Heart So Hollow (Dire Wolves Book 1), page 58
Brett, Alex, and Dallas working for the same company was like the stars aligning—undeniable proof that the universe never forgets, and the universe will always dole out justice when humans fail. And once I set foot in that building, I have eyes on her 24 hours a day, seven days a week, and I make sure I’m the one watching her, protecting her, knowing who’s walking past her door, into her office, and for how long.
It’s not difficult. All it takes is solidifying my reputation as the most deranged asshole on security detail to get exactly what I want. All it takes is staying quiet, staying alert, and seizing opportunities when they present themselves.
I shouldn’t have even been in the control room that day, but as soon as Alex mentions reorganizing the security zones, I decide to stick around a few more minutes.
Speaking to Nate, Alex points to the corridor of newly rehabbed office space on the north side of the second floor, “With these new offices, it adds more square footage to Zone 5. So, you can either keep this quadrant or I can move it to Zone 4 and it’ll even out the distribution.”
“I’ll take it,” I say from my seat across the table, not looking up as I scroll through my phone.
“It’s fine, I’ll keep it,” Nate grins, thinking that’s the end of it.
He’s mistaken.
I glance up from my phone, “I’ll take it.” And this time when I say it, I’m looking directly at him.
The edge in my voice draws both his and Alex’s attention as well as Noah and Gavin sitting across the room at the bay of monitors.
“It’s just the server rooms and one office,” Nate shrugs, “Brett’s the only one over there.”
“I’m aware,” I say with a smirk.
I’m also acutely aware of how much he likes talking about her stunning hazel eyes and her incredible ass, as if he knows fuck all about them. The further away he is from her office, the better.
“Really,” Nate’s smile fades, his patience wearing thin, “I’ll keep it.”
“Maybe I’m not making myself clear,” I set down my phone and plant my elbow on the table, “the hallway is mine,” I lean forward, “and she is mine.”
The room goes quiet, filling with tension as Alex’s dark eyes shift back and forth from me to Nate, a smile tugging at his mouth. Noah turns his head inconspicuously to see what happens. Gavin isn’t as subtle. He swivels in his chair and props his elbow up on the desk behind Noah, his eyes bugging out of his head. Meanwhile, Nate studies me, trying to figure out if I’m full of shit.
“I have an idea,” Alex chirps with amusement, “let’s go out to the parking lot and you two can fight for it.”
“My money’s on Col,” Noah chimes in from his seat in front of the monitors.
Nate jerks his head around, “Are you fucking serious?”
“No offense, man,” Noah shrugs, “Lutz just has that deranged look about him.”
“I have a better idea,” I lean back in my chair, “how about you give it to the only person in this building who knows what Brett feels like from the inside.”
Alex bites his lip and takes a long blink, trying to keep a straight face, but fails miserably. He might be a hard-ass with everyone else, but I still know how to break that cool exterior of his better than anyone.
Noah’s jaw drops and Gavin doubles over with laughter while Nate glares at me from across the table, “Bullshit,” he challenges.
“You’re welcome to take a walk up to my girl’s office and ask her yourself,” I tilt my head with a smirk, “get her good and mad for me. She loves taking a swing at me before I fuck her—really pumps her up.”
“Shit, bro…” Gavin chuckles, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
Noah clicks away on the monitor, “Don’t do it man, it’s a trap.”
“Nah,” Nate shakes his head, still convinced I’m bluffing, “she’s engaged, dude.”
“For now,” I reach up, slide my flashlight out of its straps on my vest, and plant it upright on the table with a thump, “but I have her favorite toys.” I slide my fist up and down the black metal and wink at him with a devious smile.
There’s a heavy pause as they all glance at the flashlight and then at me. Moments later, Noah and Gavin explode in a cacophony of laughter like a couple of hyenas while Alex tries to remain professional, but he can’t help but smile, muttering a curse under his breath with the others. Deranged can be frightening, but it’s also entertaining. And who doesn’t love a good laugh? Which is why Nate can hate my fucking guts and no one will bat an eye.
