Heart So Hollow (Dire Wolves Book 1), page 34
“You’re welcome,” I drawl, my eyes heavy as he crawls over me, hovering above my face.
“Do you think it’s permanent?” he smirks down at me, my thighs glistening and shirt still pushed up to my neck.
“If not, it’s one really sick joke,” I chuckle as he grabs my hand and hoists me upright.
“I’ll start looking for a nanny now,” he says while buttoning his jeans, “if I have to keep you pregnant just so you can get off every 15 seconds, we’re going to need help. And a bigger house.”
Among other things, this is one of the reasons I don’t want him to leave…
I also just hate sleeping without him. Tonight, as if my body is trying to savor his presence, I fall into a deep sleep with my head resting on his bicep and my body curled beneath his arm, wrapped in his warmth. We’ve always slept this way, since the first night I spent with him.
Morning comes too soon, and I have to pull myself together and quickly come to terms with the fact that I won’t see him again for a few days. But I have things to do, like write another book. It doesn’t stop here, and there are so many more stories itching to get out of my head and onto my laptop. Maybe that will also temper my responses to any more private details about my life that get leaked on the Internet.
Digging through the dryer, I finally find one of his black polos with the gold logo on the chest and head back to the bedroom. He’s sitting at the end of the bed tying the laces of his boots and looks up as I sweep my hand over the dresser. I tuck his Glock and its black holster under my arm and step in front of him, holding his black shirt open at the neck.
He glances at the shirt and then looks up at me with a glimmer in his eye.
Once I realize what he’s looking at, I shoot him a warning look, “Don’t say anything.”
He smiles and takes the shirt from me, “I didn’t say a thing.” After he pulls it over his head, he stands up and cups my face to gently kiss me, “Never say never,” he murmurs.
I gaze up at him in silence, into his eyes that go on forever.
“Why are you looking at me like you’re never going to see me again?” he asks, brushing his thumbs back and forth over my cheeks.
“Because I hope I do see you again.” I know he’s careful, calculating, the most prepared person I know, but things still happen—things can still go wrong.
A gentle smile spreads across his face, “This is our part, just you and me. And the next time I see you, the only ones still standing—” he takes his holster from my hand and tucks it into the back of his jeans, “will be you and me.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Brett
One Year Ago
Routines are great, until they start driving you crazy. I never thought I would be the one to believe that, but it’s true. It’s a completely normal Tuesday, which includes Colson sauntering through my office door at noon. He does the exact same thing whenever I’m here—walks into my office, shuts the door, and sits down in the chair next to the window.
Except today, when he walks through the door, I’m wondering where he’s been in my house—in mine and Bowen’s house—and when.
Did he come in through the front door? Did he walk up the steps to the back deck and come in through the sliding glass door? Did he pet Waylon on his way to the kitchen?
I’m obsessing now, even as Colson rips open his Twix wrapper, takes one bar out, and slides it onto the edge of the desk. I stare at the candy for a moment, remembering the last time he brought me something to eat. I can’t prove that he did something to that latte, or whatever it was, but I know he did.
Just like I know he left that goddamn smoothie in my fridge.
I shake it off, trying to refocus before finally picking up the candy bar, “Thanks.” I bite off the end.
He might be a deviant, but I’ll still eat his chocolate as long as I saw him open the wrapper.
“What are you doing right now?” he bites the end off of his half, “Want to get lunch?”
“I probably shouldn’t.”
I’m trying to maintain firm boundaries, especially since Colson likes to say inappropriate things, throw out ominous warnings, and then act like nothing ever happened. He’s so toxic, and I’m an idiot for putting up with his nonsense, because things like yesterday are what happen when you decide to give someone the benefit of the doubt—again. You end up with phantom smoothies in your refrigerator and start to question your own sanity.
“We don’t have to go to Cincy,” Colson glances at his phone and then slides it into his pocket, “I’m sure there’s a Burger King around here somewhere.”
