Heart So Hollow (Dire Wolves Book 1), page 77
The sun is gone and I’m suddenly reminded that I’m not at my childhood home in North Bay. My mom’s not in this kitchen, my dad’s not on the deck, and I’m not chasing Jo across the grass. There’s no water or boats or the neighbor boys scaring us with firecrackers.
Maybe this is who I am now; a frightened, paranoid, hollowed-out shell of a person trying to survive on a steady drip of adrenaline and caffeine laced with impending doom. Barrett’s right, everything I do is tainted with weird habits and overly specific routines. Ever since…
“I know the feeling,” my eyes fall to the table, “when things get too quiet.”
“You’re safe here, you know.”
As soon as Colson says it, a match strikes somewhere deep in my chest, a spark of sulfur racing toward a stick of dynamite. Pictures of him and the sound of his voice flash through my mind until, soon, they morph into Bowen’s face and Bowen’s voice, spun up all together in a twister of angst, resentment, and grief. If Colson never saw me at that party, if I hadn’t gone out with him, if I’d been able to let go of him, if I hadn’t been searching for him in someone else…
If…if…if…
“With you?” I’m picking at the cuticle of my thumb so intensely that I don’t realize my fingertip is smeared with blood. “Like last time?”
When he meets my eyes, my muscles are so rigid that I feel the veins popping in my neck and each breath feels like my lungs are made of iron.
“No,” Colson says with a hint of a smile, “not like last time.”
I’m sitting with him at his kitchen table, in his house, next-fucking-door to the Garrisons, on a gorgeous summer night, eating dinner like everything is perfectly normal. But, it’s not.
“But it is like last time,” I return a bitter smile, “the only difference is that now I know why you like me so much. It’s the same reason Bowen does, and now it’s the reason he hates me.”
Colson’s eyes narrow slightly, “And what reason is that, Brett?” he challenges.
I plant my elbows on the edge of the table, “Because I’m a ghost.” I stare intently over the oak table, “Yeah…” I lower my voice, the resentment bubbling over, “I figured it out pretty quickly. Col and Bo locked in an eternal battle, destroying everyone who gets in their way. But you forgot that this is my life, too. I’m not the reincarnated ghost of Evie Maguire,” I clench my jaw, my nostrils flaring, “I’m not a replacement for your dead sister!”
I shoot up out of my chair, grab my plate, and hurl it onto the kitchen floor, shattering it across the tile. Colson stares blankly at the ceramic shards as they scatter across the floor.
“No,” he gives a placid shake of his head, “no one can replace Evie. And even if I could get her back—right now—she wouldn’t be a replacement for you, Brett. Because without you, I stay suspended in one moment in time, forever. And without me, you would’ve eventually ended up suspended in your own moment in time—forever 24 years old, broken and destroyed, hidden away in the dark where no one will find you, while everyone you ever knew lives on, remembering a shadow of who you once were.”
He describes my death so easily, but I know it’s because he’s already seen death and met it face to face. And now he sees my face there, too. But I’m not like him. I’m still running from death.
“I don’t know why I decided to go drinking one night and walked into the same house as you,” he continues, “I don’t know why yours is the pulse I feel over my own or why yours is the only love worth chasing. Maybe you can ask God whenever you see him, but the only way you and I keep living is with each other, and you need to come to terms with that in whatever way you see fit.”
He speaks so plainly, like everything’s already been revealed to him and he’s accepted his fate.
“I know what you did to me back then wasn’t your fault,” I say it like I’m still trying to convince myself, “but you should’ve told me what happened. Just like you should’ve told me about Bowen. I’m so tired of only getting pieces of you, or anyone else, for that matter.” I look down, wincing as I furiously pick at my fingers, “You could’ve told me all of it. But you just decided to fuck with me instead. You made me love you and hate myself…and now I hate you, too!” I roar.
A heavy silence hangs between us as the echo dissipates through the kitchen. Finally, Colson rises from his chair and closes the space between us, his jeweled eyes boring into me.
