Heart So Hollow (Dire Wolves Book 1), page 50
What you’re like…
Maybe next time Bowen can leave his gun where it belongs and Colson can stop threatening to step straight into my relationship with Bowen. As if he hasn’t already…I can’t even think about it without my muscles tensing and starting to shiver as the adrenaline starts pumping through them. It feels like planets threatening to collide.
But one thing is for sure, I have to stop this. I have to end it.
Now.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Brett
One Year Ago
It doesn’t matter how many times I refresh my email, there still aren’t any messages from literary agents. It still hasn’t been that long—I know that. But I also don’t have any idea how this really works. Is it like college applications where you at least get a rejection letter, or is it like job applications where employers ghost you and you descend into HR hell? Maybe if I can keep fixating on my inbox and ignore everything else, I’ll be able to stay sane a little while longer.
There haven’t been any more smoothies appearing in places they don’t belong. Or creepy texts. Granted, every time my phone vibrates, I’m still terrified it’ll be a text from an unknown number. Colson hasn’t texted me in a while, either. Then again, he doesn’t text much, anyway—at least from his number. If he does, it’s usually random questions or Dallas asking him to tell me something. But, now, he’s contented to just see me at work, almost as if he prefers to speak to me in person.
But I don’t see him today, because I make a point to avoid him. Not necessarily because I want to, but because the more I see him, the more likely something incredibly inappropriate will happen. So, I bounce from office to office for half the day, spending most of my time in Abby’s office, until I finish my on-site tasks and flee back to my house.
I spend an inordinate amount of time trying to avoid things, whether they’re people or situations.
My mood improves significantly when I walk through the front door and lock the deadbolt behind me. Aside from the one morning I found the smoothie in the fridge, nothing too strange has happened here lately. If I can keep all the weirdness on the other side of the property line, I consider that a success.
When the front door opens unexpectedly, I glance at the clock in the corner of my screen and tilt my head back on the sofa cushion. It’s Bowen, and he’s home way earlier than usual. My mouth stretches into a broad grin as he drops his backpack next to the door and saunters into the living room.
“I still can’t get used to that,” he says as he collapses onto the cushion next to me.
I shut my laptop and set it down on the coffee table, deciding I won’t get anything else done today, “Get used to what?”
Bowen raises his arm and waits for me to curl into his chest, then he turns and looks down at me, “That goddamn beautiful smile,” he drawls, his smile widening the longer he looks at me.
“I’m glad you’re home,” I say softly, running my fingers across the top of his forearm.
Bowen presses his mouth against my forehead and takes a deep breath. Usually, Bowen’s silence is comforting and devoid of awkwardness, but something is different this time. When I pull back and look up at him, he’s gazing out the glass doors with a faraway look in his eyes.
“What?” I look him up and down, “What’s wrong with you?”
He lets out a scoff, “Um,” his eyes roll over the ceiling and finally settle on me, “I have to talk to you about something.”
I don’t like his tone and my stomach drops as soon as he opens his mouth. But that’s what happens when someone says, we have to talk, right? If it weren’t a bad sign, they would just say what they have to say.
I lower my eyes to my knees, “What is it?”
The silence is agony, like he’s deciding whether he wants to even bring it up at all. And since when does Bowen ever have trouble bringing up anything? It’s not him—Bowen never hesitates to say anything, even when he should.
Finally, he breaks the silence, “Something happened with Barrett.”
Relief washes over me. No one died, Hannah isn’t stirring up more trouble—I haven’t seen or heard from her in weeks—and as far as Bowen is concerned, Colson’s still just lingering in the background.
So, why does he look so broken up about Barrett?
I smile and knit my brow in confusion, “What do you mean?”
Bowen leans forward and reaches into his back pocket for his phone. He taps the screen a few times and then holds it out to me. When I take it from him, a text thread is pulled up and the first thing I see is the tail end of their previous conversation about oil changes and Barrett’s text to him last night.