“Fine,” Nate purses his lips and waves his hand at me dismissively, “fuck if I care.”
“Thanks, pumpkin,” I taunt, grabbing my phone off the table and standing up. I start to replace my flashlight, then hesitate, shooting Nate a pensive look, “You know what? I might need this in a few minutes,” I say, giving the flashlight a spin and sauntering toward the door.
“Well, gentlemen,” Alex flips his papers over his clipboard, “I think this has been a productive meeting.”
It’s that easy.
Because it’s not the mindless, impulsive freaks who are the most dangerous. It’s the intelligent boys who endure the unthinkable and then are told to forgive and forget.
Don’t throw your life away. Go to college, make something of yourself.
So, I do. I learn how to focus, how to pay attention, how to research, how to think critically, how to be patient, how to listen, and then craft a plan. Then, after I graduate with a 4.5 GPA, I learn how to search, find, survive, and even kill if I have to. And, even after that, I learn patience, focus, and how to take out my target at a distance.
I do exactly what they told me to. I become a better stalker.
And I have one purpose—to find Brett Ashley Sorensen and destroy Bowen Garrison.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Brett
One Year Ago
I know that voice, but it shouldn’t be here in this room. I want it to be here, bursting through the doorway to save me. But, instead, it’s coming from the demonic shadow hovering over my body about to slice me to pieces.
He releases my hair, letting me drop onto the mattress, and smoothly steps off the bed onto the carpet. I roll over and push myself up to a crouching position, shaking as I watch him take a few steps back. He reaches behind his shoulders and grabs the back of his sweatshirt by the fists, pulling it up and over his head. Then he balls it up and chucks it into the corner, his broad shoulders rising and falling with each deep breath.
“He’s not protecting you now, is he?” he scoffs in the darkness.
The sound of his voice is like a knife through my heart. I scramble to the other night stand and switch on the lamp, nearly knocking it onto the floor like the other one.
Bowen stands in the middle of the room, glaring at me as he rakes his hair back from his eyes, sweat glistening on his brow. All I can do is stare at him in horror from behind the bed, my mouth agape and chin trembling as my body tries to figure out how to function again.
“You’ve been a bad, bad girl,” he coos with pure malice in his eyes, “Honeybee.”
“What?” my voice shakes as I try to draw a breath, “You?”
The adrenaline and shock are too much and I rush to the bathroom, throwing open the door and pitching forward onto the sink. I grope for the light switch and then the faucet handle as I heave the contents of my stomach into the drain. When there’s nothing left, I spit mouthfuls of tap water and haphazardly rinse my face with one hand. Then I turn around, sinking to the floor with my back against the cupboard doors.
Still gasping and sniffling, I look down at my shirt. The left side of my tank top is ripped along my chest, exposing my pink and purple sports bra. Pink splotches gave way to scratches and welts along my chest and neck. I flinch when I glance up again and see Bowen leaning against the door frame.
“I thought you were into that kind of thing,” he tugs the hand towel off the ring and tosses it into my lap, “or is it just with him?”
I try to speak, but it just comes out as a wheeze. Bowen looks over at the vanity, the empty lavender pill packet sitting on the edge of the sink next to the faucet.
He flicks the edge with his fingertip, sending it clattering into the sink, “You better hope to God that baby’s mine,” he growls with abject disdain.
“What?” I squeak out with an airy whimper.
Bowen glances down at the sink again, lingering on the empty packet, then turns his attention back to me with the blackest eyes.
The devil’s eyes.
I can’t look at him, my body still shaking and too terrified to move. After a few moments, he taps my bare foot with the toe of his boot. I shrink back on reflex, but when I look up, he’s reaching down, extending his hand to me. Not knowing what else to do, I take it and let him help me to my feet.
