Heart So Hollow (Dire Wolves Book 1), page 3
Bowen trudges past me, following the dirt path that gradually fades into smooth sandstone. He slows as he reaches the edge, lined with small boulders spaced every five feet.
He turns and looks up at the rocks that lead further up the ridge, then motions to them, “Let’s go up.”
The rocks jut out of the hill at chaotic angles, looking more like rock falls from erosion than solid formations.
Is he fucking insane?
“But there’s no trail up there.”
Bowen continues gazing up the steep face, “So?” He brushes past me and steps up on a boulder, searching for the next foothold.
“Seriously?” I remain firmly planted on the trail.
Bowen looks over his shoulder, unconcerned, “Yeah, come on.” He turns back to the rocks but hesitates when he doesn’t hear me behind him, “Are you coming?”
I glance between him and the rocks beneath the ridge. It definitely looks possible, but it’s still not part of the trail. The rocks could be loose, the dirt could give way, there’s a reason it’s not part of the trail. There’s always a reason. And the first rule of hiking is that you don’t leave the trail. Ever.
I shake my head, “No.”
Bowen jumps off the boulder and returns to the trail, “Why?”
“It’s pretty steep,” I scrunch up my nose as I scrutinize the treacherous climb, “and how do you know the rocks are sturdy?”
He flashes me a smile, “I don’t.”
“Doesn’t seem like a good idea,” I mutter, ready to continue on to more level ground.
“A lot of things don’t seem like a good idea at first,” he takes a step toward me, “and then afterward, you kick yourself for almost missing it.”
“The first rule of hiking,” I retort, “is don’t leave the trail.”
He tips up his chin and looks down at me, “I don’t get lost. I do this all day without trails. And you think I’d bring you all the way out here just to let you fall off a cliff?”
“Like you said, I don’t know you.” I arch an eyebrow, throwing his own commentary back at him.
“OK, look,” Bowen nods up at the ridge, “follow me up. I’ll go slow the entire time, and I’ll help you. I promise.”
I shift my gaze back to the rocks, gritting my teeth in reluctance. It’s not safe, and I should just say no. But it does seem kind of…fun.
“You know you want to,” Bowen looks me up and down, “you’re thinking about it.”
I exhale, contemplating. He’s right, I am thinking about it. Then he steps in front of me and brings both his hands up to the sides of my face. I flinch as his unexpected touch sends a jolt from my neck all the way down to my legs.
“I promise,” he murmurs, his face mere inches from mine, “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
I shouldn’t do this. It goes against my entire being. Well, most of it, anyway. There’s a little part of me I try not to acknowledge anymore, but I know it’s there. I’ve spent the last three years trying to ignore it and now it’s creeping back up from the recesses of my brain, clawing and begging for a taste of adrenaline—a rush. And something about Bowen is coaxing it out.
That feeling is what propels me up the rocks, testing the same footholds Bowen uses as he forges a path to the ridgetop. Once at the ledge, he reaches down and pulls me up the last few feet. He’s so strong it feels like my toes just brush the edges of the rocks as he lifts me onto level ground.
Bowen lets go of my hand and turns to explore the rest of the ridge, “You trust me now?”
“So far, so good,” I smile to myself and follow him, listening to the faint flow of water somewhere beneath us.
I kneel behind a thin tree jutting out from the ridge and peer over the edge. There is indeed a waterfall flowing, and I can see it from our new vantage point, whereas it was obscured by trees before. I can’t look away; I’m so mesmerized by the colors and sounds and the feeling of being at the top of the forest where only beautiful things exist.
Focused on the steep drop off the sandstone ridge, I slowly rise from my crouching position and take a step back to turn around.
“HEY!”
I let out a shrill scream as the shout hits my eardrums and something jabs both sides of my rib cage. I crumple in on myself, screaming and thrashing as I nearly drop to the ground. I can’t breathe, all the air forced from my lungs as I’m squeezed around the shoulders by two muscular arms. Once I realize I’m not freefalling off the ridge, I whip my head from side to side, trying to look over my shoulder.