BARRETT (8:42PM): 824 Hibernia Hills
BARETT (8:42PM): The key is under the yellow flower pot on the porch
BARRETT (9:02PM): (Attachment)
Beneath the string of texts is a thin sliver of an image, and when I scroll down, my heart seizes.
Shut down. Game over.
I’m frozen, and all I can hear is the rush of blood pumping in my ears and my heart hammering against my chest. I can’t breathe, and my hands go cold, beginning to shake as adrenaline shoots through my veins.
Because what I’m looking at is a nightmare.
I’m holding my boyfriend’s—my fiancé’s—phone, and there’s a topless picture of my best friend on it.
I can barely swallow, my throat suddenly parched as I stare at the picture of Barrett, standing in her bathroom next to the white marble vanity. The lens is slightly elevated and tilted down so I can see the familiar grey tile floor. But she’s holding the camera close, taking up most of the frame as she shoots a flirtatious smile while her shiny dark chocolate hair cascades over her shoulders and frames her completely bare breasts.
I can’t move, but I also don’t want to look at the phone anymore, so I shift my eyes and stare just past the screen at the fireplace hearth across the living room. Maybe if I focus on that, I won’t melt into a blubbering puddle on the carpet. After a few moments I finally manage to open my mouth and, to my surprise, an airy voice rasps out a question.
“What is this?”
“I wasn’t going to tell you because nothing happened,” Bowen pinches the bridge of his nose, “but I tell you everything, so that would’ve been just as fucked up.”
“Why—” my voice catches and I clear my throat, “why did she send you this—” I flip the phone up again to quickly glance at the date and time, “last night?”
I scroll down and read the texts that follow. They pick back up early this morning.
BOWEN (6:42AM): Barrett what are you doing?
BARRETT (8:06AM): I’m going to tell Brett about this.
BOWEN (8:18AM): You should
“I didn’t see her text until I was already driving over there,” Bowen says as he leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees, “I figured she sent it to me by accident because I’m the last person she texted, so I was going to give her hell about it. Anyway, I get there and the house looks dark, so I get her key and go in. But she’s still there because she’s walking around upstairs. I call up that it’s me and she yells back, so I go into the kitchen and get to work.”
Every syllable hits my ear like a drumbeat. I imagine it’s the kind of drumbeat one would hear if they were about to witness a human sacrifice, or an execution, or the beginning of a massacre. It’s the rising tempo of emotional carnage.
“She finally comes down,” he continues, “and when I turn around, she’s in nothing but her panties. She goes over to the dryer, digs around for a while, comes back out with some clothes, and stops right in front of me and starts talking about her busted outlet like it’s nothing.”
I make myself look at the texts again, read them over and over. I start tapping the screen.
Screenshot. Send. Screenshot. Send.
I glance at Bowen, thinking he’s finished, but he takes a breath and I know he’s not.
“She starts going back upstairs, but then stops and asks if I want to go with her.”
I wince as a sharp sensation pierces my temple and behind my eyes, as though the words themselves are physically painful to hear. I drop Bowen’s phone on the carpet and squeeze my head between my fingers.
What the fuck?
I shut my eyes and try to concentrate on my breathing, in and out, as a shudder reverberates deep in my stomach. I don’t know whether to scream, or cry, or break something. But I never do any of these things. I do exactly what I’m doing now, which is fall to pieces in silence.
“What did you say?” I ask in a voice that doesn’t sound like mine.
“I said no, to which she made the comment that you’re too trauma-bonded to Colson to let him go.” All sounds cease and I can’t hear anything but a monotone ring in my ear as fight or flight takes hold. “Then I left.”
Bowen barely gets the last word out before I stand up and glide around the sofa, making my way to the kitchen where I swipe my keys off the wall hook. Nearly catatonic, I hear him say my name as I turn the corner to the foyer, dipping down to snatch my purse next to the door before slamming it behind me.
