Heart So Hollow (Dire Wolves Book 1), page 47
“No way!” Valerie shakes her head, “It’s not weird at all. Sometimes you just have to let things out before they become too much. Besides,” she flashes her eyes at me, “who doesn’t like hearing a few sordid secrets?”
Not you, that’s for sure.
Even though Valerie’s face begs for more details, I see the chaos swirling behind her eyes like a hurricane. She plasters her glossy mouth and perfectly contoured cheekbones into an enchanting smile, but the way she neurotically taps her ruby painted toes and rips apart the corner of her napkin tells a different story.
I take a sip of water, trying to stifle the giggle threatening to erupt at any moment.
I’ll eat you alive, you sneaky bitch.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Brett
One Year Ago
Somehow, I manage to stay away from the office for an entire week. Although I’m still obsessing about whether I’ll hear back from literary agents, my schedule is light enough that I can work from home and get some much-needed space from everything—and everyone. I even remote in to the weekly meeting, where I can lurk like a voyeuristic phantom in the ether and stare at everyone in the conference room through the camera feed in the ceiling.
Is this what it feels like to be a stalker? Except, in my case, no one cares…
Colson sits in the same place he does every week, but this time next to an empty chair, across the table from Alex. I’m shocked that Abby doesn’t take the opportunity to sit in my usual seat, since she thinks Colson’s such a doll. And when the meeting ends, I close the Teams window and disappear back to the secrecy of my house, miles away.
But it doesn’t last.
I know I have to go back. I can’t stay away forever, especially when I get an urgent email at 6:30 the following Monday morning from Dave that there’s a problem with the server room keypad and we’re at the brink of a major security incident and multiple breaches of contract unless it’s fixed by close of business today. In other words, I need to execute checklists with maintenance and security because the hardware on the doors hasn’t been replaced in over a decade. And I’m the lady with the lists who signs the paperwork.
I need to keep my head in the game. I still have a job to do, and I can still do that well, regardless of what’s happening around me. And that’s what I’m marinating on while I make my way to the second floor, clutching the shoulder strap of my tote in one hand and holding my blue and white striped maxi skirt above my ankles with the other. But as soon as I round the corner, who do I see, but Colson Lutz.
He’s standing against the wall, adjacent to my closed door, staring straight down the hall at me. One of his hands sits at his vest, his thumb hooked over one of the Velcro straps, while the other hangs at his side, holding a white paper coffee cup by its black plastic lid. The same type from the break room.
I don’t know why I’m surprised. This is his detail, after all—his turf. Just like it used to be mine. I half expect to open the door and see him already inside my office, just hanging out like he always does. The fact that he’s waiting outside the door like a normal person seems too weird—too polite—for him.
When I come to a halt in front of him, he pushes off the wall, responding to my disinterested demeanor with a slight smile. He looks me up and down, lingering at the bottom of my skirt covering my platform Espadrille sandals.
“You get taller?”
Fucking asshole.
I exhale with exasperation and open the door. I don’t even have to look at him to know he’s probably eating this up. And I’m sure that’s what he’s doing for the next three hours while someone from maintenance repairs the keypad above the door handle, discovers they don’t have the correct part, leaves to procure said part, comes back, actually repairs the door, and only then do Colson and I begin executing the security checklist.
There’s minimal talking, throughout. I try to distract myself by sending awkward texts to Barrett. She tries to remain serious and offer moral support, but I keep cracking jokes. I can’t help it. It keeps me sane and breaks the tension—for me, not Colson. I’m not sure Colson ever feels awkward about anything. He’s usually too busy making everyone else uncomfortable.
When he walks back into my office from testing the keypad next door, I set down my phone and try to compose myself after nearly descending into a fit of laughter from Barrett’s latest GIF. Colson rounds my desk and leans against the metal cabinet behind me, watching as I refresh the monitoring program that records who goes in and out of that room.
“Is it fixed?” I ask as I wait for the window to refresh.