I give a tight-lipped smile, “I don’t think it’s a good idea.” I’m shocked by how even my voice is while a hurricane rages in my mind.
“Why?”
“Because,” I take a deep breath, “there was a smoothie in my refrigerator yesterday morning.”
Colson just stares at me, still chewing. And I stare back, because that should be explanation enough. He swallows the chocolate, glances to the side in confusion, and then back at me.
“So, you don’t want to get lunch because you drank a smoothie yesterday?”
I blink.
Are you kidding me right now?
“No,” I clarify with a tone sharp enough to cut glass, “there was a smoothie in my refrigerator yesterday morning and I didn’t put it there.”
“I thought you liked those,” he replies, unfazed.
Now he’s just grating on my nerves. It’s bad enough that I had to deal with Hannah creeping around the house after I moved in with Bowen. I can’t just sit idly by while Colson does the same.
Quit being a coward and just say it.
I look him dead in the eye, “Did you put it there?” It’s an accusation rather than a question because I know he did it, I just don’t know how.
Colson chews his thumbnail, thoroughly enjoying my irritation. He doesn’t seem to care who I think’s been creeping around my house.
“Would it make you feel better if it was me?” he taunts.
“Just like it was you who put—” I pause, waving at him in disgust, “in my coffee? That qualifies as assault!”
“Well,” Colson smiles with amusement, but his tone is laced with poison, “no one can ever say I don’t know what you like to drink.”
“Did you do it?” I almost plead with him, “Did you really…” I don’t even want to say it out loud, it’s too messed up and yet, so absurd.
“Guess that depends whether you remember what I taste like,” he says with nonchalance.
I stare at him for a moment, narrowing my eyes as I study his face. The longer I look at his eyes, the more I recognize the subtle glint that directly corresponds to the way the corner of his mouth twitches. Then I realize I still know him. I still know how his mind works.
“Colson, you’re so full of shit,” I sneer.
He gives a shrug, refusing to admit to anything, as usual, “We don’t have to get lunch if you’re not in the mood. I also said I’d take you to Colorado. We could still go.”
As much as I don’t want it to and contrary to my utter contempt for him, a wave of butterflies sweeps through my stomach.
I look down and shake my head, just as much to tamp down my own intrusive thoughts as to deflect his endless barrage of inappropriate commentary, “You have to stop saying things like that.”
Colson raises both arms above his head and stretches from side to side, “Why?”
“Because that’s not even a thing. You know I can’t do any of that.”
“Can’t—” he cocks his head, “or won’t?”
“Won’t,” I say firmly.
“Well, if you don’t have time for that,” he lowers his voice, “I could just take you on a date—a real date—maybe even one that doesn’t result in PTSD.”
I stare at him blankly, “What for? You already do whatever you want regardless of how I feel about it—whether I know about it or not.”
“Come on, Brett,” Colson scoffs as he stands up and meanders over to the waist-height filing cabinets lining the wall, “I’m kind of surprised you’re still like this.”
“Like what?”
“I mean,” he takes a seat on the edge of the cabinet, “since Barrett’s a trauma therapist, and all…”
My eyes round and I jerk my head up. He remembers Barrett? And how does he know what she does? Then again, Barrett’s profession isn’t a secret and you can find out anything on the Internet. I clench my jaw and don’t respond, but my silence tells him everything.
“You never told her what happened.”
I don’t tell people a lot of things. It should be his favorite part about me by now.
“Why not?” he asks, sensing my growing discomfort.
Why are we even talking about this? I feel like I’m constantly ending up in conversations with Colson Lutz that I don’t want to have. He already tried to murder me once, why can’t we just move on and be cordial to one another?
Wow, maybe I’m more messed up than I thought.