He stops so close that his chest brushes my shoulder, “Do you?” he barks, giving me a start.
But I’m so broken, I don’t even have the guts to look at him. He towers over me, his chest rising and falling like a dragon about to breathe fire. I’m absolutely sure I’ve sealed my fate. Maybe he actually will kill me, and this time it’ll be a conscious decision. Maybe I just prefer Colson’s eerie serenity over Bowen’s gnashing teeth. Maybe, this time, I’ll thank him while he finally puts me out of my misery, as long as he does it with a straight face…
I only glance up when Colson steps past me on his way across the room. He opens the closet next to the front door and shoves his arm into his backpack hanging on the hook. I can’t make out what he’s doing until he slams the door shut and swings both hands out in front of him.
The heavy metallic snap as he pulls back the slide and chambers a round in his Glock sends a wave of terror through my chest. I remain motionless, petrified as I watch him from the other side of the table. His eyes trained on me, he strolls back into the kitchen, the gun swinging with his gait. He returns to my side, his body heat radiating against me while he invades my space. Trembling, I manage to look up at him for a split second and meet his eyes, ablaze with contempt.
Colson takes the barrel of the gun in his other hand and offers the grip to me. My eyes dart back and forth in confusion.
“Take it,” his deep voice cuts through the silence.
When I hesitate, he shoots me a warning look. I don’t want his gun, but I reluctantly lift my hand and wrap my fingers around the grip.
He lets go of the barrel and takes a step back, “Shoot me.”
“What?” I murmur, glancing down at the gun hanging at my side.
Colson lifts his chin, his blue eyes reflecting back at me with defiance, “Shoot me,” he says louder this time.
“No,” I whisper, looking around the kitchen for God knows what.
“Have you lost your sting, Honeybee?” his voice drips with disdain, “You know you want to after what I did to you. You remember what an amazing night that was...”
Slowly, I raise my eyes to meet his, clenching my jaw as his face begins to change, like a man transforming into a beast before my eyes.
“Remember how bad I fucked with your head?” Colson grins, sensing my anger like blood in the water, “And still, you wanted me so bad that you drove to Cincy with me,” he runs his tongue along the backs of his teeth, his tone turning venomous, “you were so hungry for more that you fucked my hand on the way back. And you liked that so much that you made me pull over so I could fuck your face!”
I grit my teeth and look away as he taunts me, but he doesn’t let up.
He leans in, bumping my head with his nose, “You made a deal with the devil that night, didn’t you? I marked you as mine, tasted your blood on my tongue, and you surrendered everything to me—mind, body, and soul,” he leans into my ear with a whisper, “signed, sealed, and fucked.”
The gun barrel taps my thigh as my hand starts to tremble.
Colson pulls back, “I should’ve kept you tied to that bed. Then you wouldn’t have run off and broke your promises like a lying little whore!” He looks me up and down, “Just see if I let you leave here again...”
I jerk my head up, my arm tensing.
“You want to know why I didn’t say anything until now?” he jeers at me, “Because fucking with you and getting under that soft, beautiful skin of yours is like being edged all day for months on end.”
My fingers tighten around the black metal.
“My fucked-up mind is what gets your panties wet, isn’t it? I can put a gun in your mouth—a gun—and you’ll keep coming back to me,” he lowers his voice again, “like a little bitch in heat.”
Now, all I hear is Bowen’s voice, assaulting my eardrums while air hisses through my teeth.
“You wanted me to find you. I almost put a bullet through your head, and you still loved me,” Colson growls, “because I am your worst. Fucking. Nightmare.”
The next thing I see are my arms out in front of me, pressing the end of the barrel into his chest, tears blurring my vision.
“You gonna pull the trigger, Brett?” Colson snarls, “Do it! Before I bend you over my table. If you thought Bowen’s gun was bad, wait ‘til you see what I’m going to do.” His voice reverberates against my face, “You’ll be wishing for death!”
I pull the trigger and feel the click of the slide against my palm. Then all the air leaves my lungs, and everything goes silent.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
Colson
One Year Ago
“Feel better?”
