Page 88 of Heart So Hollow

Bowen doesn’t look up from the screen, “Those are Hildy’s.”

“Then why are they here?”

“Appearances.”

“For who?” I snap.

Without a word, Bowen glances at me over the edge of the laptop screen while I stare back at him, waiting, “Worked on you, didn’t it?” he deadpans.

“You don’t read?” I scoff.

“Oh, I read,” he shifts his focus back to the screen, “just not those.”

I guess he has a point. He never said if he’s ever read the books on his shelf.

Finally, Bowen shuts the laptop and slings his arms behind his head, “I was right,” he casts me a devious look, “you do have some darkness in you.”

“Dark enough for an agent to pick me up?”

Bowen sets my laptop down on the coffee table and reaches out to me. I take his hand and let him pull me, crawling over his legs, to the corner of the sofa. I settle into his lap, straddling his hips as he wraps his arms around my waist.

“I want to read the rest of it,” he gazes at me with admiration, “that’s how good it is.”

“Seriously?”

He gives a sharp nod, “Send it. Make yourself famous, baby girl.”

???

I don’t see anyone else outside as I exit the building and make my way down the concrete path to the pin oaks. Colson is waiting for me at one of the steel picnic tables just as I told him to, munching on a bag of pretzels. When I sit down across from him, he reaches down and then slides something across the table. It’s a shaker bottle with a thick, orange liquid inside.

I pop the cap on the bottle and give it a sniff, “What’s this?” I immediately recognize the aroma and look up at him with a pursed smile, “Did you seriously bring me a mango smoothie?”

“Trust me, it’s way better than those Naked mango ones with the protein grit that you used to like.” Then he furrows his brow with suspicion, “You’re not lactose intolerant now or some shit, are you?”

I almost burst out laughing, “No, I’m not lactose intolerant now or some shit.” I reach into my bag and pull out a container of lemon-flavored Greek yogurt and drop it on the table. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he smiles, “I never understood why you liked them so much. It’s like drinking sand.”

“I like the grit,” I take a sip from the shaker, “and it guaranteed you’d never drink it.”

“Fucking hater,” Colson sneers and bites another pretzel in half.

“So, do you still have the Bronco?” I start with something benign, instead of a question that involves attempted murder or his neurological issues.

“Of course, I still have the Bronco,” Colson scoffs, “but I don’t drive it all the time. The suspension really sucks compared to anything that’s made now.”

I peel the foil off my yogurt, “What do you drive now?”

He looks over his shoulder and nods to the second row of cars, “That blue STI. I need to clean out the inside, though. It’s covered in dog hair.”

“What kind of dog to you have?” I ask, taking the opportunity to find out anything I can.

Colson reaches into his back pocket for his phone. A moment later, he rotates the screen toward me with a photo of a black German Shepherd sitting next to some rocks with a gorgeous backdrop of jagged mountains. I let out a chuckle when I realize it’s holding its own leash in its mouth.

“His name is Pony. He’s four. I picked him up as a pup when I drove through Colorado.”

“Pony?” I scoff, nearly spitting out my sip of mango smoothie.

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