Page 103 of Heart So Hollow

“Have a good evening, Officer,” I sneer as I step over his body, leaving him a dazed and bloody mess on the floor as I shut the door behind me.

Once I slip out the door into the main room again, I make my way around the perimeter to a dark corner where I can watch their table. Brett’s not there, yet. But I’m not worried because at least she’s not with Wells anymore. Barrett’s not at the table, either. So, I wait, and keep an eye on their friend, alone at the table with the remaining four. It’s not five minutes before he comes staggering out from the far end of the bar and slinks back to the table. He manages not to make a scene, but takes three of his friends with him when he leaves. He wants to get his raggedy ass out of here as soon as possible before everyone finds out the dirty cop got jumped while trying to rape a woman.

About 10 minutes later, Brett and Barrett return from the opposite side of the bar. Brett’s laughing again, so I let myself relax a little. I even smile a bit when I notice the uncomfortable look that creeps across her face after she starts talking to her friend and the one guy that stayed behind. I know they’re talking about me. And now she knows I’m here. I might love scaring her, but I’ll keep her safe like no one else can, especially if it involves Wells or any of his associates.

But one thing’s for sure, I can only imagine the exchange that’ll take place when he and Brett inevitably come face to face at one of the Garrison family barbecues…

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Brett

Present

“I should’ve seen it. I should’ve seen the signs. There are always signs…” I trail off, once again admonishing myself for things I can’t change.

That bitch, hindsight, and her fucking 20/20 vision.

“Like what?” Judy asks.

“I even took a risk and told him about my writing before I really knew him. And when I told him, he acted like he was impressed. He told me he wanted to read it and he even helped me get it out there. He—” I suck in a breath and shut my mouth, still mortified by my utter naivety. I clench my teeth, my lungs feeling like they’re filled with cement as I breathe through the rage, “Then he took it all away and destroyed everything I had. He wanted me to pay.”

“Because he needed you,” Judy says gently.

My eyes shoot up, “How did he need me?” I snap, tears beginning to well. “He just toyed with me, pulling strings in the background, seeing what he could wreck without me even knowing, acting like I wasn’t seeing what I was seeing.”

“I can’t diagnose him because he’s not my patient,” Judy peers at me over the rims of her reading glasses, “but from what you’ve described, I’m positive that he’s a narcissist and likely a sociopath.”

I go still, just staring at her. For some reason, when she says this, the crushing weight on my chest lightens ever so slightly, just enough to notice. I like labels, and maybe this is the kind of label I need right now.

“He can’t feel emotions the same way as you and I,” she continues, “he needs someone who’s empathetic that he can live vicariously through. He’s able to convince you he’s not a threat, that it’s OK to get close to him. But it’s only so he can get a taste of what you feel, but he never will—not really.”

“Is that supposed to be some kind of sick joke?” I laugh bitterly, “This is my punishment for trying to be a nice person?”

Judy rests her chin on her fist with a smile, “Have you ever read Trevor Noah’s book, Born A Crime?”

I shake my head no.

“There’s this really good part where he talks about something his mother said. She said, ‘the traditional man wants a woman to be subservient, but he never falls in love with subservient women. He’s attracted to independent women. He’s like an exotic bird collector,’” Judy leans forward, pinching her fingers together with emphasis, “‘he only wants a woman who is free because his dream is to put her in a cage.’”

???

“Oh my god, I am so sorry!” The young woman shrieks from the door of her white SUV.

She slams her door and rushes toward me with a horrified look plastered across her face. She has dark brown hair that’s gathered in a high bun at the top of her head, her glossy nude lips frozen in a grimace as she scurries toward me. And she looks like she’s two seconds away from hyperventilating.

I throw my door shut with a sigh, meeting her at my back bumper. She hugs her arms and stares at my bumper, her arms jutting out of her white tank top, tense with dread. There’s a giant crack through the middle of my Army green bumper, streaked with white paint from her vehicle. She gasps and clasps her hand over her mouth.

God, please don’t start crying…

I’d probably be more annoyed, but now I’m just hoping I’m not going to have to calm her down in the middle of the Starbucks parking lot. I adjust the strap of my grey linen overalls and shift my focus to her.

“Are you OK?” I ask, trying to act like nothing out of the ordinary has happened.

She looks up at me, her caramel eyes still wide, and realizes she should respond, “Uh…yeah…I can’t believe I just did that. Look at your car!”

I glance back and forth between our bumpers, “It’s OK, I think you won,” I titter, “you could probably just buff those scratches out. I don’t want to hold you up if you’re in a hurry, do you just want to exchange information?”

She seems to calm down when she realizes I’m not about to chew her out for crushing my bumper, “Yes, of course!” she exclaims with relief. “Let me grab it. By the way, I’m Valerie.”

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