CHAPTER THREE
Brett
One Year Ago
“What do you mean you ran your car through the bushes at Chik-fil-A?”
It’s 7:00 in the morning and the day is already off to a zesty start. It doesn’t matter that I’m on a solo micro-vacation, Barrett still calls me on her way to work, without fail, right when I’m leaving for an early hike.
“I don’t know , Brett. I was just trying to start my day with a little treat and my mom’s on the phone telling me I need to cancel my Sirius XM because satellite radio is a deep state conspiracy. I just lost it. I took the turn too quickly and almost ran through the glass window in the drive-thru.”
“I thought you lost it last weekend.”
“Yeah, but this was way worse than that.”
Frankly, it all blurs together.
“So, how are you?” she changes the subject. “ Where are you? I still can’t believe you just went off into the wilderness by yourself. But I’ve got a full caseload this week, there’s no way I could take off.”
Barrett always has a full caseload. She’s a therapist at the university, and she’s one of the best. Ever since her first day, fresh out of her Master’s, when her new boss assigned her a new client experiencing a delusional pregnancy after waking up from a three-year-long vegetative state, she made a name for herself as the one who takes the cases that no one else is equipped to handle. And, because of it, she has the highest retention rate in the department.
“This is Salt Fork, not Teton,” I laugh, “and I’m staying at the lodge. There’s Wifi and a continental breakfast.”
I stroll across the lobby and collapse into a brown leather club chair. If there’s coffee nearby, I’ll stay here a bit longer and hear more about Barrett’s mom and her latest conspiracy theory involving price gouging at the local Wal-Mart.
“I guess that’s not too bad,” Barrett concedes.
“No. And after last week, I just had to get away for a bit,” I say as I pick at my cuticles. I need to stop doing this. Spontaneous bleeding is never good for clothes, especially light colors. But anxious compulsion usually wins.
I lift my head and gaze around the lobby; it’s quiet except for the hushed voices at the front desk. “I’ve already gotten a lot of writing done, though.”
My gaze wanders across the room and something catches my eye. Or, rather, some one . And I immediately freeze.
A man is standing about 20 feet way, mid-step, staring at me. He’s tall, definitely over six feet, and his jet-black hair fades up the sides to a shiny swath swooped down over his eyebrows, making him look like he belongs in a punk band. He’s wearing a Navy-blue t-shirt and fitted jeans over scuffed, brown leather boots, and when he turns his body and squares his shoulders, I see his right forearm is covered in curls and zig-zags of black ink.
He studies me with dark, striking brown eyes as I glance from side to side to see if he’s looking at someone else. But when I look back at him, he’s still staring, a curious smile crawling across his face.
He’s… hot.
I hear Barrett’s voice in my ear, but I can’t comprehend what she was saying.
Finally, the staring man breaks the silence, “Front desk girl?” he asks in a deep drawl I’d recognize anywhere.
I blink, forgetting where I am and that I’m holding a phone to my ear.
No fucking way.
“Oh. My. God.” I murmur into the speaker.
“What?” Barrett hisses.
“Let me call you back.”
“Are you OK? Are you in danger?”
“ No, just let me call you back.” I mutter.
I end the call and drop my phone into my lap, “Um, yeah ,” I stammer, narrowing my eyes in disbelief.
“Wow,” he grins, “this is pretty wild.”
Quickly pulling myself together, I give a half shrug, “Yeah, but I guess you’re staying here, too, right?”
“No, actually,” he shakes his head, raking his hair out of his eyes, “I’m camping. I just came in here for the vending machines.”
“Wow,” I scrunch up my nose, “that is wild.”
He takes a few steps toward me and extends his hand, “Bowen Garrison.”
I reach up and shake his hand, “Brett Sorensen.”
Bowen takes a seat in the leather chair across from me and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, “That’s a serious name. ”
“Thank my mom, she’s a big Hemingway fan. My full name is actually Brett Ashley, from The Sun Also Rises .”
“What about your last name?”
“My dad’s Norwegian.”
Bowen raises his eyebrows, “So, what are you doing here?”
