Chapter 1 #3
“224, Trouble,” Huxley mumbles, gently kissing my lips as he hovers above me. “Today. Tomorrow. Forever.”
“224. Always,” I breathe, closing my eyes when he enters me for the first time. I choke out a breath, digging my nails into his shoulders.
“Fuck!” I cry out when thunder rolls through the clouds, blocking out my frantic cry. “Fuck!” I shriek, throwing my head back and embracing the water pelting my face.
Rage like I've never felt before swirls like shadows in my chest, clawing up my throat and infiltrating my brain. It sinks its nails deep into my brain until I'm no longer in control of myself or my actions.
I let the ghost nestled deep inside me free from the tomb she’s lived in for all these years, where I’ve hidden my resentments and murderous plots. All the anger. All the fucking grief. Everything I endured and felt unleashes from the depths of my fucking broken soul. Howling in pain.
Everything moves without my say so, moving on autopilot, connecting my aching fists and stinging hands to the marbled gravestone displaying my name and the number I never want to set my eyes on again.
My hands burn like fire roaring under my flesh, angrily vibrating when I smash the butt end of the flashlight into the numbers on my grave marker. Over and fucking over again.
224? 2-2-fucking-4!
Our special phrase. Our numbers! Something we created as children. Carved into trees as a symbol of our undying love and devotion.
And he etched it into one last fucking thing.
How fucking dare he utters those words to me and then do this! And leave his mark when he's the one who fucking helped to end me.
“Fuck you, Huxley! Fuck you and your words! Fuck you and your fake love,” I gasp out, smashing it over and over until the flashlight resembles a mangled mess and I’m left panting for air.
I sink back, heaving a breath and holding the remnants of the flashlight in my hands.
Fuck it. I toss the pieces into the grass, and I clutch the long strands of my hair, gently pulling until the pain helps to relieve some of my building panic.
Maybe I'm not strong enough to survive whatever Jonathan has up his sleeves.
Maybe I'm the weak little bitch my father thought I was, losing myself to tears and emotions and everything in between.
“Don’t show your emotions,” my father sneers at me, exposing all his rotting teeth. “It’s the Viotto motto.” Viotto motto, my ass. Every time he lashed out in anger, he showed his emotions for the world to see.
I fall back, letting the mud and grass cushion my fall. It knocks more air from my lungs, but I don't care. Breaths continually shudder through my chest as my fingers dig into the mud again. I feel it. The cold, wet dirt. It brings me back from the brink of whatever I unleashed.
I close my eyes when the raindrops flutter across my face, leaking down my chin and into the grass.
Mud still soaking through every inch of my clothes.
But my give-a-damn button is busted beyond repair.
Replaced by a tingling numbness working up from my toes to the top of my head, stealing my raw emotions and hiding them away.
“Fuck,” I mumble, shaking off the slight chill piercing through my clothes and sitting up to assess the damage I inflicted.
I trace the scratched number—224. No longer legible. Or from what I can feel. If I hadn't smashed the flashlight into smithereens then I could see.
Goddamn it.
I hang my head again, pressing my dirty palms into the cool, wet surface.
I am here. I am in the rain and soaking wet. I force myself to feel the clothes clinging to my skin and the squish in my boots before I lose myself to the nightmares of my past.
"No more freak out," I whisper through the pounding of the rain.
"It's done. You're over it. You're dead.
They did this. And now, if you have to see them again, you'll be fine.
No matter what," I whisper to myself repeatedly, despite the dread building in the pits of my stomach.
Fuck. "You have to be okay. Okay? Just..
. keep your head up," I murmur to myself like I've done in the past.
If I hold these feelings in for too long, they eat away at me until I explode. And it’s never a good thing when I let it all out in my rages.
Case in point—my poor headstone. Something I'll have to check on at a later date in the sunshine. Maybe no one will notice. It’s not like I have anyone left to visit my remains. My mom and sister are beside me. My father never cared for us despite having us around.
And Hux, JJ, and Mack? They’re the reason I’m here.
I finally pull myself together and wipe the tears and rain from my cheeks, and I stand tall over the graves at my full height.
It's odd standing above them when they're dead and below, and here I am, the lucky one who made it out alive. Somehow. I try to tell myself I’m here for a purpose.
That I escaped everything for the greater good.
