3. Olive
3
OLIVE
T he man in 3B stands at his open window with a cigarette perched between his fingers.
He’s freshly showered, so his damp hair must be turning to crystals as he leans slightly out his apartment, blowing smoke from the second story. But he doesn’t seem to care. He doesn’t even seem to register the winter chill.
He can’t see me… He never does. I’m slumped in a plastic chair across the street inside a laundromat with my sketchbook blocking most of my face. My hood covers my hair, and in case all that isn’t enough, I’m wearing white-rimmed sunglasses so he’d never be able to tell where I was looking if he bothered to glimpse inside the laundromat, which he never has.
He likes to look at the street while he smokes, studying the people walking past like he’s trying to learn something. For the first month, I half expected him to start jotting things down on a notepad, but I think he’s just curious, like me. I wonder if he spends much time imagining what goes on in the lives of others or if it’s just confined to the length of his two cigarettes upon arriving home.
Two cigarettes, always at the end of the night, like a ritual of sorts to mark the end of his day. It’s only dusk, which makes today especially strange. When I heard him come home, I didn’t hurry to the laundromat with the intention of watching him smoke his cigarettes. Using the best view I have through one of two windows, I thought maybe I’d glimpse him in his kitchen, heating up his microwave dinner or washing what I imagine is the lone fork and cup in the sink. I assumed he’d be leaving again, but the smoke he expels from his lungs tells me he’s home for the night.
After he stubs out his second cigarette on a makeshift aluminum foil ashtray, he closes the window and walks away, disappearing from view.
“Excuse me, can I borrow a few quarters?”
My sketchbook knocks me in the nose when I startle at a voice, the plastic chair rocking on the tile. I whirl to face the stranger, a young, pretty brunette with sparkly earrings and glossy lips who rears back like she’s disgusted all of a sudden. Like she can see right through me. See the pathetic loner I am, staring at my neighbor from a laundromat.
“I…” I clear my throat. I don’t have any quarters, so this is really awkward. I didn’t even bring laundry. “I’m sorry, I?—”
“Sorry, never mind.” She walks away quickly, like she might catch something from standing so close.
What is wrong with me?
Bile starts to rise up my throat as the back of my neck tingles, making my shoulders reflexively hunch. I dart my eyes around as if everyone will be staring at me, but only a man in a chair by the washers has looked up from his book with a curious expression. It doesn’t take away the sensation that I have a spotlight shining on me.
My hair becomes a curtain as I lower my head and hurry to close my sketchbook, then scurry out of the laundromat. My face is hot with shame, but that doesn’t stop me from peering up at the second story as I cross the street to my building. 3B isn’t visible in either window.
I hang my lips in a frown while pushing on toward my apartment.
Alik
The back of my head knocks against my apartment door while I wait in the hall for the DEA princess to arrive, if she isn’t already home and hiding from me. She would be smart to hide, but as nervous as she seemed the other night, she didn’t strike me as smart. In fact, she struck me as the opposite. The moth to a flame type.
When the stairwell door opens, I pause my knocking and turn that way to see the princess appear hugging a large notepad to her chest. As always, her head is down.
When she spots me, she looks up, and her eyes widen, giving me a glimpse of the blueish-gray irises she hides so well before she ducks again. Her steps falter, but she continues my way while I grab the spiked wine and stand.
I want to force a smile, play the charming neighbor, but charming is not a part I play well, and the girl isn’t looking at me anyway. So instead, I just stand and wait for her. She reminds me of the rats that ate her father’s friends with the way she scurries and hunches. I wonder if she’ll look just as starved as they did when she sees the treat I have for her.
“Hey,” I say to her when she nears.
“Hi.”
“How are you? I haven’t seen you around the last few days.”
When she looks at me, I manage the smile I didn’t think I’d be able to force. I have no idea how it comes across, but the way she gazes… I’m almost perplexed by it. The other night, I thought maybe she was taken aback by my scar, but she’s already seen it, and she’s still looking at me like I’m the Sistine Chapel. What is she seeing?
Why isn’t she replying?
Why the fuck is she looking at me like that?
Clearing my throat, I break eye contact and hold up the spiked bottle of wine. I doubt I truly need to tranquilize her to stick a needle in her arm, but it’s efficient, and I like efficient. “I wanted to repay you for the brownies.”
“Oh.” She blinks and looks over the wine. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know.” Again, I smile. My mouth feels tight. “I wanted to.”
“Th-thank you.” She takes the wine and gives me a timid tilt of her lips before turning to her door.
I pat the supplies in my pocket while she gets the door open. When she slips inside, I have to leap to keep her from shutting the door on me.
