Heart So Hollow (Dire Wolves Book 1), page 51
But my best friend is gone, I feel like I’m losing touch with reality, there’s a phantom lurking somewhere in the background watching my every move, and for some reason I can’t stop thinking about said phantom.
I can’t even drag my ass out of bed to get to work at my usual time, which makes me even more depressed because then I have to shift my entire schedule. And even though I’ve been plugged into my playlists and kept my office door shut all day, I can barely concentrate. And by the time 5:00 rolls around, I feel like I’ve been trying to kill time for 10 years.
I start shutting down my computer and pull out my phone to bring up my personal email. Swiping absently, I delete a few ads and almost delete another before realizing there’s a real name attached to it—one that I recognize.
To: Brett Sorensen ∙ basorensen@gmail.com
From: Jada Marquette ∙ jmarquette@rwpublishing.com
Subj: Representation
Hi Brett!
I had a chance to read the first couple chapters you sent and I’d like to discuss representation. When would be a good time to call? In the meantime, can you please send me the rest of your manuscript?
I look forward to hearing from you!
Jada
I’m in so much shock, I don’t know what to do. I’m just staring at my phone, my eyes burning from holding them open so wide and not blinking. I spend the next couple of minutes trying to remember what I’m supposed to do next.
It’s happening.
I have to tell someone. I have to tell Bowen. And it’s not five minutes after I forward the email to him that he texts me back.
BOWEN (5:09PM): Did you send the rest of it?
ME (5:10PM): Not yet.
BOWEN (5:10PM): What are you waiting for??
I could send it, it’s in the cloud. I could send it right now, but I feel the need to read through it one last time. After spending so much time making sure the first two chapters were perfect, I was too exhausted to continue when I didn’t even know if anyone would want to read it.
ME (5:12PM): I should read it one more time. I’ll do it tonight and send it tomorrow!
While packing up my tote, part of me wishes Colson would walk by. I don’t want to go find him. I don’t even want to IM or text him because I also can’t even bring myself to think about him right now. But I wish he just stopped at my door so I could tell him that Jada wants to read my book—and represent me.
But, it’s too much.
It’s probably best I kept my door shut all day.
As I’m walking through the parking lot, my phone starts vibrating and Bowen’s name flashes across my screen.
When I answer it, I don’t even say hello first, “I swear, I’m going to send it tomorrow. It has to be the final-final draft.”
“Good, because you won’t have time tonight.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m taking you to Brass Nine. So, drive downtown instead of going home.”
I come to a halt in the middle of the asphalt, “Are you serious?”
Brass Nine is located near campus in a swanky neighborhood just shy of downtown, and Bowen wouldn’t be caught dead anywhere near downtown. The only reasons he ever went anywhere near downtown before, was to come see me before I moved in with him.
“Yes, I’m serious. I know you didn’t take your bike with you today, so you’re still dressed in regular clothes.”
I glance down at my outfit. He’s right, I’m still wearing black skinny jeans with platform sandals and a loose blush tank top. It occurs to me when I’m halfway to downtown that Bowen wasn’t dressed for any type of civilized social event when he left this morning in his jeans, scuffed up boots, and camo hat.
But he’s a chameleon; he can look like he crawled out of a swamp and, an hour later, he looks like he belongs with the attorneys and real estate developers on a rooftop bar like this one. Which is exactly what he looks like when I see him standing in front of the dark brick building waiting for me.
Quintessential Bowen, tall and dark with perfectly fitted jeans and the widest smile I’ve ever seen. At least I’m still right about him. I’d probably die of shock if he ever changed.
In a matter of 20 minutes, I’m in a far better mood. In addition to someone—a stranger—being excited about my book, it doesn’t hurt that Bowen took it upon himself to put the brakes on his mom and sister’s overzealous wedding planning.
He motions to my peachy coral drink I chose at random from the menu just to be fancy, “You like it?”
“Yeah,” I nod, thoroughly impressed, “they actually give decent pours.”
“Good, because we’re getting married here,” he says casually.
I almost spit said drink across the table, “What do you mean here?”
Bowen reaches over and runs his hand up my back, “On August 24th, show up here in a pretty dress for a nice dinner. Except, beforehand, you’ll be standing right over there, next to me,” he points to an open area with an amazing view of the cityscape, “while I promise to love you ‘til death do us part, and then some. Then you can eat as much steak as you want and drink more radioactive cocktails.”
I lean into him with a grin, “As long as you promise there will be steak,” I murmur against his lips.
No mile-long guest list, no formal gowns, no centerpieces, no wedding party—as if I even have a maid of honor now—no ring bearer, no flower girl, no string quartet…
“Thank you, Bowen,” I look down at the stainless-steel table top, starting to feel halfway normal again, “for everything. Right now, everything should be exactly how it’s supposed to be, but—” I pause, unsure how to even explain it to him, “I don’t know, I’ve just felt really off lately. Like I’ve not been myself. And then what happened with…” I trail off, still unable to even say Barrett’s name out loud without falling to pieces, “I just want to feel normal again.”