My outrage gets the best of me and I rise from my chair and take a couple strides toward Colson. This is probably the closest I’ve been to him since I fled his house all those years ago. Even sitting next to him at meetings in the conference room, he keeps his chair a comfortable distance from mine, and walking down the hall, he always trails a few feet behind me. But now I’m the one invading his space, telling him to shut his fucking mouth and to stop making assumptions about my life and what I have or have not told my best friend.
“You have no sense of boundaries,” I hiss with as much venom as I can muster.
“Not really,” Colson shakes his head, “but, you already know that.”
“And you’re not my fucking therapist,” I say and look away, staring at a faint blotch on the carpet next to the door where I spilled an entire mug of coffee last year.
After a few moments of watching me fume, Colson bows his head and I feel him lean into my periphery, “Look at me, Brett,” he murmurs.
I shift my eyes toward him without moving my head.
“I’m sorry for what I did to you,” his voice is like a low hum, “I’m sorry for hurting you, and I’ll keep telling you as many times as you need me to.”
Colson apologized to me in the parking lot the first time he spoke to me, but I figured he had to if he wanted the conversation to last longer than 15 seconds. I’m stunned he’s actually apologizing again.
I turn my head slightly, enough to see his face, “Say it again.”
Colson’s gleaming eyes remain locked on mine. Maybe if I look at his face when he says it, I can tell whether or not he’s being genuine.
“I’m sorry for what I did to you, I’m sorry for hurting you,” I still love the sound of his voice, both dangerous and soothing, “and I’ll keep telling you as many times as you need me to.”
He shouldn’t be here, but it doesn’t occur to me to make him leave.
You should make him leave. You never should’ve let him in.
Where’s Nate and his nosey ass now, the one time I actually need him?
I hear Colson’s voice again, this time closer to my ear, “You know I’ll never hurt you again,” he leans down, brushing his nose across my cheek, “except in the ways you want me to.”
He doesn’t reach for me, but I reach for him, scratching the itch that crawls deep beneath my skin that’s born from both temptation and morbid curiosity. I pull his face to mine and when my lips touch his, I remember the way he felt in the dark and every memory and every detail comes flooding back. I instantly recognize the contour of his neck and the texture of his hair and how sweet he tastes when I run my tongue over his, sucking and biting his lip hungrily.
Colson kisses me back just as fiercely, but still doesn’t reach for me. Instead, his arms remain at his sides, hands gripping the edge of the cabinet with white knuckles. Then, without thinking, I drop my hand to his belt and squeeze the polymer buckle. The clip releases, and his belt weighed down with tools and weaponry falls to the floor with a crash.
The sudden noise snaps me out of my trance. I’m not by the river or in his bedroom in his house. I’m at work, in my office. I pull back in horror and look down at his belt laying in a pile around his boots. I jerk my head up, my mouth still lingering with the taste of his.
What did I just do?
I know what I was doing, but I don’t know how to explain it. My eyes dart to the door, still closed, expecting there to be a knock any second. Frozen, I listen for movement in the hallway, but there’s nothing but silence.
“I—” my eyes dart back to Colson, “I’m sorry.”
“Jesus,” he smiles, “don’t be sorry.”
I take a step back and drag my fingers down my jawline, speechless, “Colson, I—” I stammer, “I don’t know what that was.” There’s nothing I can say that makes any sense, except the obvious, but I’m sure as hell not going to acknowledge it.
“You don’t know?” he taunts.
The look on his face tells me he’s eating this up.
“Fine,” I concede, “I know what it was. I just shouldn’t have done it.”
Colson studies me for a moment and then his face softens. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to kiss him again, but that would be horrible and wrong on so many levels. He’s horrible and wrong on so many levels. I feel terrible. I stumbled upon Bowen, who encompasses all the things I liked about Colson, but doesn’t have a track record of attempted murder. What the hell am I doing?
Colson looks at the floor with a smile, “You know this is one of my favorite things about you?” He raises his eyes to meet mine, “Your unwavering attempts at honor and rationality.”
His voice is sweet, but his words are laced with condescension. If I could think quicker on my feet, I’d lob my own backhanded compliment at him, or if I was more impulsive, maybe just backhand him in general.