“Woah.” I fake a laugh, my hand gripping the edge of the door. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
“What?” Scared little doe-like eyes stare up at me. Scared? Or nervous? What is she thinking?
“I thought we could drink it together. And … you know, hang out.”
“Hang out?”
“ Yes , Olive.” Another laugh. Does it at all sound real? I am not good at this. I’m much better at forcing my way in… I should just do that. “Like friendly neighbors do.”
“Oh.” She looks behind her inside her apartment while I look both ways down the hall. No one in sight.
I’m just about to shove her backward, out of my way, when she takes a hesitant step to the side to let me in.
Letting my hand slide off the door, I walk inside, the wine bottle I’m not sure I’ll use firmly in her grasp. The princess takes it to the kitchen while I let my gaze roam. I come up to a shelf where a lone photo is propped up without a frame, a layer of dust blanketing the film. It’s of the special agent’s family in front of a Christmas tree wearing matching pajamas. It’s so corny, I could puke.
“I don’t have a corkscrew, so it may take me a minute.”
What kind of person doesn’t have a corkscrew?
“No problem.”
I keep staring at the photo. The princess looks younger here, probably a teenager, but she has the same shy gaze. Her hair is different. It’s short and pulled back with a headband instead of long and in her face. She doesn’t look happy. Not in the photo and not in real life, so I wonder what the point is in having this here.
“Got it.” The princess appears with two plastic cups that she places on the coffee table. Once she’s perched on the edge of her ratty-looking sofa, I go to sit next to her, plucking my cup from the table as I do. I let the liquid splash against my lips, then watch as she tips her own cup back.
“Wow,” she says, resting the cup on her knee. “That’s really good.”
“I’m glad you like it.”
She nods and looks down at her feet while I take another fake sip.
“How do you know my name?”
Her voice is so innocent and nervous. I swear, if I didn’t peg it as part of her personality, I would think for sure she was onto me.
“The mail I gave back to you the other night was addressed to an Olive Solace.”
“Oh, right.” She shakes her head like she’s reprimanding herself. “Duh.”
“Kind of a unique last name.” I lean back on the couch. “You’re not related to Arthur Solace, are you?”
She sets her cup on the table, making my teeth clench, before she puts her hands in her lap. “He’s my dad.”
“Your dad ?” I cringe. “Oof.”
Creases form over the bridge of her nose. “How do you know him?”
“I don’t. But he’s the head of the DEA, isn’t he? Don’t most people know of him?”
She shrugs. “Most criminals, maybe. And politicians. I don’t think most regular people take interest in the DEA’s chain of command, though.” She stares me dead in the eyes while she swallows. “Are you a politician?”
I wait a moment to see if she’ll break eye contact. So many people have trouble meeting my eyes, and I didn’t think this girl was an exception, but the more she stares, the more I don’t think she has a problem with my scar. I get the strange urge to ask, but it isn’t what’s on her mind. She isn’t asking if I’m a politician, no one in their right mind would mistake me for one. She’s asking if I’m a criminal. And by the looks of it, she already knows the answer.
It doesn’t matter what I tell her. I’m the last person who will ever see her alive.
“No.” I bring my cup to my lips to encourage her to do the same, but she doesn’t. Why isn’t she drinking?
“What’s your name?”
My cup rests on my thigh while I tap the rim. “Alik.”
“Did you come here to ask me about my father, Alik?”
Warmth spreads down my spine at the way she says my name. It isn’t with disgust or even contempt. She doesn’t appear angry. She sits with her hands in her lap and stares at me wide-eyed like she’s watching my every move closely, calculating everything I do, everything I say. I was wrong, she isn’t stupid. She kind of reminds me of me.
I shake my head and scoot her way just to see what she’ll do, only stopping when our thighs are touching. Her breath is low but erratic, and her fingers twitch. She smells like something sugary… Cookies?
What are they called…?
Snickerdoodles?
I don’t have a sweet tooth, but her scent evokes a rare warm memory deep in my mind, deep enough I can’t recall an image, only a feeling, and my head swims for just a moment at the scent.
“I came to have a drink with you.” I keep my voice low and seductive as I reach for her cup on the table and bring it to her.
“Why?” she whispers.
“Why does any man want to have a drink with a beautiful woman?”
I take her hand and wrap it around the cup before giving her an encouraging smile. She brings the wine to her lips like a good girl, and I watch her throat closely, waiting to see it contract.
It never does.
She’s faking it.
Which means she’s definitely onto me.
The smile slips from my face as she brings the cup down. She’s making a mistake, fighting this. Nikita wants pain. I’m willing to show her mercy. But if she doesn’t drink the goddamn wine, she’ll be awake for everything I do to her.
