Heart So Hollow (Dire Wolves Book 1), page 43
Once I recover, I drag my palms across my cheeks, trying in vain to stop the flow.
“Brett,” Bowen’s demeanor suddenly changes, his face relaxes, and his voice evens out, “What did you do?” he asks ominously.
Suddenly, I hear Barrett’s voice in my head.
I don’t know if it’s a good idea for you to tell Bowen.
And, immediately, my body reverts to what it knows best—shutdown.
I take a breath and look him in the eye, “I didn’t do anything.” My voice is firm and my eyes glaze over, seeing him, but not really seeing him.
I can make it make sense in my head. I didn’t initiate anything with Colson, but I didn’t mind it, either. I justify it enough to get stoic and survive whatever the hell is happening right now, just like every other time my brain’s threatened a breakdown.
Bowen’s jaw tightens, “I really hope you’re not lying to me.”
I stare back at him, focusing on his pupils dilating and watching his deep brown irises go black. I can stand here like a statue for as long as it takes, until he calms down and decides he’s finished. He and Colson have some odd similarities, but hopefully one of them isn’t the sadistic psychological torment Colson enjoys.
After a few moments, Bowen takes a deep breath and runs both hands up his face and through his hair, “Baby girl,” he gives his head a shake, almost like he just realized he turned into a completely different person for a few minutes, “You know I love you more than anything and I’ll give you everything under the sun.” Suddenly, his hands fly up to cup my face, giving me a start, “I’ll never let anyone hurt you and I’ll never let anyone take you away from me. Because you are everything to me.” A second later, his eyes darken and he lowers his voice again, “But I promise you, if you ever betray me, I’ll be your worst fucking nightmare.” He lets his hands fall away from my face, still frozen in a stoic trance, “So, you let me know if you want to stay friends with Colson Lutz. Otherwise, you should probably cut him loose before things get complicated.”
Bowen steps away from me and turns, storming out of the kitchen and into the garage. He slams the door behind him, leaving me in the middle of the kitchen in an adrenaline-addled daze, wondering what just happened.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
The Hollow Watcher
One Year Ago
I haven’t seen her in eight years. But aside from the fact that she doesn’t dress like a high schooler anymore, she looks basically the same. Dark hair, dark eyes, standing with one foot crossed over the other, chewing the inside of her cheek and swiveling back and forth at the hip while she waits in line. She’s still very pretty.
I’d recognize her anywhere. And she recognizes me, too.
That is, she does after I’ve stood behind her for a good five minutes in the Starbucks line inside Target. She stares off into space until the girl in front of her finishes ordering and then she steps up to the counter. She orders a grande iced white mocha and then swipes her phone under the scanner. When she scoots off to the side, I step up to the counter next to her. I cross my arms over my chest and square my boots, studying the menu board for a moment before ordering the exact same thing.
“I’ll have a grande iced white mocha, please.”
She immediately recognizes my voice. And in my periphery, I see her glance over her shoulder and do a double-take. The effect is immediate. She quickly looks back down and her hands start to tremble as she fidgets with her phone. As I swipe my card, she turns and hurries to the end of the counter, trying to act like she hasn’t seen me. And I follow right behind her.
She stops close enough to the counter to feel some shred of security, but far enough away not to make it awkward for the baristas. I stroll toward her, taking my time, my eyes locked onto her until I’m only a couple feet away. Even though I’ve just invaded her space, she’s still acting like she doesn’t see me, her eyes darting up and down between the menu boards and a girl with shiny dark hair and a purple swoop making her drink.
I’m kind of shocked she’s ignoring me, considering how feisty she used to be. When did she lose her nerve? I turn and take a stance next to her, hands in my pockets, gazing around like everything is perfectly normal. And, for me, it is.
For her, not so much.
Finally, she can’t take it anymore, “What are you doing here?” she mutters, still afraid to make eye contact even after all this time.
“What do you mean, what am I doing here?” I give her a sweet smile, “I live here.”
