifyingly accurate. He’s older, like I am now, but so many things about him are the same; the way he stands, the way he squints his eyes ever so slightly and runs his tongue along the inside of his mouth when he’s thinking.
