CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Brett
One Year Ago
“He actually said, nice to meet you ,” I groan, twisting my fork into my pile of spaghetti.
Bowen shakes his head in disbelief, dragging a piece of garlic bread through the remaining marinara on his plate. Another perk of living with Bowen Garrison—the man can cook. And he makes sauce like some 90-year-old Sicilian grandmother.
“That’s messed up,” he mutters between chews.
The pasta falls off the prongs and I stab at my plate again, this time harder. Why is it so hard for me to get a forkful of spaghetti right now? As if I haven’t been eating the damn pasta since I was two years old.
“And what can I even do about it?” I stab my fork into a different section of the spaghetti pile, “ Nothing .”
Bowen finishes chewing and slides his fork onto his empty plate, “So, he’s just—” he still looks confused, “ there now?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” I finally manage to wrap enough spaghetti around my fork for a decent bite, “just working like everyone else.”
“Let me process this,” Bowen leans back and slings his arm over the back of his chair, “the last time you were with him, he put a gun to your head. And, now, he walks around the same building as you, carrying a gun, because it’s his job?”
“Yeah,” I murmur, staring down at my water, the condensation dripping into a puddle beneath the glass.
Bowen doesn’t say anything at first, but then his expression changes from contemplation to agitation .
He scoots his chair back and picks up his plate, “Maybe if you’d told someone about him back then, he wouldn’t be allowed to carry now,” he snaps and heads for the sink.
Wait…what?
I blink, unsure how to respond. The only sound comes from Bowen’s heavy footsteps followed by the clank of his dishes being loaded into the dishwasher. A steady anger begins to rise in my stomach.
“Are you saying this is my fault?” I spin around in my chair, “ My fault he did what he did?”
Bowen looks up at me and shuts the dishwasher, “You know I didn’t mean it that way.”
I look down at my plate, my fork full of spaghetti hell-bent on thwarting me tonight. Now I don’t feel like eating anymore, and that only makes me angrier because this is one of my favorite comfort foods. I scoot my chair back, pick up my plate, storm over to the sink, and set it down on the counter.
Bowen glances down at my plate, and then at me, “What are you doing?”
“I’m done,” I say, my voice thick with irritation.
“No, you’re not,” he replies, as if correcting a simple mistake.
I shove the plate over the edge of the sink and send it crashing to the bottom. The plate doesn’t break, but the spaghetti is done for. A moment later, while glaring at the mess of ruined pasta, I feel Bowen’s hand around my wrist, turning me towards him.
“Hey,” his voice softens, returning to its normal tone, “you can’t act like this.”
I turned to face him, my muscles rigid, “Then what do you mean—”
“I’m not blaming you,” Bowen starts shaking his head adamantly, “I just want to keep you safe. You called me and told me this asshole is in the same building as you and there was nothing I could do. Let me just sit with it and figure it out.”
I’m still in shock that I went to work this morning and, in a few short hours, my life was turned completely upside down. And then Bowen judging my choices back then feels like a knife through my chest. It’s unexpected and gut-wrenching. I clench my jaw as soon as I feel my chin tremble and the heat of the tears in my eyes. I don’t want to cry—I refuse to cry about this anymore.
“Come here,” Bowen tugs at my waist, pulling me to his chest.
I bury my face in his neck and inhale the scent of his skin, sweet and comforting, “I don’t know what to do,” I sniff, trying to resorb all the tears threatening to flow out of my face.
Bowen runs his hand up and down the length of my back, “You don’t have to do anything. You don’t even have to talk to him. What’s he going to do while you’re there, surrounded by everyone else? ”
He has a point. It’s hard enough getting actual work done on any given day without someone popping into my office or stopping me in the hallway to talk about nothing. Why should I be afraid? After a year, I’m finally known and respected there. Why should I change my daily routine just because Colson Lutz shows up out of nowhere? I shouldn’t be afraid.
But I am afraid. I feel like I’m being hunted.
Again.
●●●
Two weeks.
I haven’t seen hide nor hair of Colson, but I know he’s here. Somehow, I’ve managed to avoid him. He’s still new, so maybe his routine isn’t set yet. But I find no comfort in it because each morning I wonder if today will be the day I run into him.