“Since when?” she keeps a straight face, but her tone turns sour.
She has a point. I don’t usually come here for groceries, but it’s the first place she stopped after I started following her today. She’s also probably annoyed that I’ve ruined her relaxing Saturday afternoon Target trip. I’m sure that mocha won’t taste as good and every piece of white ceramic and birch colored Magnolia decor she touches will be tainted by the sound of my voice.
“Did you miss me that much?” I ask, my tone just as cheerful as hers is sour, “Don’t be mad, sweetheart, this time I’m sticking around for a while.”
The black-haired barista with the purple swoop sets one iced mocha on the counter, but then stops and glances at the cup before sighing with irritation, “Oh, sh—” she catches herself before uttering a curse, “yours is supposed to be white, right? I made a regular by accident. I can make you a new one really quick, I promise!”
“No—” she shakes her head so fast that I think she’ll give herself whiplash, but purple swoop girl turns on her heel and is halfway across the back of the counter before she even notices.
I should stuff some cash in their tip jar. I wish I could tell her how much I appreciate her mistake. At that, I turn back to my target, who’s looking down and brushing her dark hair behind her ear like she doesn’t know what to do with her hands. She gives a huff and manages to finally look in my direction, but she still can’t look me in the eye.
“OK, why are you here?” she repeats, resigned to wait or else forfeit her overpriced coffee.
I shoot her a sideways glance, “I need fabric softener.”
She exhales with exasperation and I can tell she’d rather throw herself into traffic than stand here next to me for one more minute, which is perfect, because this isn’t over by a long shot.
“Which way are you going?” I ask, glancing around, “We can get some groceries, catch up…”
“What the hell is wrong with you?” she hisses, still refusing to look at me.
“No?” I cock my head and then give a shrug, “You and your friends had such a big crush on me back in high school, I thought you’d like to play pretend for a few minutes.” I lean toward her and lower my voice, “I always thought you were pretty cute. I bet you still think about me from time to time.”
She long blinks and presses her berry pink lips together. But she stays silent, compulsively picking her cuticles as she stares at her cup being refilled and mixed with the correct ingredients. I keep going, digging in deeper. We’re both compulsive pickers of some kind.
“Have you ever thought about what your life would’ve been like if you didn’t care so much what your brother thought?”
I see the veins in her neck pop and then fade, pop and then fade. They’re pouring the mocha into my cup and I know she hopes to God it’s hers so she can finally escape me. If she even thinks about touching it, I swear I’ll knock it to the floor and make her stand there for another five minutes.
Finally, she dares to speak again, “What do you want?” she asks through gritted teeth.
“I’m pretty sure you know what I want.”
“If you don’t leave me alone, you’re going to have problems. Just like last time.” She emphasizes the last part like it should scare me.
“Are you going to go tell big, bad brother on me?” I scoff, gazing across the counter as another barista with a blonde top knot pops a top on my cup, “I guess he didn’t tell you.”
“Tell me what?” she’s irritated, but still curious.
Blonde top knot girl brings my drink to the counter and sets it down with a smile before racing back to the coffee trenches. I immediately approach the counter to grab the drink and she doesn’t follow. She remains frozen in place until I turn around and take two strides back to her. This time, I’m standing at her shoulder, glaring down at her.
“He knows I’m here,” the low rumble of my voice drains the color from her face, “he’s even seen me. And he knows I’m coming for him.”
A sickening expression washes over her face and it absolutely warms my heart. I hope she’s terrified. She should be. Because she knows she can’t tattle on me for implications and nasty tones—not this time. We’re not kids anymore, and time hasn’t healed anything. The wounds are still as fresh as ever, and I’m out for fucking blood, and she knows it.
“Why can’t you just leave us alone?” her tone is both loathsome and desperate.
When I hear her cup being set down, I step forward and sweep it off the counter.
“I’ll leave you alone when I see your brother put away, whether it’s in prison or in the ground,” closing the space between us again, I lean down and lower my voice to a growl, “because you know what he did.”