“Olive.” I lift my hand to her face and push back her hair to take in her features.
I’ve never noticed this before, but she’s attractive in the realist, most imperfect way. She’s … weird. And her eyes are set just a little too far apart, but the color reminds me of the moon and the relief it brings my eyes, sensitive to the harsh sun.
Her nose is a little too round, but the freckles that dot the ivory skin of the bulb give her a youthful appearance. She’s a little too skinny, but her hips curve in tight jeans, and her pronounced collarbone poking from her sweater looks lickable.
She’s not super model perfect. She’s more … real.
I like it.
Her eyes close as my knuckles caress along her jaw. I consider dropping my act and telling her what I have planned, giving her the choice to be smarter. To cooperate. To drink the wine and let this happen. But the way her breath shudders makes me want to keep touching her.
“You shouldn’t hide your pretty face so much.”
She trembles beneath my touch, her pale pink lips parting. She looks scared, but not in the way someone does when they’re about to die. I don’t know what she’s thinking, and that causes more discomfort than I’m used to.
“You’re one to talk.”
Strong words, but she says them in such a weak voice.
I tilt my head. “Hmm?”
“Your hair covers your eyes the same way mine does.”
I smile. She really is cute. “I had an accident when I was younger that made my eyes sensitive to light. I’m not hiding myself.”
“Is that why your eye is red?”
My chest tightens.
She’s just going to come right out and ask about it?
Many talk about it behind my back. No one speaks of it to my face.
I’m not necessarily angry, I’m just … surprised.
When my smile falls, she looks down. “I’m sorry.”
The tension in my chest loosens as I finger a lock of her hair, amazed that she lets me without a fight.
How far would she let me go?
Does it matter?
I gently lay my palm on her jean-clad knee then smooth my thumb back and forth while leaning toward her, inhaling her buttery scent. This is nothing but an attempt to lower her guard, but I can’t say I don’t feel the stir in my cock as if it’s real. I like her this close, like the way she feels.
“I think you should drink your wine,” I say to her, my voice unusually heady.
“I can’t.”
She can’t .
She should. I’m giving her a chance. No one else gets this from me.
My palm on her knee grips as I lean in to her ear, my nostrils flaring. “Why not?”
“I’m sober.”
I stay frozen at her ear for a moment, my eyes narrowing with confusion. Slowly, my grip on her knee eases, and I pull back to look at her face. “What?”
Her hands fidget in her lap, and she shifts while staring at me with the fear I saw before, only now I know what it’s from. It isn’t fear of me , it’s fear of judgment.
She has no idea what I’m here for, does she?
Wiping her palms on her jeans, she stands and goes to the kitchen before returning with a chip held in her hand. When she reaches the couch, she hands it to me.
“It’s my one year,” she says in a voice that reeks of shame.
I flip the chip over while I examine it, but really, I’m just wrapping my head around this. Will her father still believe she overdosed? Yes. Yes, he will, absolutely. The plan still works. Nothing has changed.
But for some reason I can’t put a finger on, this feels like a problem.
“I was addicted to a lot of things, alcohol being one of them, but…” I look over at her to see the color drained from her face. Beads of sweat gleam on her forehead. “Heroin is what I struggled with the most.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
She picks at her nails, her jaw working. “It’s part of my program. I’ve been clean a long time, but… I…”
She runs her hands over her face then sits like her knees are about to give out. I’ve seen her nervous. This is something else.
If I’m going to cut the bullshit, now seems as good a time as any. But she has me curious.
I stare at her, waiting for her to go on, but when a full minute passes, I’m not sure she will. She’s so odd. I already know she’s an addict. She just told me. What could be so bad that has her speechless?
“It’s okay,” I finally tell her. I start to say that I understand, but I don’t.
“It’s really not.” Her voice sounds guttural, and she crosses her arms tightly over her chest. “I’ve done things when I’ve been high. Bad things… I have to focus on my sobriety. I can’t be in a relationship right now, or really ever.”
My lips pull into a frown. I didn’t think I was capable of pity, but this woman is the definition of pitiful.
The bag of heroin in my pocket enters my awareness and starts to feel bulkier. It irritates my thigh until I shift, wanting to get this shit over with.
I stand and grab both cups of wine from the table before striding to the kitchen, a curious set of eyes on my back. After rinsing both cups out, I fill them with water and roll my neck while slyly pulling a tiny bottle from my pocket. I squeeze a few drops of liquid into Olive’s cup before turning and running into an imaginary brick wall as my eyes lock onto a pan on the stove.
Snickerdoodle cookies.
Where have I seen them?
Why do they matter?