But as soon as I’m upright, he grabs the front of my shirt and slams me up against the wall, pinning me against it with his forearm. I let out a scream and go rigid, flattening my arms against the wall and turning away, squinting my eyes shut. I can’t see, but I can feel him lean closer, the warmth of his skin radiating against mine.
“You’re a fucking glutton for punishment, aren’t you, Brett?” His breath feels hot against my cheek. He doesn’t even sound like himself. “I should’ve strung you up a tree and left you in those woods. You think you can lie to me, you goddamn whore?” He presses against my shoulders so hard that they feel like they’re going to snap, “You want me to show you what happens to liars in my house?” He slams his other palm against the wall next to my head, making me cry out in terror.
“Let go,” I choke out through tears, “let me go!”
“Let you go?” Bowen pushes his face into mine, “Where the fuck are you going to go?” he snarls.
I cringe, pleading with him, “Bowen, what are you talking—”
He jerks my shirt, pulling me forward and slamming me back against the wall again, knocking the wind out of me, “You think you can hide things from me?” he towers over me, “I know where you go, I know who you talk to, I know what you do when you don’t think anyone is paying attention. You’re mine and I own you.”
Writhing beneath him, I try to push against his arm, but it’s nothing but a vice grip.
What’s he talking about? What does he mean he knows everything I do?
“Bowen, you’re hurting me,” I rasp, trying in vain to calm a situation that’s already gone off the fucking rails.
“Of course I am,” he snarls as his other hand flies to my throat, squeezing it with disregard, “I know how much you love it. I know how wet you get when you think you’re about to die, which is why I have a surprise tonight, just for you baby girl. Jay got really excited when I told him you like getting dicked by two guys.” Bowen lowers his voice to a whisper, “He doesn’t want to watch anymore…”
I squeeze my eyes close in dread, tamping down more sobs as I struggle against his grip.
“Maybe he’ll even bring his brother, finally introduce you,” he continues, “Wells has always been jealous of my toys…”
Wells? Oh my god…
Bowen looks me up and down, “Who’s going to miss you?”
And then the realization sets in—no one is coming.
I’m here with Bowen in this house, with nothing but his rage, and no one is coming.
He hovers for a few more seconds and then finally releases me, taking a step back. Without a word, he turns and strolls out of the bathroom. I force my feet to move, peering out of the bathroom as he heads for the hallway. I don’t know where he’s going, but something tells me I don’t want to know.
I step into the middle of the room, watching him walk further down the hall toward the light of the living room, until he inexplicably slows. He turns over his shoulder and looks at me. I glance at the bedroom door knob, and when he sees the subtle movement of my eyes, his muscles tense and his body spins on a dime. I lunge for the door, heart pounding, and grab the edge as he closes the distance in an instant. But I slam it and punch the lock just before he crashes into the wood.
I stumble back with a gasp, half expecting Bowen to come right through the door. He could easily bust it down, even give it a good shove with his shoulder and that would be that. But he doesn’t. Instead, I listen with shaky breaths as he jerks the handle a couple times and then exhales in exasperation. Without a word, he finally turns around and his heavy footsteps fade away.
My eyes still trained on the door, I stagger backward until my legs hit the edge of the bed and I sink down to the floor. I try to smother my sobs and screams with one of the pillows tossed off the bed in the melee, but it’s no use. They come like a rogue wave, nearly knocking me flat on the floor, and I don’t care if Bowen hears it. Overcome with terror and hopelessness, I claw at my chest and arms, uncontrollably convulsing and flapping my hands, like I’m trying to wipe the last 20 minutes from my body.
For the next few hours, I wait in pure terror, sitting against the bed nearly catatonic with my stomach in knots, listening for the sound of Jay’s tires—anyone’s tires—on the gravel. I know this happens. I know how brutal and savage humans can be to one another. I know people endure torture and plead for death at the hands of people they love. I just never thought it would be me. But who does?