I linger for a moment, just to fuck with her, before I brush past her shoulder. In one fluid motion, I spike her grande iced white mocha into the trash can with a thud.
“Tell him hello for me,” I call over my shoulder as I saunter off to the automatic glass doors, sipping my heart attack in a cup as I go.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Brett
One Year Ago
“WAYLON!” I’ve been hollering his name off the back deck for a good 10 minutes and there’s still no sign of him.
It’s finally dark, and normally, I’d be basking in the warm night air and the chorus of crickets and tree frogs coming from the woods, but right now all I can think about is what Bowen told me about Waylon’s routine.
He hates it, but he has to stay in at night now. He’s too old and if some stray dogs or coyotes surround him, he’s done. If he doesn’t come when you call, I’ll go get him. But if I’m not here, you have to go.
Bowen’s still not home, and it’s already been 10 minutes. Waylon isn’t coming back on his own.
Fuck.
I love it out here at night—the air, the sounds, and the stars…but I don’t love the idea of trudging aimlessly through the dark. The tree line is a formidable black wall that starts where the reach of the motion sensor light next to the back door ends.
I let out an exasperated sigh when, suddenly, I hear it. It’s faint at first, but the sound slowly grows to a cacophony of yips that drowns out all other night noises. It goes on for about 20 seconds, sending shivers down my spine. I listen for gunfire from the boys, which never comes. And then I listen in horror for the sound of Waylon’s yelps and howls, but it also never comes. It’s my worst fucking nightmare—at least right this minute. Because Waylon’s still gone. He’s still out there with a pack of coyotes.
Shit, shit, shit…
I don’t even go inside to grab shoes before bounding down the stairs into the yard. The grass feels cool under my feet as I run, but the air is still warm from the heat of the day. I sprint across the yard to the narrow access path worn down to two dirt tire tracks. I have no idea where to even start looking, but this path is the only way I can walk into the woods without shredding my feet. I step into the tree line and start calling Waylon’s name again.
It occurs to me that he’s not the only animal that can hear me. I try to focus and remind myself that coyotes don’t like people and would rather flee than engage with a human. But the further I walk into the trees, all I can think about are random stories I’ve heard about coyotes attacking humans. A few years ago, a coyote walked right out onto I-70 and attacked a police officer during road construction. They even tazed it, but it just kept coming. And wasn’t there a girl in Canada that was killed by a pack of coyotes in a park?
I realize I don’t live in Canada, where there are real predators. But some of the coyotes here in Ohio are big. I’ve seen them. They aren’t supposed to be big, but they look like large dogs with bushy tails. And, I swear to God, if I look over and see a pair of yellow eyes—or multiple pairs of yellow eyes—watching me from the trees, I’ll absolutely die. Then they can drag my body off and consume it wherever the hell coyotes hang out. Bowen won’t have to worry about Colson murdering me because I’ll have become part of the local food chain in his backyard.
God, shut up about the coyotes and find Waylon.
I’ve walked this path before, but in the dark, everything looks different and I don’t recognize anything. Snaps and cracks echo in the distance and leaves shuffle just off the path, drawing my attention so many directions I don’t know where to focus. I remind myself there are squirrels, chipmunks, foxes, raccoons, possums, and deer, all skittering through the brush because this is when the forest comes alive.
There are also coyotes…
I try to listen for the jingle of Waylon’s collar, if for no other reason than to anticipate when he gets closer so I don’t think a giant, mutant wolf-coyote is running at me to take me down. At least my eyes are starting to adjust in the darkness. I remember Bowen telling me it’s better not to use a flashlight because you can see further when your eyes finally adjust.
The moon is bright, shining through gaps in the canopy, but all the trees still look like pitch black statues watching me from all sides. I keep my head on a swivel, trying to ignore the human-like shadows the trees cast and focus on finding Waylon. Until one of the trees has a head. And arms.