For a moment, I’m taken back to the home I grew up in, the kitchen where I ate a bowl of noodles every night while my mother whored herself on the street.
When I close my eyes, I smell buttery sugar. I hear laughter, feel a warm embrace.
Snapping my eyes open, I clear my throat and shove the forgotten memory away, squirming at the lingering emotions it tries to brand me with.
I carry the drinks to the couch and hand one to Olive. “Here. Let’s start over.”
She eyes it hesitantly before wrapping her hand around the cup, our fingers touching. “Alik?—”
“I don’t want a relationship,” I interject before she can argue. I sit down next to her, close enough that I can rest my knee against hers. “Commitment doesn’t suit me or my lifestyle. Something tells me you already know this, but … I’ve done some bad things too.”
She shifts her body to face me and tucks her hair behind her ear. It shouldn’t mean anything. From any other girl, it wouldn’t. But the simple action almost seems symbolic to me, like she’s unveiling herself, giving me a look at what she doesn’t allow others to see.
“That didn’t scare you off?”
When I smile, it’s genuine. I can’t remember the last time my lips moved like this. It almost startles me.
“Sweetheart, you could not possibly scare me.”
“You’re that bad, huh?” Her voice is small, like she believes it’s true, but her eyes blaze with a fire she shouldn’t have.
I should say no. I shouldn’t advertise my crimes, shouldn’t put her at unease…
But I think she likes it.
“Yes.”
When she looks down, I take her chin to lift it back up before planting my lips to hers.
And it’s a mistake.
A terrible, horrible mistake.
I only mean to wipe away the thoughts swirling in her head, distracting her from doing what I want. I only mean to take control of the room.
But when our lips touch, something deep inside the recesses of my mind unlatches, and I find myself leaning into a buzz that spreads from my lips through my chest. My abdomen contracts, carrying tension down to my hardening cock.
And then I taste it… Fucking snickerdoodles.
What a mistake.
With my hand threading through her hair, I fight to break away from the invisible pull of her lips. I manage, but at the expense of seeming like a lunatic, roughly jerking my head to the side, my breathing heavy.
Peeling my eyes open, I sit up and rest my hand in my lap while staring at her mouth until she covers it with her thin fingers.
It’s quiet for several seconds.
“Did I do something?” she asks, her eyes aimed at the floor.
Yes. But I don’t know what.
“No.”
I should say more, offer some explanation, some apology, play this off to ease her self-consciousness, but I’m too dazed. I’m so confused, it’s making me irrationally angry.
What am I doing?
Why is she not dead yet?
She nervously picks at a loose thread on her jeans before combing her hair in her face and reaching for her water. She takes three big gulps, which is exactly what I needed, then sets the cup back down.
Good. This is good.
Now this can end.
A sigh rushes past my lips as I relax into the couch, my arm moving to rest over the back of it.
“I think you should leave,” she says, her voice full of disappointment.
I stare at her one-year chip on the table. “Soon.”
“What?” She stands and crosses her arms over her chest. “I want you to leave. Now .”
“Sit down, Olive.”
Her eyes widen like she can’t believe the command. The drug hasn’t hit yet, but any minute, she’ll start to lose control of her muscles, so she really should sit down. If she were to wake up tomorrow, she wouldn’t remember a thing.
“If you don’t leave, I’ll?—”
“How long have you wanted me to fuck you?”
Her jaw hangs open for a solid three seconds before she averts her eyes, her face reddening.
“Is that why you’re so nervous around me?” I ask, finally at ease. Almost over. Any minute now, those doe eyes will close.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“How long, Olive?”
When she sways, her brow furrows, and she looks around like she’s confused as to why the floor is moving. Her hands reach out for the table as she leans over, looking at me with a sweet innocence that makes me want to bring her face closer, kiss those lips again. Even now, she doesn’t look at me like I’m the wolf about to eat Little Red Riding Hood. She looks at me like I have all the answers in the world, and she’s come to me for help.
I bolt forward to catch her just before her legs give out and cradle her head while dragging her to the couch.
She blinks up at me. “Wh-what’s happening?”
I pull her onto my lap while stroking her head. “You’re going to sleep now, gorgeous.”
Panic ignites in her eyes as she wriggles in my hold. “Alik, no, I?—”
“Shhh.” I run my thumb over her enticing lips to silence her. “Don’t fight. Just sleep.”
She whimpers and continues to struggle, her arm twitching but going nowhere without the drug’s permission.
I shift and lean down, my eyes closing as I replace my thumb with my lips on hers. I know it’s a mistake before I kiss her this time, but it’s already been made. Her whines enter my mouth while I run my palm down her face, her neck, over her breasts hidden by a thick layer of cotton.