It’s Bowen, and he can barely speak through gasps of laughter. I don’t know whether to be relieved or enraged. He presses my back against his chest and backs further away from the edge of the ridge as I try to catch my breath. I furiously try to twist around, but Bowen knows if he lets go, he’ll probably catch a fist to the jaw. He might be a jerk, but he’s no idiot.
Staggering beneath his hold, I try to tear my arms from his grip but it’s no use, he’s taller and much stronger, “Are you fucking kidding me?” I scream over my shoulder, unable to see him.
“OK, OK, seriously, please don’t hit me!” Bowen tries to stifle his laughter, but to no avail. His breath rushes over my ear, making me shiver, “Can I let you go?”
I’m not dead. That’s a plus. So, I finally relax and stop fighting him enough to catch my breath.
Taking a deep breath, I exhale and with a long blink, “Yes.” I say, almost in a whisper.
Bowen loosens his grip and his arms slowly fall away from me. I run my hands up my cheeks and over my eyes, brushing the loose hair up and away from my forehead. I rest my hands on my hips and slowly turn around. Bowen is standing behind me, his body tilted slightly. He watches me with apprehension, trying to read my expression.
WHAP!
My arm flies up and I backhand his bicep. The crack echoes through the forest as he recoils, erupting in more laughter.
“God damn!” Bowen shakes his arm, backing away from me.
“Have you lost your damn mind?” I seethe.
Bowen goes silent, looking me up and down. I realize my fists are clenched at my waist, squaring off with him, as if I would win any fight. Then again, I have a pure line of adrenaline still running through my blood, so who knows what kind of response that’ll conjure up. But Bowen isn’t looking for a fight.
“I shouldn’t have done that, OK?” His tone is much softer now.
Still, what a dick.
I take a deep breath, suddenly exhausted. I hold it for a few moments, taking in the forest sounds. The calm is returning, and the adrenaline is dissipating. But…it felt good. The adrenaline felt good.
Bowen reaches down and gingerly touches my wrists. He slowly pulls me toward him and wraps his arms around my back, pressing his cheek against the side of my head. Maybe he thinks I’m about to have a breakdown or, at the very least, that I’m about to leave his ass on this ridgetop.
Instead, I silently untuck my arms from beneath his and drape them over his shoulders. He tightens his hold as I sink further into his chest. He feels nice. My body is calm again, but my thoughts are a chaotic jumble. This feeling—the one of imminent death—is one I’ve been trying to avoid for years ever since that one night. A few moments ago, I thought my life was coming to an abrupt end at the bottom of a sandstone ridge in Guernsey County, Ohio.
Talk about a sick joke.
But when I stood up and realized I was still alive, my chest nearly burst with exhilaration. It was like ripping off a band-aid. Except, now, I want to chase that feeling and rip off more band-aids and I’m clinging to Bowen like he’s the human manifestation of the feeling I’m trying to recapture.
Maybe he is. Maybe I shouldn’t let go…
“You were right,” I mumble into Bowen’s t-shirt.
He speaks softly into my hair, “About what?”
“This was a good idea.” I squeeze him tighter, pressing my fingertips into his shoulders.
“I told you I wouldn’t let anything happen to you,” he runs his nose along my temple, “I’m not going to be responsible for wrecking this pretty face.”
I push away from him and give him another slap. He grins and lets his hand slide down my arm as I step away, intertwining his fingers in mine.
He shoots me a coy grin, “You like it, don’t you?”
“What?”
“That high from being scared.”
I shake my head, “No.”
But maybe he’s a little bit right. I expected to crumble into a blithering pile in the dirt after screaming my head off. Instead, I was still terrified, but there was a spark that popped to life somewhere deep in my gut. I’d felt it before, a long time ago, and I never thought I’d feel it again. I didn’t want to feel it again, after what happened.
Until now.