Brett stares down at her hands, shaking and still gripping my gun with white knuckles. Then she jerks her head up, eyes wide with horror.
I’m not dead. And there’s not a gaping bullet wound in my chest or blood spatter across the kitchen. It’s just us, standing opposite one another, in silence.
“You—” she presses the back of her wrist to her mouth, her eyes darting back and forth across the tile.
“There are worse things than dying, Brett,” my voice returns to its normal tone, “like what happens before the lights go out, or living with the aftermath. But I’ll let you kill me over and over if it’ll give you something back that you lost. Fortunately for me,” I slowly reach up and pull the gun from her grasp, “you don’t know what a loaded gun feels like.”
She meets my eyes with a forlorn look that quickly morphs into a scowl. Still stunned and unable to form words, she finally turns and charges out of the kitchen and up the stairs.
Brett’s never been a shrinking violet to be coddled, so I’m not going to start now. I’ll let her sit with her anger. Some people are afraid to do that, they want to ignore it and get rid of it as soon as possible. But anger keeps you hungry, and if you accept it as part of yourself like bones and muscle, eventually it turns into something else. Something you’ll need when the time comes to do what has to be done.
I’ll give her the night to sleep on it—maybe really sleep if she feels safe enough here. She should, because there’s no way anyone’s crossing the property line without getting a bullet through their skull or, at the very least, a limb ripped off by my dog. But she’s still terrified, and no amount of reassurance is going to convince her yet.
That’s why I don’t bat an eye when she hurls her dishes across the kitchen and tries to shoot me in the chest with my own gun. She’s wound so tight, it’s probably the first real outburst she’s had in her entire adult life. She keeps everything under wraps, bottled up until the inevitable explosion. But as long as she doesn’t try to run, everything will be fine. In which case, I’ll have to go after her and carry her ass back here. But when the bedroom door slams and it doesn’t open again until well after dark, I figure she’s not going to.
She doesn’t want to deal with what’s outside the front door, anyway. That’s why she’s here.
I hear soft footsteps move across the hall to the bathroom and then nothing until after I collapse onto my bed, staring at the ceiling fan humming on high until my eyes drift shut. I’m almost asleep when I hear a knock at my door. I lumber across the room, only to find Brett standing in the hallway, waiting patiently with her arms crossed over her chest.
I lean against the door frame, rubbing the side of my face, “What’s up?”
The air conditioner can barely keep up with the heat, but she looks like she’s shivering in her grey sleep shorts and blue tank top. She lets out a weary breath, “Can I sleep in here? Every little sound is freaking me out.”
“Why are you knocking?” I ask, “Just come in.”
“I’m not sneaking up on someone with a sleep disorder who’s prone to violence,” she snaps.
I rake my teeth over my bottom lip, trying not to laugh, you won’t walk through the door uninvited, but you’ll ask to sleep in the same bed as someone with a sleep disorder who’s prone to violence?
After a few moments, I step aside, “Come on.”
Brett slips past me and I shut the door behind her. She steps across the plush carpet gingerly, like she’s trying not to make any noise, but only makes it a few feet before coming to a halt.
She hesitates for a few moments, her hands twitching, “I should be sorry…” she finally says, “for shooting you.”
“That’s why I gave you an empty gun,” I say at her back, “because I knew you would.”
She looks over her shoulder with skepticism, “But what if I’d pistol whipped you instead?”
“That probably wouldn’t have killed me, either,” I reply with a shake of my head, “but I’m sure you’ll have plenty more chances.”
Her head moves gently from side to side as she scans the antique bed frame, with more dings and nicks since the last time she saw it. It’s been in a basement for three years, coveted by Dallas, full of regret that she wasn’t the firstborn to call dibs on one of the last heirlooms from our very German great-grandmother.
“You still have the same bed,” Brett remarks, her gaze climbing the twisted black posts.
She scours every inch, and eventually, her eyes settle on the intricate carvings across the headboard where a frayed, black strap of nylon remains knotted around the center. She stares, motionless, at it, the only sound the hum of the ceiling fan.