“Yeah, it’s fixed.”
But an error code in red text keeps populating the line next to the time stamp.
“It’s still throwing an error. You could get in, right?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Piece of trash,” I mutter in frustration, closing out the browser and pulling up my Teams chat, “it has to be the software. I’ll IM Tony and see if he knows what to do.”
I finish typing my message to Tony, who manages the system, further frustrated that the yellow icon next to his name indicates he’s idle and won’t respond immediately.
“You can go now,” I say without looking up from my screen.
Colson crosses his arms in my periphery and glances out the window, “I don’t have to be on north side until 2:00.”
I should’ve IM’d Dallas instead of Tony and asked her to come get her brother out of my office. Or, better yet, I should IM Nate and tell him I’m in danger and he’s the only one who can help me.
“Sorry,” I shake my head with a bitter laugh, then my smile abruptly disappears, “get out.”
“Get out?” Colson’s voice hitches with curiosity.
“Yes,” I spit over my shoulder, “leave, before I go to HR.”
He shifts his weight and drops his hands to the edge of the cabinet, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
My head slowly swivels toward him, “Oh?” Now, the thought of him threatening me evokes aggravation rather than fear.
Colson shrugs with indifference, “You’ll just make April jealous. If you’re going to brag on me to anyone, you could pick someone better. She’ll tell everyone, and I know you wouldn’t like that.”
He’s not wrong, and I hate that I agree with him. April’s the worst HR rep I’ve ever met. She has a horrible habit of making snide comments about people that are hilarious, but totally break any shred of confidentiality that exists. She’s the reason everyone found out that the head of finance got arrested for assault in the parking lot after the Christmas party last year because she started referring to him as “Fisticuffs” at the all-staff meetings.
I don’t want to know what she would do with this nonsense.
“I don’t need this from you,” I hiss, spinning around in my chair, “I don’t need you watching me, I don’t need you touching me, and I sure as hell don’t need you gaslighting me and telling me I’m not seeing what I’m seeing!”
Colson shakes his head, “I never said you’re not seeing what you’re seeing. I believe you.”
“Then why are you acting like you haven’t been the one texting me and breaking into my car to leave me creepy gifts?”
“So, I was right,” he cracks a smile, “you do have more admirers.”
I press my mouth together, biting back a frustrated grunt, which only makes Colson smile. Maybe I was wrong when I told Barrett he’s too honest for his own good. Maybe he’s just a liar, after all, because he’s certainly lying about this.
“Yeah, well,” I glare up at him from my chair, “I thought about a few things you said. So, I finally told Barrett about you.”
The corner of his eye twitches with curiosity, “What did you tell Barrett about me?”
For a split second, there’s a glimmer of hope that I’m the one making him uncomfortable.
“Everything,” I reply flatly.
Colson presses his mouth together like he’s trying not to smile, “And?”
“She said I need to find a therapist to deal with your emotional abuse and then talk to HR and the police.”
He ponders this and, after a few moments, looks more disappointed than concerned, “Is that all she said?”
I stare at him in astonishment. I imply that he should be in prison and he sounds disappointed that Barrett wasn’t more impressed. Granted, there’s no way I’m telling him everything she said. But perhaps he was hoping she’d want to evaluate him and see how many pathologies he qualifies for. Maybe he collects them like shot glasses.
“And you’re manipulative,” I continue, “and you say or do disturbing things when you know I can’t leave.”
“I intimidate you to give you a clear conscience,” Colson says with indifference, “you’re welcome,” he winks.
“Well, you don’t,” I hiss back.
“Intimidate you or give you a clear conscience?” His tone turns patronizing, “Because I’d be glad to scare you into submission if it helps you avoid another existential breakdown. Your mixed signals are getting exhausting.”
“Stop talking to me like I’m a petulant child!”
“Then maybe you should stop acting like one. You can leave right now,” a smile creeps across his face, “but you won’t.”