I smile and brush a stray curl away from my eyes. “Work was hellish yesterday, so I’m taking a few days off. And…” I pause, deciding whether to elaborate as a pair of dark brown eyes wait intently for an answer.
Fuck it.
“I’m writing a book.”
“Seriously?” Bowen leans back in the chair and grins. “That’s cool. What’s it about?”
I take a deep breath and look to the side, trying to figure out how to explain my own plot, “Revenge in a creepy mansion,” I bob my head from side to side, “with lots of murder.”
“Sounds dark,” Bowen grins.
“That’s the plan.”
“Are you a Stephen King fan or more of a Lovecraft type of girl?”
He knows who Lovecraft is?
I pause, chewing the inside of my cheek, “More like Shirley Jackson,” I cock my head, “low-key horror that gets under your skin.”
“Damn…” Bowen chuckles in a song-song tone, seemingly impressed.
I shift my eyes to the side, “I’m not as good as her, though.”
“Well,” he shrugs, “Shirley Jackson had to start somewhere, too, didn’t she?”
This guy has a point.
“So, you said you’re camping?” I ask, crossing one leg over the other.
“Yeah,” Bowen glances around the empty lobby, “me, my parents, my sister, and her family go camping for a week every year, so I’m here ‘til Sunday. How long are you here?”
I press my mouth together, stifling a smile, “Until Sunday.”
He arches his brow in surprise, “Are you serious?” His eyes wander to the window for a moment before returning to me, “You want to go on that hike you told me about?”
Plot twist.
“Now?”
“Now’s as good a time as any,” he says with a shrug.
I hesitate. This is not part of the plan. Normally, I don’t deviate from my plans, but Bowen’s very attractive. And although I’m usually a cautious person, I’m also not a fucking prude. Even with the innate knowledge that I, as a woman, should not go on an impromptu hike with a strange man, my sixth sense also isn’t alerting like it does in other situations .
Something about Bowen is incredibly intriguing. Maybe it’s that he pulled Lovecraft out of thin air. But while I’m engaging in a silent argument with myself, Bowen is looking at me, waiting for a response.
Finally, I make up my mind, “Only if we find coffee first.”
He rises from his chair and extends his hand to me, “Well, come on, then, Agatha Christie.”
●●●
“I know we just met, and I hope you don’t take this the wrong way,” Bowen pushes a stray branch out of his path and holds it until I pass, “but you’re kind of reckless.”
“Why?” I step past him with a sideways glance.
He takes a couple of long strides over a patch of exposed roots to catch up with me, “Because you’re stomping through the woods with a guy you met five minutes ago.”
I raise an eyebrow, maintaining my stoic demeanor, “Is it a mistake?”
Bowen shrugs, “Remains to be seen.”
He’s right, of course. Who does that—goes running off into the woods with a stranger? But, then again, who answers a wrong number and then actually meets that person the next morning when said wrong number recognizes their voice?
“It’s always safer to hike with a partner,” I inform him. “It’s statistically more likely that I’ll slip, fall, and break my leg than it is for you to turn out to be a murderer. And even if you were planning on murdering me, you’re on camera in the lobby, I texted my best friend the trail we’re on, and—” I hesitate, pressing my lips together as I stifle a grin.
“And what?”
I decide not to mention the GPS locator I carry whenever I go hiking and just cut to the chase, “I also sent her a picture of you.”
Bowen disappears from my periphery and when I look back over my shoulder, he’s standing in the middle of the trail about 20 feet behind, his eyes narrowed. “Bullshit!” he calls out.
We stare at each other for a few moments before I shoot him a smug look. I backtrack to him, reaching in my pocket to retrieve my phone. He waits for me to rotate my phone toward him and lift it up to eye level. He scans the text thread and lingers on the photo of himself standing next to the counter lined with hotel coffee and espresso machines. I don’t bother hiding the text beneath it.
ME (7:21AM): Hiking Laurel Ridge with a hot guy. If you don’t hear from me in 2 hours, call search and rescue.
Bowen glances at me and then back at the screen. “Huh,” he smirks .
After another moment, I lower my phone, lock the screen, and slide it back into my pocket. We start back up the trail in silence, Bowen walking alongside me again. I assume he’s deciding whether he’s made a mistake and I’m the one who turned out to be the creep after all. But I’m prepared to live with that. Better safe than sorry.