But right now? I don’t fucking see it. Sure, I’ve saved countless lives and put away the worst of the worst in Veritas prison, but at what cost?
I place my hand on top of my grave again, almost reluctant to leave this piece of me behind.
Something in the center of my chest pulls at me to stay when I peel my eyes open, and my knees nearly buckle again when lightning flashes above me, lighting up two small objects I somehow missed on my first inspection.
“Got you this,” JJ mutters, shoving a small box with a red bow into my hands. His cheeks redden, and his eyes fall to the ground.
“What is it?” I whisper with a grin, unwrapping the box quickly. “Oh, JJ,” I murmur, pulling out the small charm bracelet with one charm dangling from it. A silver lighthouse with two red stripes at the top. “It’s beautiful.” Tears threaten to spill from my eyes when he shakily takes it from me.
“It glows in the dark,” he whispers, clasping it on my wrist.
I throw my arms around his neck and pull him close. “Thank you.”
“We’ll fill the bracelet up with more charms. More lighthouses, so you don’t forget that you have a bright light in here,” he whispers directly into my ear. “You’re my Spitfire.”
A small lighthouse charm sits beside a shiny, dark rock on the top of my grave. Two gifts. From two people who have no business stepping foot here and mourning my loss.
Water droplets roll off the sharp edges onto my grave marker. It threatens to take me out again, forcing me to relive more memories I've shoved into a black hole of no return. I've been so successful for so many years in holding myself together.
But in one night, it's being unraveled.
Without hesitation, I grab the rock and charm, examining them at eye level. When the lighting isn't streaking through the sky, they are almost invisible in my hands. But the weight of their gifts left behind remain in my hand.
"Fuck you, Mack. Fuck you, JJ!" I whisper at the rock and charm before throwing them as far as I can. With the darkness, I don't see where they land, but I hope they never make it fucking back. “Fuck you for your lies. Fuck JJ for his lies. Fuck Huxley for everything. I hope you all rot in hell.”
Fuck them all with a hot branding iron straight to the asshole.
With that, I turn on my heels and stomp through the mud with slight satisfaction thrumming through me. A heavy weight rests on my shoulders, pulling me down into the depths of my pain. I’m drowning in it as it surrounds my being and clutches me in its grip.
But I shake it away, shoving everything about tonight into the back of my mind in a secure black box that can't be broken open again. No more. I can’t go through life holding onto this pain and letting it chip away at me piece by piece.
If I’m not careful, I’ll have no identity when it’s done with me.
I return to the SUV and slam the door behind me. My body sags into the warmth of the seat, and exhaustion pulls me under, draining the remaining dregs of my energy from my body.
"Did you get out what you needed to get out?" Jonathan asks, handing me a small hand towel he gathered from the back seat.
I nod as I wipe the wetness and mud from my face and hands, keeping my eyes forward. No matter the freak out I just went through, I don't want to show him the evidence in my eyes.
"It's okay to be emotional, Olivia," he says, pushing the car into drive. Yeah, fucking right. The Viotto's entire existence has always been–Don’t show your emotions. Don’t be a fucking human. And here, my uncle—a Viotto by adoption—is saying the complete opposite. "Feeling nervous and terrified to be back here is okay. It’s a normal part of being human.” His gaze soars through me, practically burning a hole through the side of my head.
"I'm fine," I say with a slight shrug.
I don't know who I'm trying to convince—me or him. I'm beyond not fine. I'm fucking fried. I need to unwind. I need a drink, a game of pool, a swim, or a really good fuck to get my mind out of the darkness pulling me under once and for all.
"Mhmm," he hums unconvinced, pulling out of the cemetery and heading straight through Greenwood.
I sigh, leaning my forehead against the window, and stare at the lights blurring by.
Pirate-themed casinos line the main strip of Greenwood, lighting up the visitors spending their money and never winning a goddamn thing with the walls.
A long time ago, despite the laws forbidding gambling in casinos in California, Franco found a way around it.
Laws? What laws? Franco doesn’t abide by them.
He simply greases the palms of the commissions in charge and gets whatever his heart desires.
Someway. Somehow. They’ve built it up and never looked back.
Never having to follow the rules. But when has he?
He commits crimes every day under the watchful eyes of the law, and no consequences seem to find him.
I think it’s about time that changes.
"He's expanded," I say, mentally counting the brightly lit casinos.