My breath catches and a painfully terrifying jolt shoots through my chest as I let out something between a curse and a yelp and whip around on my heels. My heart feels like it’s about to burst and I don’t even feel the rocks and twigs jabbing the soles of my feet as I tear back down the path.
Something grabs my arm and jerks me back around. I let out a scream as two arms wrap around my chest and squeeze my shoulders with a vise grip. I feel someone against my head and the rush of a breath against my cheek.
“The fuck are you doing out here without any clothes on?” a deep voice reverberates in my ear.
I stop struggling and try to look over my shoulder, “Bowen?” I hiss.
He loosens his grip on me and straightens up. I spin around to see him laughing and brushing his hair out of his face. He’s changed out of the khaki pants and black t-shirt he was wearing when he left for paintball and, now, he’s wearing a pair of jeans and a grey undershirt with a dark smear across the chest. I scrunch up my nose. I hope it’s not coyote blood, but it’s probably coyote blood.
“I was looking for Waylon,” my chest heaves as I catch my breath, “he ran into the woods and wouldn’t come back when I called.”
Bowen looks over his shoulder and nods down the path, “He came and found me, he’s in the cab.”
“God…” I exhale, relief washing over me, then tilt my head back, hands on my hips, and let out an exasperated sigh into the treetops.
“You alright?” Bowen chuckles.
“I was calling for him for the longest time. Then I heard the coyotes go off and I freaked out and ran out here to look for him.”
Bowen’s voice softens, “You ran out here just to find him?”
“Of course!” I exclaim, “You said he could be eaten by stray dogs or coyotes.”
“Eh,” he swats the air, “he’d have been fine.” Then he pauses and eyes me standing, barefoot, in the middle of the dirt path in my Navy-blue satin pajama shorts and grey camisole.
“You’re pretty brave for coming out this far without a light,” he looks me up and down, “and next to no clothes.”
The breeze rushes through the trees and sweeps over my skin, making me shiver. I glance down at myself, noticing my nipples hardening and showing through my cami.
“Well,” I cross my arms over my chest, “I didn’t want to be the reason Waylon died in the woods.”
“You didn’t mind walking out here by yourself?”
I shake my head, glancing around dismissively. I did mind—I minded a lot—but I was more afraid of what could happen if I didn’t.
Bowen accepts my response and motions to the right side of the path, “Help me take down this broken tree stand, then we’ll go home.”
I nod and follow him to the edge of the path. I’m about to say I can’t walk far into the trees because I’m not wearing shoes, but he steps into a clear section relatively devoid of vines and brambles. The canopy isn’t so thick here, and I can see the silhouette of a stand in one of the poplars right ahead of us. I linger nearby while Bowen works, my arms wrapped around my torso, scanning the trees around us, still keeping an eye out for glowing eyes and any other creatures I don’t want to meet in the woods at night.
He finally returns with the stand in pieces and tosses a section of the ladder at my feet with a startling clang. My hand flies to my chest again and I take a deep breath to steady myself.
“Ease up, lady,” Bowen says at my nervousness, “I’m the scariest thing out here.”
“You’re not scary,” I scoff, glancing back around the spooky woods.
“No?” he bends down to grab the seat and hands it to me before picking up the three sections of ladder.
The stand’s been out here a while, the black metal rough with a few rungs missing from the ladder. Bowen steps past me and I follow him back out to the path in silence. His truck isn’t much further. If I’d kept walking and not seen him standing at the poplar already, I would’ve come to it in another minute or so. As soon as we arrive at the tailgate, Waylon’s head pops out the passenger window to greet us. Bowen drops the tailgate, then takes the seat from me and tosses it into the bed.
“Hey,” I swallow, breaking the heavy silence, “I realize I’m not very good at accepting help, even from you. I was just caught off-guard when you pulled out that mugshot. I don’t like thinking about what happened back then, and after so long I was finally getting to where things feel normal again. And, now, there’s more that I don’t know and I just don’t feel like dealing with it.”