I look up to see Bowen studying me with his intense, dark eyes. When he tilts his head, his hair falls away from his face and I see a scar that cuts from the left side of his forehead into his hairline and slices three inches over his scalp.
I peer up at him, “How’d you get that scar?”
Bowen’s eyes shift upward, “Got into a fight,” he cracks a smile, “in a cemetery.”
My eyes round, “You got into a fight in a cemetery?”
“Yeah,” he glances to the side, “back in high school. It’s a long story. Even a headstone got a lick in.” After a few moments, he looks around the empty clearing, “You ready to go?”
I nod, “Yeah.”
My voice is even and calm again, which is a good sign. I still think it’s a good sign an hour later, when we arrive back at the front steps of the lodge.
“I’m glad you didn’t turn out to be a serial killer,” I say as we arrive at the steps to the lodge.
Bowen chuckles and leans back against an oak pillar, “Well, it’s still early, after all.” He tilts his head, looking off into the distance like he’s in the midst of a decision, “How about you text me later when you’re free? I’ll come get you.”
I chew the inside of my cheek, considering his offer. I did have fun, but at the same time, I’m motivated and have to take advantage of the uninterrupted writing time. Suddenly, Barrett’s voice pops into my head with some advice from long ago.
If he’s worth a damn, he can wait.
“How about later tomorrow?”
Bowen tilts his head, gazing over my shoulder in thought before he shifts his eyes back to mine with a nod, “Give me your number.”
I hold out my hand and wait. Bowen reaches into his back pocket and retrieves his phone, unlocks the screen, and drops it into my hand.
Once I finish sending a text to myself, I hand the phone back to him, “See you later.”
He gives me a final once-over and flashes a smile, “Bye, Brett,” he punctuates my name with a wink as he turns and heads back across the parking lot.
Ten pages later, I’m forced to come to terms with the obvious. I’ve written far more than I thought I would since I returned from the hike, but I need a good mid-story scare and I’m terribly distracted. So, I do the only thing I can think of. I call Barrett.
Barrett’s voice echoes through the room on speaker, “Dude, who is this guy?”
I stare at my laptop balanced on my thighs. It’s still open, which means I’m still being productive, right?
“His name is Bowen, and he’s from Canaan, literally just down the road. What are the odds?”
“A country boy can survive…” she replies with intrigue. “How old is he?”
“Our age—like, 24 or 25?” I reply.
“See? This is why I should’ve come with you. Now I’m missing all the fun.”
“I’m supposed to text him tomorrow and he’ll come get me.”
“To do what?”
“I don’t know. We didn’t get that far. I’ll let you know.”
“What’s he like?”
“He’s camping, so he clearly likes the outdoors, and,” I try not to laugh as I say the next part, “he has these really cute dimpled cheeks, but his smile is so big that it makes him look like the Joker from Batman—but in a good way.”
“Suicide Squad vibes?”
“Kind of.”
“Right up your alley,” Barrett mutters, “and can I just say that I love that you’re describing what attracts you to this man in terms of serial killer qualities?”
“Isn’t that what we do?”
“OK, fine, you’re right,” Barrett concedes.
“He’s really fun to talk to…” I trail off, trying to articulate the intangible aspects of Bowen Garrison, “and he knows who H.P. Lovecraft is.”
“Brett,” Barrett shouts through the phone, “he looks like the Joker, knows his creepy horror lit, and had the balls to come up to you and ask you on a hike within five minutes of meeting you. He’s your soulmate.”
My voice hitches in surprise, “Why shouldn’t he come up and ask me on a hike?”
“Brett, what do you always complain about when we go out?”
I roll my eyes, knowing exactly where she’s going with this, “That no guys ever talk to me.”
“And why is that?”
“OK, fine, you’ve made your—”
“Because you always look like you want to murder someone!” Barrett finishes my sentence.
“This is just how my face looks,” I try to justify my resting bitch face, but she’s right.
“Well, clearly Bowen’s into it. Maybe he’ll bring you a signed copy of a Lovecraft book…” she giggles mischievously.