“Alright,” Colson nods to his belt on the floor, “pick it up.”
“What?” I ask, taken aback.
Colson’s not smiling anymore, a shadow cast over his pale blue eyes as he waits for me to comply.
When I don’t respond, he nods at the floor again, “You took it off, you can put it back on,” he says with a sinister tone.
I tighten my jaw, “No.”
Colson’s expression doesn’t change, “OK,” but there’s a hitch in his voice, “then finish what you started.”
I stare at him for a few moments, trying to decide if he’s serious or not. He sounds like he means business, but I’m not in his house or his car or somewhere else where he can do whatever he pleases. Picking up his arsenal from the floor is the lesser of two evils, by far, so I’d rather just take the hit to my pride and get it over with—if I can even lift it, that is. It’s so heavy and awkward, he’ll probably get a good laugh watching me try to do anything with it.
With a roll of my eyes, I start to reach down, but he grabs my shoulder and pulls me upright, giving me a start, “Uh-uh,” he flashes his eyes with a malevolent smile, “on your knees.”
My stomach drops, “You fucking wish,” I growl with indignance.
I’ve said these words to him before, and the look in his eyes tells me he remembers them all too well.
“That’s right,” Colson murmurs insidiously, “my wishes tend to come true whenever you come around.”
I tip my chin up, “What are you going to do?” I seethe, looking him up and down.
“Baby,” he smirks, “you know firsthand the things I can do. You think I give a fuck who’s on the other side of that door? Because I’ll gladly remind you that you stopped being so well-behaved the moment you laid eyes on me.”
“You’re not seriously asking—”
“I’m not asking you shit,” his jaw tightens, “so do as you’re told. Now.”
When I look down, I see Colson’s arms bent at the elbow and his palms face up, ready to help me kneel down in front of him.
Such a fucking gentleman.
I shoot him a loathsome glare and ignore his twisted attempt at courtesy, my stomach turning inside out as I sink to the floor. He could just be fucking with me, but the odds of that are getting slimmer by the second. His black leather boot looks huge next to my knee and the thin Berber carpet offers next to no comfort. Inches away, his black belt loaded down with equipment lays in a pile—mace, handcuffs, flashlight, multitool, and no less than four extra magazines.
My eyes move up his leg to his thigh, where his black standard issued Glock sits snapped into its holster, right at my chest height. It’s nothing I don’t see every day, but none of my other coworkers have ever put their weapons to my head. His gun doesn’t bother me as much as I thought it would, probably because I see Bowen’s all the time, tucked into the back of his pants, and that’s where it stays.
Colson breaks my concentration, “Your sneakers look really cute.”
Did he just compliment my shoes?
“So’s your shirt,” he adds, “it looks really nice from up here.”
I glance down at my black and white Vans, crisp and barely scuffed, then at the rest of my outfit; black skinny pants and a fitted, hunter green t-shirt with a wide neck. If I tuck my chin and look down, the edge of my beige bra is visible.
“Brett, look at me,” I feel Colson’s fingers under my chin, tilting my head to meet his eyes, “you’re nothing if not honorable and rational. That’s why it’s going to be so fun for me to ruin you—again,” he drags his thumb across my lower lip, “and make you my slut—again.”
A chill skitters over me and even though he’s saying the most god-awful things, he almost looks angelic, stroking my jawline with his thumb and gazing down at me with a depraved sense of admiration.
“You’re my drug,” Colson murmurs, “created just for me, that wrecks me but can’t kill me. And I’m your addiction you’ll never be able to shake because I’ll never let you go. You’ll keep trying to be good and deny yourself everything you really want, but it won’t work,” he pauses and runs his tongue along the inside of his mouth, “because you’re still my good girl…” then he leans down and rotates his wrist, squeezing my throat between his thumb and forefinger, “Honeybee,” he hums against my lips.