“That’s some covert shit,” he finally says.
“Taking your picture without you seeing?”
“No. Calling me hot to your friend but not to my face.”
“It’s just an observation,” I reply and tuck my hair behind my ear, “besides, it probably made Barrett feel better to know I’m not alone.”
Bowen glances down at my shorts pocket, “I guess you’re not so reckless, after all.”
“No, I take calculated risks. But that’s my job—safety and compliance.”
“Until you sell your book,” he flashes a wide smile that shows off two rows of straight white teeth.
“That’s the plan,” I glance at him, “as long as I make it back from this hike alive.”
Bowen steps up onto a massive slab of sandstone jutting out of the earth, “Well, I wouldn’t want to wreck your plans. And besides,” he turns to extend his hand to me, “whether man or animal, I promise you’ll get home in one piece.”
After hoisting me onto the boulder, he lifts the hem of his t-shirt to reveal a black Glock tucked into a holster inside the back of his jeans. It’s the same firearm my coworkers in security carry. But I’m not at work, I’m in the woods. So, that’s a problem.
Bowen lets his shirt fall back over his hip and hops off the sandstone, reaching for me again. I jump down next to him and my muscles tense, a familiar chill creep over my skin. It’s already 75°, but my body trembles as if all the warmth has been sucked out of the air. I bounce my shoulders and jiggle my arms, trying to shake the feeling. This hasn’t happened in a long time. I thought, for sure, it was over. Instead, I’m fighting the adrenaline. Why does this have to happen now? Why was it still happening, after all this time?
Not right now, not right now…
I feel for the hair tie I looped around my wrist this morning and stop in the middle of the trail. I throw my head forward, doubling over, and begin gathering my mass of strawberry blonde curls at the crown of my head. Upside down, I take a few slow, deep breaths, and close my eyes trying to center myself. I can buy some time like this.
Get a grip, Sorensen.
Muscle memories rear their ugly heads at the most inconvenient times.
I slowly twist the elastic band around my hair and tighten it with a couple tugs, allowing my heartrate to slow. I raise back up to see Bowen watching me from about 30 feet ahead. I take a deep breath and jog toward him to catch up. Once at his side, I straighten up and exhale with a sigh.
He cracks a smile, “You good?”
I focus on his eyes, dark and intense, which works better than I anticipate, “Yeah,” I nod toward the path ahead, “I think it gets rockier as it goes up.”
Bowen gives a nod, motioning down the trail as we start walking again, “There’s a really good view from the top.”
“Are you always packing?” I motion to his waist.
“Not always. My family owns a surveying company. Everyone carries when they’re out in the field, so it’s become habit when we’re in the woods. To each their own, but you run across some real weirdos in the middle of nowhere.”
“I know the feeling,” I smirk, throwing him a side eye.
The corner of his mouth curls as we continue up the hill, him glancing over at me every few feet. Soon, we reach a rocky outcrop, slowing down to traverse the rough terrain. When he reaches up to stabilize himself on a smooth rockface, I can finally make out the tattoo on his right arm. The curls and zig-zags are a collage of leaves and grass that extend from his wrist all the way up to his elbow. Intermingled with the grass are bell-shaped flowers shaded with vibrant, royal blue ink. It’s so subtle that I couldn’t even see the color until now.
“What does your tattoo mean?” I ask, following him through the jagged rocks.
“They’re Texas bluebells,” Bowen responds over his shoulder, “they mean a lot of things, but the Comanche tribe has a story about sacrificing their most prized possessions after a really hard winter. They built a fire and one little girl threw in her doll with a blue feather on it. The next morning, they went outside and found the entire hill covered in blue flowers,” he explains. “They’re tempting to pick and take for yourself, but they’re also poisonous, so you have to leave them be and admire them from a distance.” Bowen glances back with a smirk, “The ultimate tease.”
That one earns an eyeroll, “Is that where you’re from—” I ask, stepping around another sandstone boulder, “Texas?”
“No, I’m from Canaan, about two hours from here. You?”