“I did love Bowen,” Brett finally says, her voice louder and more resolute, “because somewhere, deep down, I wanted to find you. And I found some parts of you in him.”
I take a step back and settle onto the edge of the dresser.
She doesn’t take her eyes off the knot, left intact for four years now, “I don’t know if I ever knew who he was or if it was all a façade, but even when I felt your gun in my mouth, it didn’t feel like it did with him two nights ago.” She turns over her shoulder with a profound sense of clarity, “Bowen meant to do what he did, from the start.”
“Well,” I shift my weight, crossing my arms, “he was also searching for a ghost, and found you. You just had the misfortune of searching for me and finding a demon.”
“I’ll never escape you, will I?” Brett asks with a faint smile.
My mouth twitches with amusement, “No.”
“I should still want to,” she muses, “you could also just be a really good liar who takes advantage of people’s weaknesses like Bowen does.”
I tip my chin up, “I am your only weakness, Brett, and you’re mine.” I push away from the dresser and close the space between us, my chest nearly touching hers, “We are symbiotic. I don’t just love you. I don’t like watching you just because you’re pretty, I like feeding you everything I have and watching you take it and make yourself stronger and more powerful every day. You bending to my will is only a show of weakness in the same way that a drowning man reaches for a life vest.” I lean down, lowering my voice, “I do what I do because you are, in the truest sense, my Honeybee. You give me life and I give you the same in return. That’s why it doesn’t matter how far you run, I’d rather live half a life only being able to catch you for a few moments before you escape again than a whole life without you.”
She stares up at me, her chest rising and falling with exhausted breaths, “But now I’m hollow, too,” her voice cracks in frustration, “and I didn’t used to be. Now, after all this, I’m half empty and half alive.”
I shake my head with a half-smile, “You’re not,” I step around her to the edge of the bed and nod to the white sheets, “come here.”
Brett looks at me suspiciously, “Why?”
I sweep my hand over the side table as I crawl to the middle of the bed, then I sit back on my heels and beckon to her again, “Come here,” I nod to the space between my knees, “and I’ll tell you.”
Brett slowly moves toward the bed, crawling over the white sheets until she’s kneeling next to me. I motion for her to come closer, my eyes darting again to my knees. Keeping her eyes trained on me, she shuffles over and settles onto her knees facing away from me, her palms flat on her thighs.
I lean over her shoulder, “Can I touch you?”
At first, she doesn’t answer, seemingly caught off-guard by my question. Probably because I never ask her permission for anything.
My voice hardens, “You have to tell me, Brett—yes or no?” Because this time is different.
She lets out a slow breath, relaxing her muscles, “Yes.”
I gently wrap my arm around her waist and lean into her ear, “Do you want to know what it feels like to be the predator?”
She hesitates, but then I feel her head move slightly, “How?” she whispers.
I drop my other hand and slowly reach for the remote next to my knee. As soon as I press the Power button, the 65” TV affixed to the wall in front of us lights up and fills the bedroom with a cool glow. Brett’s eyes go wide and her mouth falls open the moment she sees Bowen’s face again for the first time in two days.
The blue light reflects in her eyes like mirrors as she takes in the feed of her old living room and kitchen while his familiar figure wanders around the frame. The mess near the closet is gone, any indication of a struggle yesterday long since cleaned up and secreted away again.
I drop the remote and wrap my other arm across her chest, pulling her close as I speak in her ear, “By watching your prey eat away at themselves from the inside out, becoming weaker and weaker, and you feed on their torment.”
She finally finds her words, “What is this?”
“I promised you a movie, didn’t I?” I murmur against her cheek, “He can feel your eyes on him, but he doesn’t know why.”
Her breaths getting deeper the longer she stares at the image, but she doesn’t look away. “Because it was your eyes,” she says with a mixture of relief and horror. “I felt them. All the time. Just like last time, when I knew I’d seen them before.” She lets out a shaky breath, “Did you see—” she trails off, but I know what she’s asking.