“No,” I grit my teeth, “because this is my office, and you’re the one who should be leaving. I’m tired of running from you.”
“Then stop running.”
“Fine,” I shrug, “here’s me not running anymore—say what you need to say and get out. Done, mission accomplished, over and out.”
“Brett, there are a lot of things I didn’t get to tell you.” He nods out the window to the parking lot, “Want to take a ride?”
“Are you crazy?” I scoff, “I’m not going anywhere.”
I haven’t forgotten the folded piece of paper Bowen tossed across the counter to me a week ago; the one with Colson’s mugshot on it where he looks like Satan’s teenage son with his ocean blue eyes and perfect cheekbones glaring at the camera. And I certainly haven’t forgotten the reason for his arrest typed right under it.
I rise from my chair and plant myself on the edge of my desk, crossing my arms in defiance, “If you have something to say, you can say it here.”
“In that case, we’re more alike than you think,” Colson lets his icy gaze settle on me, “because I’m not going anywhere, either, Brett,” he lets the words sink in, “do you honestly think I’d travel hundreds—thousands—of miles and spend all this time and effort revolving around you like a goddamn satellite if I didn’t know exactly how this is going to end?”
My stomach bottoms out right there. He says it with such nonchalance that it doesn’t even sound real.
I lower my voice to a scornful whisper, “It’s because you’re a stalker.”
Colson bobs his head from side to side, “I prefer faithful to a fault.” Then he narrows his eyes, “Are you just upset because you think I forgot about you?”
“No!” I seethe through clenched teeth, “I’m upset because you tried to make me eat your gun. And then you show up out of nowhere to seek revenge on me for moving on with my life. I’ve never done anything to you!”
Colson studies me for a few moments before pushing off the cabinet. He takes a seat in my chair and leans back, looking me up and down while he chews his thumbnail. Shoulders tense and arms rigid across my chest, I stare right back at him and, after a few seconds, let out an irritated huff and move to step away.
But before I can, Colson’s leg flies up and he plants his boot against the edge of my desk with a thud, blocking my path. I flinch and then slowly turn to meet his gaze.
He gives a nod to my desk, “Sit down, Brett.”
“Stop telling me what to do,” I glare down at him, “you’re a fucking control freak and you can’t stand when someone tells you no.”
He gives an impish roll of his eyes, “But you’ve never actually said no to me,” then he shrugs, “except for that one time in Cincy, when you were trying to stick it to me.” With one look, he motions to the desk again, “Sit down.”
I hesitate, burning holes through his pale blue eyes. He holds my gaze until I slowly rock back on my heel and settle onto the edge of the desk, crossing my arms in front of me again.
Colson leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees, rolling the chair forward a few inches. Then he clasps his hands, just inches from my legs, and looks up at me, “Did you know your office is in a blind spot?”
I knit my eyebrows in confusion, “What do you mean?”
“You can see who walks east to west and north to south in the hallways, but neither camera captures your door. The frames fall just short on either end.”
There’s a flutter in the pit of my stomach simultaneously as I feel my chest tighten. Part of me doesn’t want to know why he knows this or why he feels the need to tell me.
Colson drops his hand and hooks his fingers under the hem of my skirt, sending a ripple of goosebumps up my leg as he gently runs his fingers up the back of my calf, “Anyone can walk in or out, and you’d never know unless you pay attention to how long it takes them to walk from one frame to the next.”
I swallow, my throat suddenly parched, “Shouldn’t someone fix that?”
“Yeah, me,” he replies, “I just didn’t.”
I glance over my shoulder at the door, lingering on the brushed nickel handle and deadbolt right above it. The corridor is silent, like always, devoid of any other occupants.
“It’s locked,” Colson murmurs.
But I didn’t lock it.
My eyes dart back to him, his fingers still gliding up and down the back of my calf, still sending the same familiar shiver all the way up my spine. He reaches down with his other hand and brushes his fingers up the back of my other calf, his hands moving in tandem.