I look over my shoulder and smile at him, “I know where that is. I live in Longview.”
Bowen arches his brow before turning his focus back to the rocky terrain, “City girl,” he smirks and tosses his hair out of his eyes, “You’ve been just across the river all along.”
When we reach the top of the hill, it’s deserted except for a couple of Scarlet Tanagers screeching and fighting among the deadfall. Even at the top of the ridge, the canopy is still heavy, blocking the morning sunlight and casting a mellow shadow over the clearing .
Bowen trudges past me, following the dirt path that gradually fades into smooth sandstone. He slows as he reaches the edge, lined with small boulders spaced every five feet.
He turns and looks up at the rocks that lead further up the ridge, then motions to them, “Let’s go up.”
The rocks jut out of the hill at chaotic angles, looking more like rock falls from erosion than solid formations.
Is he fucking insane?
“But there’s no trail up there.”
Bowen continues gazing up the steep face, “So?” He brushes past me and steps up on a boulder, searching for the next foothold.
“Seriously?” I remain firmly planted on the trail.
Bowen looks over his shoulder, unconcerned, “Yeah, come on.” He turns back to the rocks but hesitates when he doesn’t hear me behind him, “Are you coming?”
I glance between him and the rocks beneath the ridge. It definitely looks possible, but it’s still not part of the trail. The rocks could be loose, the dirt could give way, there’s a reason it’s not part of the trail. There’s always a reason. And the first rule of hiking is that you don’t leave the trail. Ever.
I shake my head, “No.”
Bowen jumps off the boulder and returns to the trail, “Why?”
“It’s pretty steep,” I scrunch up my nose as I scrutinize the treacherous climb, “and how do you know the rocks are sturdy?”
He flashes me a smile, “I don’t.”
“Doesn’t seem like a good idea,” I mutter, ready to continue on to more level ground.
“A lot of things don’t seem like a good idea at first,” he takes a step toward me, “and then afterward, you kick yourself for almost missing it.”
“The first rule of hiking,” I retort, “is don’t leave the trail.”
He tips up his chin and looks down at me, “I don’t get lost. I do this all day without trails. And you think I’d bring you all the way out here just to let you fall off a cliff?”
“Like you said, I don’t know you.” I arch an eyebrow, throwing his own commentary back at him.
“OK, look,” Bowen nods up at the ridge, “follow me up. I’ll go slow the entire time, and I’ll help you. I promise.”
I shift my gaze back to the rocks, gritting my teeth in reluctance. It’s not safe, and I should just say no. But it does seem kind of…fun.
“You know you want to,” Bowen looks me up and down, “you’re thinking about it.”
I exhale, contemplating. He’s right, I am thinking about it. Then he steps in front of me and brings both his hands up to the sides of my face. I flinch as his unexpected touch sends a jolt from my neck all the way down to my legs .
“I promise,” he murmurs, his face mere inches from mine, “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
I shouldn’t do this. It goes against my entire being. Well, most of it, anyway. There’s a little part of me I try not to acknowledge anymore, but I know it’s there. I’ve spent the last three years trying to ignore it and now it’s creeping back up from the recesses of my brain, clawing and begging for a taste of adrenaline—a rush. And something about Bowen is coaxing it out.
That feeling is what propels me up the rocks, testing the same footholds Bowen uses as he forges a path to the ridgetop. Once at the ledge, he reaches down and pulls me up the last few feet. He’s so strong it feels like my toes just brush the edges of the rocks as he lifts me onto level ground.
Bowen lets go of my hand and turns to explore the rest of the ridge, “You trust me now?”
“So far, so good,” I smile to myself and follow him, listening to the faint flow of water somewhere beneath us.
I kneel behind a thin tree jutting out from the ridge and peer over the edge. There is indeed a waterfall flowing, and I can see it from our new vantage point, whereas it was obscured by trees before. I can’t look away; I’m so mesmerized by the colors and sounds and the feeling of being at the top of the forest where only beautiful things exist.
Focused on the steep drop off the sandstone ridge, I slowly rise from my crouching position and take a step back to turn around.
“HEY!”