“You know,” he leans over and kisses my temple, “I do know what it’s like for everything to fall apart without warning, for people you love to disappoint you.”
I guess he does know that feeling if his last girlfriend ghosted him like Hildy said.
“But if I can make it better for you, I will. Speaking of which, I also need to talk to you about something else. Maybe it’ll help.” Bowen reaches back and scratches the back of his head, “Since your book’s been picked up—what now?”
I furrow my brow and take another sip of my drink.
“Like, are you going to quit your job and write books?” he clarifies.
To be honest, I haven’t even thought about it. I’ve been too concerned with whether anyone would even be interested in reading it to think about what would happen after.
“I haven’t sold anything yet. I would still need to replace my income before I quit my job.”
“Brett,” Bowen shoots me a dramatic side-eye, “you don’t have to replace any income.”
I glance across the rooftop patio with a laugh, knowing precisely what he’s implying.
He gently squeezes the back of my neck, “Maybe you should stop thinking of it as help and just accept that this is what someone does when they love you and promises to take care of you for the rest of your life.”
“I told you I’m really bad at that kind of thing,” I say, averting my eyes.
“Don’t I know it,” he scoffs, “but I’m not going anywhere. I’m not asking you to sign a prenup. If you do this, it’ll be because you have the talent to make it your career. I’m only giving you the extra eight hours a day to do it.”
It seems like a big deal—too big of a change for me to even consider it. But logically, how is it any different than Bowen letting me live in his house rent-free and buying me a car?
“If I did quit my job, when would I do it?” I muse, “When’s the best time to walk into Dave’s office and say, hey, I’m resigning to go write books?”
Bowen shrugs, “Do it tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
He laughs, “What—do you have some prior commitment? Come on, destiny’s waiting.”
And, honestly, I can’t think of a good reason not to.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Brett
Present
“Like I said at our last session, I want to try something new with you today,” Judy clasps her hands pensively, “it’s called Accelerated Resolution Therapy.”
She looks pretty excited. But, then again, Judy always looks excited. She brushes her flowy sagebrush skirt down her leg and bounces her foot, adorned with bright orange polish and matching shade of Chaco sandals.
“Research shows that bilateral stimulation helps repair parts of the nervous system that are damaged when someone goes through a traumatic event.” She motions around her head emphatically as she explains, “ART helps your brain process all that through eye movements and, as a result, your nervous system actually heals and desensitizes you so that you no longer have severe reactions when exposed to triggers.”
It's a nice thought, not waking up trying to claw my way out of my bedroom or, at the very least, not feeling like there are someone’s eyes boring into the back of my head every time I leave my house. Not like it matters if I leave my house…I feel like he’s there, too.
“This will keep me calm whenever I think about him instead of giving me anxiety and panic attacks?”
A wide, mischievous smile spreads across Judy’s face as she slowly nods her head.
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, “OK, let’s do it…” my chest trembles as I try to keep the lump in my throat down, “because I can’t live like this anymore.”
●●●
“Seriously,” I toss my turquoise leather cross-body across the console to the passenger seat, “thank you for everything. We should do this again, except without the car repairs,” I say with a laugh.
“It’s the least I could do, especially after smashing your bumper,” Valerie glances to the side sheepishly, “did insurance cover the entire thing?”
“Oh, yeah,” I nod, “aside from waiting on the part, the whole thing was pretty seamless, even with the weird ignition issue.”
By late afternoon, my 4Runner is otherwise good as new and I’m finally about to head back home after Valerie drops me at the dealership. With a promise to make plans next week, she embraces me in a farewell hug coated in vanilla and orange blossom perfume and turns to head back to her SUV.
“Oh, um—” Valerie turns around and opens her mouth, but hesitates before finally shaking her head, “never mind.”
“What is it?” I ask, climbing into the driver’s seat.
Valerie bobs her head back and forth briefly and then approaches my door, “What—” she lowers her voice, “what did you mean by he has a type?”
“Who?” I scrunch up my face, utterly oblivious.
“Ah…um…” she stammers, “the guy…the one you told me about.”
“Oh!” I exclaim. “Sorry, that guy.” I squint at her with amusement as I pull my seatbelt across my chest, “You want to know?”
“Sorry,” her eyes fall to the asphalt and she shakes her head again, picking at her lavender nail polish, “I shouldn’t have asked, that’s weird.”
“No,” I shrug, sliding my sunglasses up the bridge of my nose, “it’s OK. It’s in the past. I don’t mind talking about it anymore.”
I press my brake pedal and push the ignition. The engine roars to life, just as it should, and I start bobbing my head to the Limp Bizkit song that blares through the speakers at a much higher volume than I left it before my car got towed. I suspect the mechanics were having a good time…
I turn to the window and rap a few lyrics at Valerie, “Sorry,” I giggle before refocusing my attention, “I like this song.”
She doesn’t seem as mirthful as I am right now. In fact, she looks downright unsettled for someone whose vehicle hasn’t been in the shop for two days. I glance over her shoulder at her SUV, shiny white in the blazing summer sun, and then turn back to her.