The buzzing her protests made against my lips ceases as her movements slow to a stop. My lips pressing harder against hers, I run my hand back up her neck and prod my fingers against her carotid to feel her calm heartbeat.
I’m not a necrophiliac. I’ve never even considered Sleeping Beauty sex. But right now, with the DEA princess I’m about to murder in cold blood, I don’t want to stop. I want to sink myself deep inside of her and tell myself it doesn’t make any difference anyway.
I slip my hand beneath her hoodie and kiss along her neck while I jerk the material up. Her skin is warm to the touch, and after pulling the hoodie over her head, I run my hands down her sides and drink her in, pausing when I spot tiny birds flapping their inky wings beneath her bra.
My fingers trace the flock, leading me underneath the nude material when a phone dings.
I find the hoodie on the floor and pull Olive’s phone from the pocket. She has a text from someone named Creeper, and all it says is, come over . Creeper sounds like the name of a horror flick monster. Or a guy who wears wife beaters.
I look at Olive’s peaceful face, lost in a world that knows no pain, and I can’t help it when my mind wanders, wondering what she’s dreaming about. What she would’ve done if she’d been awake to see this message. Would she have gone? Broken her sobriety for a night with this mystery man? Or maybe she was lying about her sobriety altogether… But I don’t think so.
Who cares?
Why am I stalling?
Tossing the phone on the table, I look down at my pocket and pull out the heroin and needle, setting both on the table before going to the kitchen to get a spoon.
I’m hit with the smell again, but I ignore the pan on the stove, ignore the taste of Olive on my tongue, her scent in my nostrils bringing up warmth I haven’t felt in… I don’t remember.
When I’m back, I dump the contents of the baggy into the spoon and pull out my lighter, but I don’t ignite it. Something is stopping me. There’s something I’m missing, flooding me with the sensation that I’m about to make a mistake. My skin crawls. My mind resists.
What is wrong?
I lower the spoon and look at the girl. Her cinnamon hair isn’t hiding her face anymore. She’s on display for me, and maybe that’s the problem. Maybe I don’t want to see her.
I shouldn’t have kissed her. Shouldn’t have come here under false pretenses when I could have simply broken in and forced the heroin into her veins with my hand over her mouth to muffle her screams.
Instead, I’m questioning everything.
Something is telling me not to kill her. To think this through. It’s a pull in my chest, a turn of my stomach that must be an instinct.
My mind churns while I stare at her, trying to discern what is wrong.
Does she truly need to die?
No, she doesn’t. It would work. It would distract her father and shift his attention to the Irish, who are prideful enough to put their mark on everything in their business, including their heroin. It would work perfectly, but it isn’t the only thing that would work. Just her losing her sobriety alone would cause an upset within his family, but I could take it a step further and be sure he knows what he has to lose.
There are other ways to use the girl.
Giving her one last look over, I pour the heroin back into the plastic sleeve before putting everything in my pockets, growing more confident in myself by the second.
This is the right call.
I’ll dump her at one of the Irish’s drug houses then send the police. The special agent’s junkie daughter will be found doped up at the scene of a crime… Imagine the headlines.
Daddy will still want his revenge due to the sheer embarrassment she’s about to cause him, and she’ll still be in our back pocket for later if we decide to use her again. You don’t use up all of your resources if some will do.
This is better. This is why my mind was so resistant.
I stride to her closet to pick the sluttiest dress I can find, which isn’t slutty at all, so not great for my cause, but it’ll do. It’s a long-sleeve, black, velvet number that stretches to her mid-thigh when I pull it down over her jeans.
I don’t lift the dress when I undo the buttons on her jeans. Hours ago, I had full faith in my self-control. Now I grind my teeth while dragging her pants off her slender legs, my balls aching as my fingertips brush her thighs.
Leaving her barefoot and vulnerable, I pick her up and carry her to my car, nodding politely at a man as I pass him outside. You wouldn’t believe the shit people see me do without so much as a second glance, as long as I’m calm. He nods back.
A half hour later, I leave Olive Solace in a house flooded with slimy Irish associates, a needle sticking from her arm. I never pressed the syringe in, so heroin didn’t technically go into her system, but it’ll be enough to achieve what we need. I tried. I really did. The bitch knocked me off my game hard because, for some reason, I couldn’t find a vein.
But it doesn’t matter. This is better.
This is enough.
Standing in the alley behind the house, my car waiting for me down the street, I take my gun from my waistband and fire at the windows, sending glass raining all over the lawn. By the time heads appear and bullets fly into the alley, I’m gone.
The cops should be here any minute.