God, Barrett, you had to bring that up, didn’t you…
CHAPTER FOUR
Brett
Present
Some days, I love going into Judy’s office because I feel like I’m getting somewhere, like I’m making real progress and I can conquer the world. Other days, like today, I feel like I can’t stop thinking about what happened.
The flashbacks are rampant and the memories are crushing me to the point that I can’t breathe. There’s a cinder block attached to my ankle and I’m drowning, sinking to the bottom of the ocean when I’m just trying to make some goddamn toast for breakfast.
But today even Judy can’t put me in a good mood. Whenever someone walks into her office, she looks at them like they’re her best friend who she hasn’t seen in 15 years. Her bright smile takes up most of her tanned face framed by her sandy pixie cut, all the laugh lines a testament to how she lives her life. And she does so while hearing about the most depressing, fucked up shit every single day.
She reminds me of Barrett in that way.
“Tell me what’s been going on,” she smiles as if I’m not sitting on her cloud-like sofa with my eyes bugging out, hands shaking, and looking like I’m tweaking out.
But she probably knew this would be bad since I called her this morning, frantic, asking if she could see me today. It’s 7:00 in the evening—afterhours—but she let me come anyway.
“I had a nightmare last night,” I’m out of breath only after six words, “and it was the worst one yet.”
“Can you tell me about it?”
“I was trapped, running around, trying to find a way out. I was screaming, but no sound was coming out, like I was on mute. But I was screaming in real life,” I fidget with the hem of my sleeve, “and when I woke up, I was on the floor and he was holding me down, talking to me and trying to bring me back.” Judy can’t see the bandages up and down my arms. “And then I started freaking out all over again because there was blood everywhere—on my hands, on the floor, on the walls, on him…”
“Where did the blood come from?”
“Me,” I pause to take a deep breath, “because I smashed the window with the side table…trying to escape that room again.”
●●●
At least four times a week, I take my bike to one of the trailheads and disappear by myself for an hour or so. It’s part of my treatment—my part of my treatment. I immerse myself in the dirt and rocks, ride fast, fight the terrain, and get a little bit stronger every time. Maybe I come back bloody, maybe I don’t, but it’s fewer and farther between, now.
Today, I only bring back a thin film of dust and a head of hair soaked in sweat. After loading my neon yellow bike onto its rack, I unlock the driver’s side door and tug it open, but not before confirming it’s still locked when I return. Some routines aren’t so easy to shake, like glancing around the entire cabin and making sure nothing is missing—and nothing has appeared—since I left.
As soon as I pull onto the road, a call rings over the Bluetooth of my 4Runner.
I tap the dashboard screen as soon as I see the caller ID, “Hey, Tyler,” I call through the speakers.
“Brett!” The pitch of her voice is so high, it comes out as distorted fuzz. “Are we still on for next week?”
“Yes, absolutely! I was hoping you weren’t going to cancel.”
Tyler is insane if she thinks I’m going to miss this. Hers and Sydney’s podcast has quickly become one of my favorites, chatting about nothing but thrillers and horror. And now I’m going to be on one of their episodes. Because this is who I am now.
“No way, I’m not going to be responsible for wrecking plans,” Tyler laughs, “are you still OK with recording live?”
“Yeah, totally!” I was apprehensive at first because I’ve never been officially recorded before.
For anything public, anyway…I laugh to myself. OK, stay serious.
“It’ll be nice sitting next to someone in the studio since Sydney lives so far away,” Tyler laments, “I just confirmed the schedule with her due to the time difference. But, more importantly, have you been inundated yet?” Tyler asks, her voice hitching in excitement, “You’ve gone viral, the bookfluencers love it.”
“Yeah, I know,” I’m still not used to this kind of exposure, “it’s pretty wild.”
Tyler’s right, there are a lot of people who love my book. But there are also a lot of people who don’t. I used to think people only got fired up and talked about books they like on social media. Apparently, there are also people who devote copious amounts of time and effort to talking about books they hate.