This morning is no different. I shuffle from window to window in my bedroom, throwing open the blackout curtains. It’s still pitch-black outside, but it’s routine. I glance at Bowen on my way to the bathroom, still asleep, his arm slung over the pillow and covered from the waist down by the disheveled flat sheet. He keeps the house at a cool 65? in January, but somehow still only sleeps in boxer briefs. Meanwhile, I sleep beneath the sheet, the comforter, and a fleece blanket in fleece joggers and a long sleeve t-shirt. In the dim light, all I can see is the contrast of his black hair and tattoos. His alarm will go off at 6:00, about the time I’ll be finishing getting dressed.
By 7:00, we walk out the front door together, backpacks, tote bags, and second mugs of coffee in hand. It’ll still be dark for another hour. On autopilot, I pull the door shut and follow Bowen down the brick walkway to the gravel driveway, looking down to make sure I threw my phone and keys in the side pocket of my bag.
“The training starts at 7:30, so I’m just going straight to—” my eyes elsewhere, I almost run into the back of Bowen.
He’s stopped just behind the tailgate of his truck, staring at the gravel behind my Tahoe. I peek around him and freeze, confused by what I’m seeing. Directly behind the bumper of my Tahoe is a four-foot stack of red brick paver stones—the same stones that used to be stacked against the house by the garage. But, now, they’re sitting in the driveway, neatly stacked behind my SUV, as though they’ve belonged there all along.
I look up at Bowen, goosebumps skittering over my arms beneath my winter coat. He’s silent, his eyes moving carefully over the stack of pavers. The shadows cast by the motion sensor lights on the garage seem much more eerie all of a sudden. Bowen takes a few steps toward the pile of bricks and slowly circles it. After a few seconds, his eyes travel down the driveway into the darkness .
I finally break the silence, “What is this?”
Bowen cranes his neck to look around the side of the garage and then turns back to the bricks, “Someone moved these.” The way he says it puts me on high alert.
His eyes narrow as he peers at the stack behind my vehicle. An uneasiness creeps into my chest the longer I look at them. Someone moved them—the entire four-foot stack of them—from the side of the house to the middle of the driveway sometime during the night. Someone was here last night, while we were asleep.
My mind starts going to dark places. This happens right after Colson suddenly shows up at my workplace? It’s beyond coincidence. And he just fucks with me. All he’s ever done is fuck with me.
But, then again, there’s someone else who’s already been in our house without permission, probably more times than I care to think about. I know for a fact that Hannah doesn’t like me, she has some weird-ass fixation with Bowen, and it’s my vehicle that’s now blocked in the driveway.
When I look at Bowen, he’s scrolling on his phone, the backlight illuminating his face. The more he scrolls, the more he shakes his head.
Finally, he tilts his phone toward me, “See?” he shows me his Ring app, “Your car’s out of frame, so it didn’t pick up anything all night.”
I stare at the view of the front walk with only the back half of Bowen’s truck visible. No one drove up the driveway, which means someone walked in from elsewhere in the middle of the night and moved the bricks.
I don’t want to think about this.
The realization that I have to get to work breaks me out of my stupor, but there’s no way I can move my vehicle. The bricks block the full width of the back bumper and the front is too close to the garage door to pull forward. Being rational, my first thought is to start moving the bricks, one by one, so I can get out.
I glance up at Bowen, “Should we…move them?” I murmur with apprehension.
He looks more irritated than anything—slighted, even.
“OK,” he unclips his keys from his belt loop, “I want you to take my truck today, and I’ll drive yours.”
“What are you going to do?”
Bowen looks down at the stacks of bricks, “Move them.”
With no other options, I reluctantly take Bowen’s keys and drive his F250 the 20 minutes south to work. I don’t have time to argue, I’ll probably be late anyway. Today, I have to be at work early for a four-hour long safety training. Of all days, I have to get up and speak about reporting suspicious behavior at the same time my home feels like the target of all of the suspicious behavior in the world.