I let out a shrill scream as the shout hits my eardrums and something jabs both sides of my rib cage. I crumple in on myself, screaming and thrashing as I nearly drop to the ground. I can’t breathe, all the air forced from my lungs as I’m squeezed around the shoulders by two muscular arms. Once I realize I’m not freefalling off the ridge, I whip my head from side to side, trying to look over my shoulder.
It’s Bowen, and he can barely speak through gasps of laughter. I don’t know whether to be relieved or enraged. He presses my back against his chest and backs further away from the edge of the ridge as I try to catch my breath. I furiously try to twist around, but Bowen knows if he lets go, he’ll probably catch a fist to the jaw. He might be a jerk, but he’s no idiot.
Staggering beneath his hold, I try to tear my arms from his grip but it’s no use, he’s taller and much stronger, “Are you fucking kidding me?” I scream over my shoulder, unable to see him.
“OK, OK, seriously, please don’t hit me!” Bowen tries to stifle his laughter, but to no avail. His breath rushes over my ear, making me shiver, “Can I let you go?”
I’m not dead. That’s a plus. So, I finally relax and stop fighting him enough to catch my breath.
Taking a deep breath, I exhale and with a long blink, “Yes.” I say, almost in a whisper .
Bowen loosens his grip and his arms slowly fall away from me. I run my hands up my cheeks and over my eyes, brushing the loose hair up and away from my forehead. I rest my hands on my hips and slowly turn around. Bowen is standing behind me, his body tilted slightly. He watches me with apprehension, trying to read my expression.
WHAP!
My arm flies up and I backhand his bicep. The crack echoes through the forest as he recoils, erupting in more laughter.
“God damn! ” Bowen shakes his arm, backing away from me.
“Have you lost your damn mind?” I seethe.
Bowen goes silent, looking me up and down. I realize my fists are clenched at my waist, squaring off with him, as if I would win any fight. Then again, I have a pure line of adrenaline still running through my blood, so who knows what kind of response that’ll conjure up. But Bowen isn’t looking for a fight.
“I shouldn’t have done that, OK?” His tone is much softer now.
Still, what a dick.
I take a deep breath, suddenly exhausted. I hold it for a few moments, taking in the forest sounds. The calm is returning, and the adrenaline is dissipating. But…it felt good. The adrenaline felt good.
Bowen reaches down and gingerly touches my wrists. He slowly pulls me toward him and wraps his arms around my back, pressing his cheek against the side of my head. Maybe he thinks I’m about to have a breakdown or, at the very least, that I’m about to leave his ass on this ridgetop.
Instead, I silently untuck my arms from beneath his and drape them over his shoulders. He tightens his hold as I sink further into his chest. He feels nice. My body is calm again, but my thoughts are a chaotic jumble. This feeling—the one of imminent death—is one I’ve been trying to avoid for years ever since that one night. A few moments ago, I thought my life was coming to an abrupt end at the bottom of a sandstone ridge in Guernsey County, Ohio.
Talk about a sick joke.
But when I stood up and realized I was still alive, my chest nearly burst with exhilaration. It was like ripping off a band-aid. Except, now, I want to chase that feeling and rip off more band-aids and I’m clinging to Bowen like he’s the human manifestation of the feeling I’m trying to recapture.
Maybe he is. Maybe I shouldn’t let go…
“You were right,” I mumble into Bowen’s t-shirt.
He speaks softly into my hair, “About what?”
“This was a good idea.” I squeeze him tighter, pressing my fingertips into his shoulders.
“I told you I wouldn’t let anything happen to you,” he runs his nose along my temple, “I’m not going to be responsible for wrecking this pretty face. ”
I push away from him and give him another slap. He grins and lets his hand slide down my arm as I step away, intertwining his fingers in mine.
He shoots me a coy grin, “You like it, don’t you?”
“What?”
“That high from being scared.”
I shake my head, “No.”
But maybe he’s a little bit right. I expected to crumble into a blithering pile in the dirt after screaming my head off. Instead, I was still terrified, but there was a spark that popped to life somewhere deep in my gut. I’d felt it before, a long time ago, and I never thought I’d feel it again. I didn’t want to feel it again, after what happened.