“Anyway, his type…” I take a deep breath and rest my elbow on the edge of the window, “redheads,” I deadpan.
Valerie stares at me intently, waiting for me to say more, “Redheads?”
“Redheads,” I repeat, “it doesn’t matter what kind—light, dark, long, short, ginger, tan…but it’s a double-edged sword. If you’re a redhead, he loves you to death—literally.”
She furrows her brow and glances across the parking lot, “And if not?”
I hesitate for a moment and then lean forward, lowering my voice, “Then you’re either a knowing accomplice or unknowing dupe.”
It’s just as well that Valerie can’t see my eyes behind my tortoise shell sunglasses, because otherwise she might just grow antlers and turn into a real deer in headlights in the middle of the Toyota dealership.
“Well,” I jerk the gearshift into drive, “talk to you soon!” I flash her a smile and pull away, leaving her still standing in front of the service department.
Cranking up my playlist, I give Fred Durst all I have until I hit the freeway and then begin to relax and let my mind wander. For someone who recognized me as Brett Sorensen the author, it’s kind of odd that Valerie never really asked about my book—just that one comment when we met on the day she listened to the Spice Ghouls podcast. Then again, there were other things going on, like her smashing into my bumper. Plus, she probably had other things on her mind before that.
Forty-five minutes later, I’m finally pulling into the gravel drive flanked by two junipers. I park the 4Runner out front, and as soon as I reach the front door, my eye catches a small box sitting at the bottom of the oak door. It’s a run-of-the-mill brown cardboard box, but there’s no shipping label on it—or any label, for that matter.
I stare at it for a few moments before jerking my head up and looking around, doing a scan of the property from the porch. All I see is the vast span of trees across the lawn and the empty driveway that leads to the road. I’m still alone here, as far as I can see. Slowly, I reach down and grab the box, no bigger than my hand. It feels empty, but as soon as I turn it over, I feel something slide across the inside.
Once safely inside the house, I immediately start tearing open the seams of the box, dumping the contents out into my open hand.
There’s only one thing inside—a flash drive.
It’s generic, black, and otherwise normal looking, but I know whatever’s on it is probably anything but normal.
I rush down the hall to my office, collapsing into the chair in front of my computer. But I hesitate before popping the flash drive into my port. What if it’s a virus that infects my machine and deletes everything I have? It’s not an irrational fear…
But that seems pretty basic for such a specific item left at my door. Whatever’s on it is clearly meant to be viewed by me, I just don’t know if I actually want to view it. No, that’s a lie—I’d rather dip my hands in sulfuric acid right now than find out what’s on this flash drive. But I have to.
Gathering my wits, I plug it into the port and wait for it to register in my file explorer. When it finally does, I steel myself and click on the folder, preparing for whatever hell is about to fill my screen.
But when it does, it’s not a threatening note or a grainy video of one of my loved ones being held for ransom in a basement somewhere. It’s a Word file labeled with my name. I hesitate for a moment while I try to steady my breathing. Once it’s calm, I double-click the file and wait for it to open.
When it does, I have to blink a few times to register what I’m seeing. It’s a threat, plain as day, but not the kind I expect.
My eyes move down the screen to the page count, and then the word count. I stare at the first page for a few seconds before my index finger starts scrolling at lightning speed, rage building with every page my eyes skim. Finally, I stand up, my fists clenched and chest heaving. I whip out my phone and tap the icon for my security cameras, searching the list for the feed pointed at the front door.
But when I tap it, the image is black with the word Disconnected at the bottom. Then I notice my phone is using data rather than Wifi.
With a frustrated growl, I crouch down next to my desk to check the router plugged into the wall. The red light is on instead of the green, so I flip the power off, wait a minute or so, and then turn it back on. It doesn’t connect. I do it another three times with no effect before storming out of my office to the front door.
But, as soon as I grab the knob, I freeze. I don’t know if I want to see what’s on the other side of this door, but I have to know. I have to know what I’m dealing with.
Your hypervigilance is a trauma response. It’s what your brain does to keep you safe.
I let go of the knob and turn around, heading back down the hall to the bedroom. I jerk open the drawer of my birch side table and reach inside, retrieving a black Glock in a black leather holster.
Just like his.
I tuck the holster in the back of my cutoff shorts, clipping it to the soft polyester maternity waistband, and pull my shirt down over it. I’ll have to relocate it by the time the baby is born. But, by then, none of this will matter. I won’t need it anymore.
Now armed, I tug open the front door and step out onto the porch. It’s still an ordinary summer day. The sun is shining, the heat at its peak, and the property is teeming with wildlife, still as active as ever. I’m the only one with a problem, now stalking back down the driveway toward the road. And when I reach it, I find what I’m looking for.
Next to one of the junipers guarding the entrance to my driveway is the pole that connects our electricity and internet to a series of smaller poles leading through the trees up to the house. I stare up at it for a few moments and then let my eyes fall down to the ground, searching until I see the wire laying neatly across the grass.
