Page 40 of Heart So Hollow

I arch my brow and nod, “I take it you’ve met some foxes, and not just the pretty kind.”

Bowen trails a lock of his hair back and forth across my forehead and smiles, “It only takes one, and you never make that mistake again.”

I gaze at my reflection in his dark brown eyes. They’re vibrant, but have a distant look when he stops speaking. But silence with him isn’t awkward or off-putting. Instead, it’s like looking through a pitch-black doorway, and knowing that beyond the doorway was something incredibly exciting, like being drawn to the void.

This is what he was talking about—this is exactly what it feels like to be with him. And now I want to go wherever he’s going.

I finally break the silence, “Are you staying or heading back?”

“Do you want me to stay?”

“Yeah,” I stretch my neck from side to side, “if you want to.”

A shadow falls behind Bowen’s eyes and he looks down at me with the same darkness he had when he flipped the swing bar shut on the door. “Then say it,” he says slowly, “tell me what you want from me, and mean it.”

I don’t know why it’s so hard to say what I need to say, especially now. For some reason, it’s easier to make demands of him while he’s fucking the life out of me rather than just telling him that I want him to stay the night. But the imminent threat of him leaving finally drags me out of the idiotic conflict in my head.

I reach up and stroke the side of his face, “I want you to stay here and sleep with me.”

Bowen’s eyes soften again and he lifts my leg, wrapping it around his waist, “Now that you’ve invited me in,” he drawls, sending a shiver over my shoulders and neck, “I’m never leaving.”

Thank God.

CHAPTER NINE

Brett

Present

Judy glances up from her laptop, “How long have you and your boyfriend been together?”

Some people might be put off by that—their therapist typing away as they spill their guts—but it kind of makes me feel more important. It makes me feel like what I’m saying is worth writing down, even if she is going to use it to analyze my mental illnesses, which I’m sure haven’t all been identified yet…

That’s a loaded question. She sees my jaw tighten and my cheek muscles twitch as I try to keep a straight face.

But she lets it ride and continues, “What first drew you to him? What are your favorite qualities you see in him?”

“The way he looked at me the first time I saw him.” I don’t even have to think about it, I remember it vividly. “Like he already knew everything about me. But besides that, I don’t think he’s afraid of anyone or anything. To him, everything is just…chess pieces,” I say, letting my eyes wander across the floor. Then I shake my head, “I don’t know if I could ever be like him.”

“You hold him in very high regard, I can tell,” she smiles. “On the flipside, what are some things about him that you find challenging?”

I let out a sigh, “He feels responsible for so many people. And, because of that, he has to be in control of everything—” I tip my chin and pinch my fingers together with emphasis, “eh-ver-ree-thing!” Then I sink back into the sofa, “I get why he feels that way, but sometimes—” I clench my jaw, feeling the frustration rise, “I wish he would just fucking share some of it.”

???

When I emerge from the back door after showering and cleaning up, the aroma hits me and I breathe in a lungful of nostalgia. Smell memories of charcoal, cut grass, and the sweet summer heat wrap me in a protective cocoon. But I’m not back in the cozy memories of my childhood; instead, it looks like I’ve stepped into a Black Ops barbecue. Some of them I even recognize from the police department, which makes me smile.

Full-on corrupt.

They’re all people he works with or has worked with in the past. There are a couple of women I recognize from sporadic outings, but most are men with tattoos and sunglasses, wearing the same type of military-grade watch. And beards. Lots of beards.

That is, except for him.

He’s standing against the railing, dressed in black trackpants and a grey sleeveless undershirt, his long, trailing tattoo protruding from his shoulder down the length of his arm. Unlike the other guys hanging around the deck, milling about, he’s never had a beard, or any facial hair for that matter. He’s always clean-shaven with his dark hair cut shorter on the sides and longer on the top.

When he sees me, he breaks away from the group and crosses the deck, enveloping me between his broad shoulders as soon as he’s within arm’s reach. Then he reaches down and pulls my face to his in a deep kiss.

“So, where’d you go?” he asks, weaving his fingers in mine.

---