●●●
Halfway to Barrett’s house, my phone starts buzzing. As soon as I see she’s calling, I clench my teeth, spitting curses as I try to keep it together. She calls another two times before I pull onto her street, but I don’t answer. Instead, I let the rage build with each passing moment, marinating on everything that’s transpired over the past week—everything I’ve told her.
Our entire friendship plays over in my mind in a matter of minutes.
There were signs. Did I miss the signs? How could I miss the signs? It’s because I’m so distracted with every other bizarre thing happening in my life. I slam my palm down on the top of the steering wheel in frustration, letting out a shrill squeak.
Barrett answers the door immediately, looking startled when she sees me standing on the front step, “You’re here,” she sounds both relieved and uneasy as she steps aside to let me in.
I turn around to face her as soon as she shuts the door, “Did Bowen come to your house today?”
Barrett’s silent for a few seconds, her demeanor changing slightly as she looks at me.
“Yeah,” she pauses, pursing her lips, “did he tell you what happened?”
I just stare at her.
Why are you so calm?
I narrow my eyes suspiciously, “Yeah?”
Barrett shakes her head, “I’m sorry, I should’ve called you right away. I had a full schedule, and I just didn’t want to deal with it until after I—”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I roar, making her jump.
Her jaw drops, “Brett, what—”
“You tried to fuck my fiancé!” It comes tumbling out like a dam break, and I’m powerless to stop it.
Barrett blinks, probably in just as much shock that I’m shouting as she is about the situation, “What?” She lowers her voice to a near whisper and squints at me, “What are you talking about?”
I’m shaking so bad, I have to plant a hand on the wall to steady myself, which doesn’t work anyway.
My breaths only become more labored as I try to get to the point, “I saw your texts.”
“What texts?” She furrows her brow, “The ones after he left?”
“Yeah,” I hiss, “after you sent him a picture of your tits!”
Barrett stills, her eyes bulging like she’s glitching out. She blinks again and opens her mouth, but nothing comes out except panicked breaths.
“What? No!” she finally blurts out, “I never sent him any picture!”
Barrett spins around, searching the room until she sees her phone sitting on the island. Four strides later, she swipes it off the countertop and begins swiping and tapping furiously.
“Look!” she thrust her phone in my face, “I never sent him any picture!”
I glare at her, looking past the screen, not seeing the screen, only seeing the face of my best friend who’s just betrayed me in the worst way possible, “How. Fucking. Convenient.”
“It’s not here, Brett!” she shakes the phone at me in desperation, “Look at the texts!”
“I already looked at them. Why the hell do you think I’m here?”
Barrett’s face relaxes and morphs from panic to defiance, then lifts her finger and points at me, “I don’t know what the fuck is happening right now, but there shouldn’t be any reason Bowen has any picture of me on his phone.”
“Is that why you also came downstairs in nothing but your underwear?”
Barrett’s jaw drops and her eyes flash with fury, “That is not what happened!” she growls, “What the fuck is Bowen telling you?”
For a moment, I consider asking Barrett what happened, but I don’t. Because what’s there to pour over, go over step-by-step in grueling detail? I’ve already seen the texts and her naked body on Bowen’s phone. What else is there to tell? There’s nothing.
I stare back at her with momentary sadness, “Is this my punishment for telling you what happened with Colson?” my voice cracks and falls to a near whisper, “Is this why you told Bowen I’m broken and I’ll never get over Colson?”
“No!” she snaps, incredulous.
My voice cracks as the sobs threaten to break through, “I shouldn’t mind because what I did was so terrible—because I don’t deserve someone like Bowen anymore?”
“I have never once uttered Colson’s name to Bowen—ever! Bowen was the one who brought him up this morning.”
“You’re the only person I’ve ever told what really happened. How would he have known any of that?” I drag my hand across my face and then bring it down with a smack at my side, “I trusted you!”
“Goddamnit, Brett,” Barrett screams, pounding her chest, “it’s me!”