Until now.
I look up to see Bowen studying me with his intense, dark eyes. When he tilts his head, his hair falls away from his face and I see a scar that cuts from the left side of his forehead into his hairline and slices three inches over his scalp.
I peer up at him, “How’d you get that scar?”
Bowen’s eyes shift upward, “Got into a fight,” he cracks a smile, “in a cemetery.”
My eyes round, “You got into a fight in a cemetery? ”
“Yeah,” he glances to the side, “back in high school. It’s a long story. Even a headstone got a lick in.” After a few moments, he looks around the empty clearing, “You ready to go?”
I nod, “Yeah.”
My voice is even and calm again, which is a good sign. I still think it’s a good sign an hour later, when we arrive back at the front steps of the lodge.
“I’m glad you didn’t turn out to be a serial killer,” I say as we arrive at the steps to the lodge.
Bowen chuckles and leans back against an oak pillar, “Well, it’s still early, after all.” He tilts his head, looking off into the distance like he’s in the midst of a decision, “How about you text me later when you’re free? I’ll come get you.”
I chew the inside of my cheek, considering his offer. I did have fun, but at the same time, I’m motivated and have to take advantage of the uninterrupted writing time. Suddenly, Barrett’s voice pops into my head with some advice from long ago.
If he’s worth a damn, he can wait .
“How about later tomorrow?”
Bowen tilts his head, gazing over my shoulder in thought before he shifts his eyes back to mine with a nod, “Give me your number.”
I hold out my hand and wait. Bowen reaches into his back pocket and retrieves his phone, unlocks the screen, and drops it into my hand.
Once I finish sending a text to myself, I hand the phone back to him, “See you later. ”
He gives me a final once-over and flashes a smile, “Bye, Brett,” he punctuates my name with a wink as he turns and heads back across the parking lot.
Ten pages later, I’m forced to come to terms with the obvious. I’ve written far more than I thought I would since I returned from the hike, but I need a good mid-story scare and I’m terribly distracted. So, I do the only thing I can think of. I call Barrett.
Barrett’s voice echoes through the room on speaker, “ Dude, who is this guy?”
I stare at my laptop balanced on my thighs. It’s still open, which means I’m still being productive, right?
“His name is Bowen, and he’s from Canaan, literally just down the road. What are the odds?”
“A country boy can survive…” she replies with intrigue. “How old is he?”
“Our age—like, 24 or 25?” I reply.
“See? This is why I should’ve come with you. Now I’m missing all the fun.”
“I’m supposed to text him tomorrow and he’ll come get me.”
“To do what?”
“I don’t know. We didn’t get that far. I’ll let you know.”
“What’s he like?”
“He’s camping, so he clearly likes the outdoors, and,” I try not to laugh as I say the next part, “he has these really cute dimpled cheeks, but his smile is so big that it makes him look like the Joker from Batman—but in a good way.”
“Suicide Squad vibes?”
“Kind of.”
“Right up your alley,” Barrett mutters, “and can I just say that I love that you’re describing what attracts you to this man in terms of serial killer qualities?”
“Isn’t that what we do?”
“OK, fine, you’re right,” Barrett concedes.
“He’s really fun to talk to…” I trail off, trying to articulate the intangible aspects of Bowen Garrison, “and he knows who H.P. Lovecraft is.”
“ Brett, ” Barrett shouts through the phone, “he looks like the Joker, knows his creepy horror lit, and had the balls to come up to you and ask you on a hike within five minutes of meeting you. He’s your soulmate.”
My voice hitches in surprise, “Why shouldn’t he come up and ask me on a hike?”
“Brett, what do you always complain about when we go out?”
I roll my eyes, knowing exactly where she’s going with this, “That no guys ever talk to me.”
“And why is that?”
“OK, fine, you’ve made your— ”
“Because you always look like you want to murder someone!” Barrett finishes my sentence.
“This is just how my face looks,” I try to justify my resting bitch face, but she’s right.
“Well, clearly Bowen’s into it. Maybe he’ll bring you a signed copy of a Lovecraft book…” she giggles mischievously.
God, Barrett, you had to bring that up, didn’t you…