I grab the armrests of my chair, nearly toppling over, “What?”
Bowen snickers, “That dog ripped it out of the ground at the elbow and came tearing back through the woods past me. So, I’m just standing there, staring at this dog running off with a human arm, and I feel this dude grab my shoulder and try to pull me off in the other direction. But I immediately pull my gun on him and tell him I’ll blow his fucking face off if he touches me again.”
I just blink at him, at a loss for words.
“Like I said, this guy is big. I could get a couple good shots off, but I’m not convinced it’ll make a difference. He backs up a bit, and I use my other hand to get my phone and call 911…”
Bowen pauses for an unnatural amount of time, grinning as I cling on to every word of his high-stakes drama. He’s just eating it up.
I thrust my empty beer can at him, hitting him in the knee, “Oh, come on!”
“I called 911,” he chuckles, “but there’s no service. None. So, I’m like, alright, bruh, turn around and let’s hike on outta here. But he did not want to listen to me. At one point, I had to fire off a round at his feet to convince him to get moving.”
“Did you make it out?” I murmur, my eyes bulging.
Bowen opens his mouth, but then hesitates, “Baby girl,” his voice softens, “I’m sitting here in front of you, aren’t I?”
I pause, realizing how stupid that sounds, “You know what I mean!” I growl in exasperation.
“Yes,” he snickers, “I finally got a signal when we hit the tree line. You should’ve heard me talking to the dispatcher—there’s a body in the woods! The dog ran off with an arm!”
As disturbing as his story is, I’m overcome with fit of laughter listening to Bowen’s animated descriptions of what transpired.
“And when five cop cars arrive, I have to stand there with my arms up so I don’t get shot while this dude is about to kill me for walking up on his crime scene.”
“Holy…shit…” I stare at Bowen in disbelief, “did you ever find out what happened?”
He nods, “Apparently, this guy killed his fiancée, buried her in the back 40, and then got into a property dispute with his neighbor and decided he’d rather pay for a survey than dig her up and hide her somewhere else.”
I cringe, “That is so sick.”
“Tell me about it,” he mutters.
I sit in silence for a minute, eyeing Bowen from my chair, “You’re serious? That really happened?”
“Serious as a heart attack.” Bowen tips his head back with satisfaction, “So, when I said I’d get you out of the woods in one piece, I meant it.”
“OK,” I nod, settling back into my chair, “I guess you have good stories, too.”
“There’s more where that came from,” he winks, “you better get used to it.”
I could get used to it. Because I haven’t felt this way about someone since…a long time ago.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Brett
One Year Ago
Bowen has a way of talking that makes time slow down, like everything moves with the cadence of his voice. He also never runs out of things to talk about. So much so that it feels like I already know him, like I planned to meet him here all along.
I might’ve taken him up on his offer to crawl into his tent and spend the night with him at the campsite, but having met his entire family just hours before, I can’t imagine staggering out of his tent the next morning to face everyone over some scrambled eggs and bacon.
His truck is blocked in by the other vehicles, so he offers to walk me back to the lodge instead. I’m not thrilled about that, either, but it seems like the best option with the least amount of embarrassment.
Bowen glances over his shoulder at me as I trudge up the path behind him, “Are you tired?”
There’s something so calming about the combination of wood smoke and nighttime air. I love it. But I don’t love trekking all the way back across the park to my room. Most of the cabins are dark now, with a couple fires still flickering along the lake and along the edge of the woods.
“No,” I sigh as we trudge up the hill, “I just forgot how long of a walk it is.”
Bowen hooks his fingers in the crook of my elbow and we slow to a halt, “Here,” he says, reaching around my back and bending down.
In one fluid motion, he hooks his arm behind my knees and lifts me into the air, starting up the hill again. I clasp my hands together on the other side of his neck, grinning at his profile. My feet dangle in mid-air, swinging back and forth as he walks. I assume he’ll put me down when we arrive at the lodge, but he hits the automatic door button with his elbow and continues inside and across the lobby without a care, then hits the elevator button with his elbow and waits.
When the door opens, he stepped inside and turns to me, his nose almost touching mine, “Floor?”
I reach down with one hand and press the number two button.
When the doors open again, he steps off and glances to the right and then to the left, “Which way, sweetheart?”
I extend my left arm along the top of his shoulder and point, “Left. 232.”
Bowen turns sharply and strides down the hallway toward the far end of the wing, glancing at the numbers on each door as he goes until we reach mine, “Do you have your key?”
Bowen waits patiently while I dig the key card out of my shorts. And when the lock clicks, I turn the handle and push the door open. He angles to the side and slides his shoulder along the door, opening it the rest of the way so he can step into the room. I listen as the door slowly swings shut and, finally, I hear the latch click.
“Thanks,” I say into his ear, catching a whiff of his spearmint gum.