“Exactly! It’s you…” as soon as I say it, my face implodes into a mess of sobs, “you’re my best friend and none of this was supposed to happen!”
After realizing I have nothing left to say, I turn and stalk back out of the house, slamming the door behind me. Barrett storms after me, her shouts only a muted buzz as I climb back into my SUV and resume my catatonic state.
Even when I get back home, I walk through the door in silence, ignoring everything else around me. I don’t even look at Bowen, a fuzzy silhouette in my periphery, as I trudge down the hallway to the bedroom. Maybe he said something to me, I’m not sure.
I would’ve climbed into bed right then, but I’m so goddamn particular about my routine that I can’t. I have to change into pajamas first, wash my face and rinse off my cleanser with a mixture of tears and tap water before I brush my teeth. Only then can I finally jerk the blackout curtains closed and crawl under the covers in my pitch-black cave.
But sleep isn’t an option.
How can I sleep when my life is imploding? I don’t know what else to do, so I text Katie. And to my surprise, she responds in a matter of minutes, which is totally unlike her. But I’m not an idiot. It usually takes her at least a day to respond to something specific, and this time I only asked if she could talk, so I assume she’s already been talking to Barrett. And if she is talking to Barrett, she’s at least tactful enough not to say so.
I don’t want to send her the screenshots. I can’t even look at them. I should just delete them. Why do I need to keep them—to remind me of how my most cherished friendship went to hell in a matter of hours?
Barrett was more than my best friend, she was my ride or die, the one person who would never leave, no matter what else changed in my life. And now I’m lying under my blankets in the pitch dark, barely able to even see my texts with Katie because my eyes are so swollen and blurry.
KATIE (10:43PM): I see the texts and I can’t argue with anything you’re saying. But I still can’t wrap my mind around it.
ME (10:46PM): She told him things there’s no way he could’ve known otherwise.
KATIE (10:48PM): Idk maybe I’m just in shock. I have no idea what to think about any of this. Barrett loves you. Why would she do this to you?
I don’t know. I don’t know.
Katie doesn’t even know the half of it. It’s too awful and messy and complicated. And that’s the worst part—Barrett was the one person who knew everything. She’s been my confidante in this entire tangled mess. And that went away the moment I looked at Bowen’s phone. Now it’s all just a heavy weight, a concrete block coated in gunpowder that I’m dragging around, ready to explode.
I don’t know how much time passes until I feel the mattress shift and the familiar weight of Bowen’s body settle behind me. I stay still, the realization setting in that I didn’t stick around long enough to hear whether he would say anything about Colson and my alleged trauma bond to him.
Trauma bond…does Bowen even know what that means?
He must not be too upset by it because I feel him roll toward me and rest his nose against the back of my head. After a few moments he slowly wraps his arm around the lumpy pile of blankets that is my body.
“Are you awake?” Bowen murmurs into my hair, “You want to come over here?”
Without a word, I begin to turn over, pushing through the blankets until I feel Bowen’s torso. He raises his arm and lets me roll into the warmth of his chest, pulling me against him as I wrap my arms and legs around his body. Feeling his skin against mine and concentrating on his steady breathing has always made me feel safe, but tonight he can hear my agitated, erratic breaths as I cling tightly to him, and there’s no end in sight.
Bowen curls his arm around my head, gently stroking my hair away from my ear, “I know you, Brett,” he whispers against my forehead, “and I won’t make you talk about it if you don’t want to.”
It’s the most relief I’ve had all night, enough that I’m finally able to fall asleep and escape to an imaginary place that doesn’t so closely resemble hell.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Brett
One Year Ago
There’s no such thing as a good night’s sleep when you wake up each morning remembering an integral part of your life…isn’t anymore. And when the realization sets in, sound is muted, colors are dull, and I feel like I’m watching my life from outside my body, wondering how it got to be this way. I should be happy; I have everything I need—everything I want, right?
