Page 135 of Heart So Hollow

“You’re such a liar, Colson,” I growl, “as if you haven’t slept with another girl in three years.”

If he hasn’t, then there really is something wrong with him…

“Jealous girl,” he gives me a once-over, “not since I came back to you. So, one might say you’re the liar,” I swear, he looks like the devil right now as he leans into my ear, “sleeping in another man’s bed.”

I suck a breath through my teeth. I don’t like his tone. I don’t like his arrogance and self-importance implying I’ve wronged him somehow. Everything that happened—that is happening—is his fucking fault. All he does is make me doubt myself, and I hate it.

“I’m not usually a forgiving person,” Colson continues, adjusting his belt on his hips, “but we do a lot of things for the ones we love, don’t we?”

“Are you done?” I scowl, dead set on ignoring anything else that comes out of his mouth.

“You tell me.” His voice returns to its normal, even tone, “You’re the one who can’t decide on lunch without having an existential crisis.”

“Anything else?”

He hesitates with a smile that looks anything but sweet, “I have been curious about something. Do you still think about how my belt feels around your neck?” I shouldn’t have asked… “Or how my knife feels on your skin?” he leans closer, murmuring into my ear, “Because I can’t stop thinking about the panic and the pain in your eyes, or how good your blood tastes on my tongue.”

He’s sadistic.

“You know,” I glance up at him with a scowl, “I thought you were telling the truth when you said you wanted to start over—be friends, and all.”

Colson smiles with amusement, “Oh, Honeybee,” his words drip with condescension, “I’m going to be a lot of things to you, but a friend isn’t one of them.”

I feel a tug at my waist and look down in time to see him hook his fingers over my belt buckle and pull the waist of my pants out far enough to fit his hand inside. With one twist of his wrist, his hand disappears and he pulls me close to him so I can’t move. I grab his forearm against my stomach, but his fingers are already between my legs.

“Goddamn,” Colson groans as he slides his fingers inside me, slick and aching for release, “you act just as hateful as you did back then, but you’re still so weak for me, and I love it.” He opens his mouth wide with each word, his teeth clicking against mine as he shoves each syllable down my throat.

“Colson,” I creak out, squeezing my eyes shut.

“Yes, baby?” he starts rubbing gentle circles around my clit, making me squirm against him, “Do you want me to stop? Before you come all over my fingers and can’t come up with an acceptable explanation why?”

There’s a sharp knock at the door. Startled, I push away from him and he releases me. I quickly adjust my pants and smooth my hair, my eyes darting between Colson and the door. Thankfully, my hair usually looks like a curly mess anyway…

He takes one long step away from me, “Or maybe you just prefer that we see each other…” he pauses with a glint in his eye, “not here.”

“Come in!” I call.

A flash of platinum blonde pops through the doorway and Abby’s bright blue eyes search the room for me.

Jesus, Abby.

I can’t decide whether I’m annoyed or relieved that she’s here.

“Hey, sorry,” she apologizes in an exaggerated whisper, “do you have a minute to come to my office and go over these templates?”

Colson glances over his shoulder at her, “I’m done, she’s all yours.” He starts backing away from me, “So, yeah, just let me know.”

He winks at me before stepping past her. And as soon as he does, he reaches up and pushes his index and middle fingers into his mouth as far back as they’ll go. Then he slowly slides them back out, sucking his fingers clean before he disappears into the hallway.

As soon as I return to my office an agonizing 15 minutes later, I grab my phone with shaking hands, my fingers spastically searching for my text thread with Barrett. It’s a short text, but it takes me three tries to type out.

ME (2:05PM): I need you.

I’m supposed to see her, anyway. It’s Thursday dinner, after all. But I feel the need to warn her about the disaster she’s about to encounter. I also need a strong drink, the sooner the better. This is only reenforced when another text comes through a few seconds later. I grab my phone, thinking it’s Barrett, but it’s Hildy, and she’s asking me more questions about dresses and wedding cakes. All I can do is slam my phone down and bury my face in my hands, trying not to dissolve into a blubbering mess.

Sipping my whiskey on the rocks while recounting the afternoon to Barrett serves two purposes; halfway through the glass, my hands stop shaking, and all the talking makes me drink at a slower pace so I’m not blitzed by the time I finish. Barrett sits across from me in complete silence, a constant look of tranquility on her face punctuated by brief eye and cheek movements. She doesn’t give knee-jerk reactions full of wide eyes, slack jaws, and horrified gasps. She might have, years ago, but not now, not when she hears stories with equal or greater shock value every day.

When I’ve finished, Barrett takes a deep breath and stares off into the distance, a sure sign her brain is in analytical overload. And she has thoughts.

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