Split into two sessions, half the employees attend one that occurs in the winter and the other half will attend the one in the summer. I arrive with two minutes to spare, scurry through the lobby, and search the crowded conference room for a seat. It doesn’t take long for me to spy Abby waving to me from the front row.
“You made it!” She sifts through a folder of papers as I tuck my bag under the chair.
“It’s been a morning,” I sigh, straightening my shirt and settling into my seat.
When am I supposed to be presenting? I can’t even remember.
“Me too,” Abby empties the rest of her coffee into her mouth, “I woke up late, and while I was rushing to get out of the garage, I forgot to open the door before I started backing out.”
“What?” I snort.
Abby gives a disgusted sigh, “The door’s dented to hell and my bumper’s scratched. It’s amazing I got out.”
“OK,” I chuckle, “you win.”
I figure this is a good pivot. There’s no way I’m going to tell Abby about the creepy pile of bricks sitting in the middle of my driveway or who I think left them and why. Even though I’m shaken, I’m at work now. This place is like a vault, surrounded by fences and gates, filled with key card entries, motion sensors, and cameras. I know people here, and they know me. I’m still in one of the safest places I can think of, regardless of who else is walking the halls.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the row of seats next to me fill with a wave of black. A group of security guards file through the door on the left side of the room and straight into the seats as Dave and Eric make their way to the table at the front of the room. As Eric greets everyone with his booming voice, I feel a tap on my right arm and look to see Abby mouthing to me, do you have any gum? I nod and bend down, pulling my bag halfway out from under my chair. I retrieve a piece of cinnamon gum from the outside pocket and hand it to her, still bent over, before shoving my bag back under my seat.
When I straighten back up, a jolt of terror shoots through my chest. Colson’s profile is less than two feet from my face. He’s sitting right next to me, staring straight ahead, his head slightly cocked to the side, like always, and the same expression on his face.
Unbothered.
His arms would’ve been crossed, I’m sure, but now he wears the same tactical vast as the rest of them and the front pockets and straps are crammed to the gills with equipment that makes doing so nearly impossible.
This isn’t happening.
I try to move as little as possible, like he won’t notice me if I don’t move. But that’s idiotic, of course he knows I’m sitting right here. I’m trapped in the front row where I can’t escape without drawing attention. And besides, where would I go? I can’t disappear, I have to present a segment on chemical spills.
Fucking hell, I have to present while Colson is staring straight at me from the front row!
And before I know it, 45 minutes passes and I hear Dave say my name from behind the laptop. For a moment, I’m not sure whether the groan of dread I exhale is audible to anyone but me.
From the moment I stand up, I manage not to make eye contact with Colson, or anyone else, for that matter. Somehow, I manage to stand at the podium, give my usual spiel, and drone on about points of contact and security notifications and emergency responses. After what seems like an hour, I make it to the end of my slides. It would be a relief, except I don’t know which is worse—staying up front with all eyes focused on me, or sitting down next to Colson again. Then, someone shouts a question.
Alex Barrera sits in my direct line of sight, right next to Colson, with his finger raised, “Do we know when the new security system will be online?”
Before I can answer, I see Dave raise his hand in my periphery. I gladly give the floor to him. At least I don’t have to talk anymore. I glance back and forth between Alex and Dave, but for a split second, I let my eyes wander, which is a mistake because I suddenly find myself locking eyes with Colson.
My startle reflex sends a shiver through my chest, burning my muscles as it radiates through my arms and legs. For a moment, I can’t look away. I just freeze, trying not to draw attention to myself.
Colson stares back at me, Alex’s steady voice the backdrop for his piercing aquamarine eyes. My heart pounds in my ears, the familiar hum getting louder in my head. He doesn’t blink, just looks back at me. Then, he smiles.
He actually smiles.
I immediately look away, my stomach turning to concrete. I try to focus on Dave and Alex’s conversation, but it’s not working. My eyes glaze and my mind races. The conference room seems like a strange planet. I recognize the grey paint, the blue carpet, logos plastered across the walls, and the plastic maroon chairs lined up in front of the screen, but now everything seems surreal. It’s like there’s a tear in the time-space continuum and Colson and I exist on the same plane when we aren’t supposed to.