I don’t know how long I wait in silence, with nothing but the sound of my own haggard breaths to keep me company. The digital clock is somewhere under the bed, knocked loose from the outlet, and my phone is in my bag by the front door—out there with him. So, I can only wait for the sound of tires grinding outside the window.
But it never comes.
What do I do now?
A million thoughts run through my mind.
Why was Bowen sending me creepy texts from an unknown number? What did Bowen mean when he said he knows where I go, who I talk to, and what I do? How does he know…Why did he say he wasn’t home? Why was he waiting here? Why did he even do this? Oh, fuck, I forgot to go to the pharmacy! How am I going to get out of here? What’s Bowen going to do to me when I leave this room?
At some point, I finally fall asleep, unable to stay awake for my impending demise. When I wake the next morning, I’m still curled up on the floor next to the bed. The house is silent and the bedroom door still securely locked.
Sore from passing out on the carpet instead of the bed, I creep over to the window and peek out the curtains, rubbing my puffy and swollen eyes. I have a clear view of the driveway. My Tahoe is still sitting in front of the garage, but Bowen’s truck is gone. Not that it means anything, it wasn’t there when I arrived home last night, either. I still don’t know what time it is, but it’s brighter than it usually is when we both leave for work.
I don’t know if Bowen’s really gone, but I can’t stay in this bedroom all day. At some point, I’ll have to open the door. I quietly make my way to the door and put my ear to the wood. The house is completely silent. I don’t even hear Waylon. If things go sideways, I’ll just have to try to make it to the front door.
Gathering my nerves, I grip the brushed nickel handle and twist the lock. Taking a deep breath, I push down on the handle and slowly nudge the door.
Nothing happens.
I nudge the door again, this time harder. But it doesn’t even jiggle in the frame like it does when it’s locked. It’s as though the door is frozen shut. I push harder, finally leaning back and slamming my shoulder into it with no effect. I take a step back, staring at the door for a few moments with a renewed sense of foreboding.
What the hell did he do, nail the door shut? I didn’t hear anything…
I made sure he couldn’t get in. And now, he’s made sure I can’t get out.
Suddenly, I’m alert and focused. A cold feeling seeps over my skin as I remember the events of last night. There’s no time to debate or analyze, only act. With a renewed sense of urgency, I grab my duffel bag from next to the door and empty my work clothes from the previous day onto the floor. Then I fly into the closet and start grabbing new clothes, stuffing them into the bag along with anything else that seems vaguely important, changing into a new pair of jeans and a t-shirt as I go. I make a sweep through the bathroom before zipping up the bag and dropping it next to the bedroom window.
If I can’t open the door, I’ll go out the window. I can open the garage from the keypad, get the extra key hidden in Bowen’s tool chest, and go inside to grab my work bag with my phone and my keys. Throwing the curtains open, I twist the lock open, grab underneath the lip of the window, and pull.
Again, nothing happens.
Tugging frantically, it feels like the window is frozen shut, too. I try the other one next to the bed with the same result. My breaths become shakier and more erratic, the panic rising with every second. The voice guiding my actions suddenly becomes louder and louder.
Find a way out. You have to get out. Now.
Spinning around, I scan the room for something heavy. The night stands? Maybe, but they’re unwieldy. The vanity stool seems too light. I head for the bathroom, eyes darting around each wall until they come to an abrupt halt on the lid of the toilet tank. I blink once and then lunge for it. It’s heavy, but easy to hold and maneuver.
I return to the window, looking it up and down. I’ve never broken a window before. Do I really want to do this? Should I do this?
He said he’s going to gang rape you with Jay and Wells—Jay’s goddamn brother—and then he locked you in the bedroom!
With a deep breath, I reel back and swing the porcelain slab at the glass as hard as I can.
It slams into the panes near the bottom right corner and cracks in half, sending fissures shooting through the glass and shattering it onto the sill. The noise wakes up Waylon and he starts barking in the hallway. Using the larger chunk of porcelain, I knock the remaining shards out of the window and then I start ramming it into the screen.