I don’t move a muscle, paralyzed as I watch him, “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to return the favor,” he says with a tilt of his head, “since you were such a good girl for me the last time I saw you.”
“What makes you think I want you to touch me ever again?”
“Baby, you’re such a terrible liar,” Colson scoffs, “you try to be mean to get back at me for getting under your skin, and it never works. But I let you try because I love seeing how much it bothers you. Your eyes are dilating right now while I’m telling you about it. You love this. Plus, I already know what it’s like for you to hate me and it’s not that bad. Being away from you is much worse.”
I stare down at him, my mouth ajar, “That is so toxic.”
“Because I want to do something nice for you?”
“Nice?” my voice cracks, my outrage palpable.
“I would’ve done it earlier,” Colson slides his fingers to the backs of my knees, making my thighs tense, “but since you insist on making things more difficult, as usual—”
“Challenging,” I interject softly, staring at the floor.
Colson pauses, and when I raise my eyes, the corner of his mouth curls.
Why do you provoke him? Why do you even engage? It only makes things worse.
But I can’t help it, fighting him is the addiction, the agonizing itch that needs to be scratched. When he rolls closer to me, I plan to spit out some snarky admonishment, but nothing happens. Instead, I stand motionless as his hands move further up my legs until my skirt hangs in the crook of his elbows. I draw in a deep breath as his fingertips slide up the backs of my thighs, hitting the edge of the desk.
Colson peers up at me, “Do I make you uncomfortable, Brett?”
I clench my jaw, “Goddamnit, Colson, of course you make me uncomfortable.”
He doesn’t miss a beat, “Why?”
I lean down, my face just inches from his, “Because I have a whole other life now. I haven’t seen you in three—four years now and all of a sudden you show up at my office and you work here and you carry a gun and you keep doing things to freak me out and I don’t know why you can’t just move on and be normal. I can’t just pick up where we left off because you woke up in Canada one day and suddenly decided you couldn’t let it go!” I suck in a lungful of air, having gone on far longer than I planned.
“But this is our normal,” he replies, utterly unfazed.
Colson rises from my chair, his array of deadly implements brushing against my chest, “Leave,” he nods over my shoulder to the door.
But I don’t move, I stay planted firmly in front of the desk, “No,” I say, looking him dead in the eye.
I continue staring up at him in silence until I feel a series of soft scratches against the outsides of my thighs. And when I look down, I see Colson’s fingers drawing my skirt up my legs, one inch at a time.
“I have to tell you,” he says with a hint of amusement, “some might consider it toxic that you admit that I make you uncomfortable, but refuse to leave when I give you the opportunity.”
At that, Colson wraps one arm around my waist and lifts me slightly to slide the fabric free from beneath my legs. But when he brushes over the abrasion low on my hip, still sensitive even after a week, I wince in pain. He stills, glancing between my face and my hip, before raising my skirt.
The subtle change in his demeanor isn’t lost on me when he sees the bruise, its scabbed focal point radiating with dark purple that fades to green and then to light brown. At least the flecks of neon orange are gone…
“What happened to you?” Colson murmurs, not taking his eyes off my wound.
“Jealous?” I clip, “Are you mad there’s not enough room for yours?”
I hope he sees every mark Bowen left on me. He’ll see the rest of the scabbed over streaks peppering my shins and ankles soon enough. I hope it fucks with his head, because he sure as hell loves fucking with mine.
But Colson doesn’t seem to register my tone. He’s concentrating too hard on my body, and his mind is elsewhere. When he catches sight of the other bruising, he gently pulls my grey top up to look at that one, just as ugly as the one below it.
“Where’d you get these?”
My eyes wander across the floor, considering my response. If anyone else asked the same question, I’d probably lie—because of course. But, with Colson, the more uncomfortable I can make it for him, the better. He sounds concerned, so why should I disappoint him?