The hum in my head slowly morphs into a muted version of the voices around me. It sounds like I’m underwater, until I suddenly hear my name.
“Brett will send out an overview of the new system once we get a go-live date,” Dave finishes and then turns to me expectantly.
“Yeah,” I clear my throat, “I’m expecting to hear about that in the next week or two. I’ll send out notifications about install times, likely after-hours to minimize disruption.”
And, like that, I switch places with Eric and make my way back to my seat between Abby and Colson, staring straight ahead. Sitting just inches from him, he looks bigger, like he takes up more space. It doesn’t help that every few minutes, I catch a whiff of his shampoo, bodywash, or whatever the hell it is. A musky, minty, eucalyptus scent pierces my nasal cavity in a surprise attack. And it smells good. As if I’m not already on the brink of panic, he actually smells good.
The man who tried to murder me smells good.
It’s stifling. My fingers begin to tremble, so I clasp my hands and squeeze them tightly. This is absurd; I want to flee out the door, run, and never look back, and yet I’m enjoying the scent of Colson’s goddamn hair products. I try to zone out, disassociate for the remainder of the training, trying to forget where I am for the next 20 minutes.
Finally, the faint hum turns into a buzz, which turns into a crescendo of voices all around me. People rise from their seats, pick up their belongings, and meander through the room toward the exits. When I glance to my left, Colson is already halfway down the row of chairs, following the rest of the security guards out of the room. For the first time in hours, I feel like I can breathe again.
As I reach under my chair to retrieve my bag, I feel a hand on my arm and hear Abby’s voice murmuring into my ear, “That guy sitting next to you, with security,” Abby cranes her neck as they disappear into the hall, “he is so freaking hot.”
I crumple into my chair slightly, “Mmm,” I nod, trying to engage as little as possible, but Abby doesn’t notice.
“Did you know he’s Dallas Barrera’s brother?” she continues.
I give pause and just look at her. Colson is Dallas Barrera’s brother? Dallas Barrera, in IT, who just so happens to be married to Alex Barrera? And that would make Colson Alex’s…brother-in-law?
This is too wild.
I know Dallas fairly well. She’s the one I call when the timecard page is non-responsive or whenever I’m inexplicably locked out of my computer, hoping she won’t say I’ve been fired but no one bothered to tell me. And, without fail, each time I see her name in an email, I always think of Dallas Winston from The Outsiders , which is my favorite character from my favorite book from middle school. Except bubbly Dallas Barrera is no Dallas Winston, who rumbles with soc’s and gets killed in a shootout with the cops after having a nervous breakdown.
Now that I think about it, it’s amusing that she’s married to Alex, who came to Wolfsson straight out of the Marines and looks like he never left. He’s the most manicured man I’ve ever seen, his jet-black hair perfectly trimmed and styled, always clean-shaven, perfectly clean fingernails, and never a wrinkle in his uniform. He also has the same look on his face, no matter what—serious as a heart attack. Alex is a perfectly nice person, with good manners and, from what I gather, a good sense of humor. But he’s very no-nonsense, at least around coworkers, so I didn’t even know the man had teeth until I’d been here for almost a year. Does Alex joke around with Colson?
Dallas is Colson’s sister?
They don’t even look alike. Dallas has long, straight, black hair and she’s barely five feet tall. She always wears thick-rimmed black glasses, bright red or pink lipstick, and impeccable eyeliner.
“Really?” I scrunch up my nose, “I never would’ve guessed.”
And how does Abby know any of this?
“Yeah,” she looks over her shoulder as I follow her down the row, “I saw them in the break room on his first day and I was like, please introduce me! And have you seen his eyes? Like, are they even real?”
Yes, Abby, I have. Yes, they’re real. And no, I don’t want to talk about it anymore.
Dallas Barrera is Colson Lutz’s sister.
I marinate on this fact all the way back to my office. This information could be useful, I just need to figure out how. Dallas is one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. She’s also very chatty. And this is exactly why I make a mental note that I should take a walk across the building to her office to kill some time.
First, I just have to get up the nerve.