Chapter 3
You know, I’ve watched the movie She’s the Man.
Many times over. Want a live reenactment line by line?
I'm your girl. Hell, I’ve even read a few good books on the subject.
Girl binds her breasts, dresses in baggier clothes, and infiltrates a prep school or goes undercover to solve a murder. Or whatever her reason may be.
Now it’s my turn.
Apparently.
I didn’t bother confronting Jonathan when I ran out of the hotel like my ass was on fire.
Not after studying my newest case for a few hours until the sun was slowly setting in the sky and going over every word in the document.
Nope. I didn’t bother to stop when he called my name, begging for me to come back and talk about it.
Fat chance, buddy. I hightailed it out of the hotel with rage in my throat and my fingers curling into fists.
I need time to swallow everything that’s happened today. Between being back in Greenwood without warning and standing above my own fucking grave to this. This is the pivotal moment in my life where I have to choose if this is what’s right for me. This case? Facing my past?
My phone buzzes on the gray and white granite bar top, taking my mind off the mental crisis brewing inside me.
Jonathan
We have a lot to discuss when you get back. I understand you’re feeling a lot. Take your time, Seven. But I want you to keep in mind that by going through with this case, you’re in line for a raise and promotion. You’ve worked hard these past few years…
Olivia
*Thumbs up emoji*
Is it a dick move to send my boss who is trying to console me the thumbs up emoji instead of speaking to him like a big girl? Yes. There’s something deep in my gut that’s nagging at me to run away from this place and never come back. Change my name again and disappear.
Nothing about this feels like a good idea.
Not at all. How am I supposed to be a completely different person without someone getting suspicious?
What about showers or bathrooms? What about my period?
Cramps are the worst. And mine? They try to kill me every month despite the birth control I'm on to help them. Fuck. I didn’t even ask about getting my own private apartment on campus.
Fuck.
I’m so fucked.
I’ve been deep undercover before. It’s nothing new to me.
Last year, I was dressed as an eighty-seven-year-old woman living in a nursing home while investigating the nursing staff and attempting to find a serial killer.
Pretending to be an older woman was difficult.
The disguise alone made my skin itch with the enhanced wrinkles, wig, and glasses capable of recording my every move for Veritas to watch.
But I made it through. I caught the culprit, and she’s now rotting away at Veritas’ prison.
So, why should this be any different? I won’t be playing Ethel May, a widowed old lady. I’ll be Oliver Davenport, a male student at Greenwood U.
I run my fingers over my forehead, so lost in thought, I don’t even see the bartender set down the drink I ordered after coming inside the packed bar.
“Give me your most expensive, top-shelf bourbon, whiskey, scotch, or whatever. I'm not picky at the moment.” I slid him a hundred-dollar bill for his troubles, and he delivered.
My gaze wanders over the industrial-style bar with its exposed beams and heating ducts crawling across the ceiling. Soft lighting hangs over leather-backed booths and oak tables lining the outside of the perimeter.
This place wasn't here five years ago. I'm sure of it.
In fact, I'm sure this used to be a part of the Greenwood Medical Group. An entire block of walk-in doctor’s offices for the folks of Greenwood.
And now? Gone. Replaced by something that could bring money to this tourist-heavy area.
My entire walk from the hotel led me into the heart of the city.
Flashing lights from the theaters, casinos, bars, and strip joints lit up the night.
People from every walk of life roam the streets with smiles on their faces and booze in their veins.
Seems to me that Franco has made this town into everything he ever talked about. A way for him to extend his wealth.
Including this bar.
Patrons of every demographic pack the place, chatting while eating dinner and drinking. Some play pool at the back of the bar under softly lit lamps and quietly whoop in excitement each time they sink a ball. Some play the mini gambling machines to the left of the pool tables.
Everyone's having a good time and enjoying this city. Everyone but me and my miserable ass.
Ugh.
I want to bang my head against the bar, but that would bring attention to me. I'm trying to be good and keep a low profile, what with the undercover mission coming up and all.
“Looks like you could use that,” the bartender says, tapping on the swirling granite bartop a few times.
“You have no idea,” I groan. “This has been one of the worst days of my life.”
Not an understatement. Although, I think technically dying and then being brought back to life is number one on my list. The pain of my recovery from the burns covering my flesh after their betrayal was enormous.
How does one recover from that, though? After witnessing your friends surrounding you and holding you down so their father could cut you up and deliver the final death blow.
Through bleary eyes, I watched as they poured gasoline through my home, over my mom and sister’s bodies, and then they lit the match, dropping it into the liquid without sparing me a glance.
So, yeah. I’m a little bitter that I have to be back here. And fucking heartbroken I’m about to step into their paths again.
“Well, you’re in the right place, then. Holler if you need anything,” he says with a smile as he drifts away toward the other end of the bar.
“Will do,” I mumble more to myself, staring at the amber liquid glistening under the low lights. Three ice cubes clink together the moment I take another drink, relishing in the burn of straight bourbon running down my throat.
"It was the aliens!" a drunken voice rings out, filling the bar with his desperation from across the way.
He dismounts his barstool and pulls up his shirt for the man sitting beside him to see.
"See! I have the scar to prove it!" he shouts frantically again, drawing more eyes from the patrons around the entire bar.
I shift on my barstool, eyeing him critically as I sip my drink, attempting to numb myself from the pain festering inside.
So much for a chill environment.
Maybe going to such a public place wasn't my brightest idea. But I needed somewhere to go. Somewhere to forget myself in. Maybe find someone who will help with that. I’m not picky at the moment.
I just don’t want to feel the sorrow sitting low in my chest, pressing on my heart. I want the numbness to consume me so I forget about them. My past. My everything. I don’t want to feel the rage beneath my skin or the fear hiding in the back of my mind.
So, I take another sip of my liquor and focus on the stocky man across the bar, showing the long scar below his left ribs. I cringe when tears spill out of his eyes, and he huffs, sitting back down the moment a security guard comes into view, staring him down with narrowed eyes.
“Earl,” the bartender chastises impatiently.
“We’ve talked about this before.” I can’t see the bartender's face, but I hear the tension leaking from his words. “You can’t spout your delusions in my damn bar. It’s bad for business.
So, you either drink your beer or Eugene will see you out the back door. ”
Harsh. Earl has obviously had a little too much to drink by the sway of his body and the glassiness of his eyes. In fact, his head barely stays upright, flopping around every time he blinks. Someone needs to escort the poor man home and put him to bed before he overdoes it.
Earl frowns, pulling his shirt down over his belly.
"Why won't anyone believe me? It happened!
I swear it was the aliens. There was a beam of light and probes, and this!
" He points to his stomach where the fresh scar would be, but it is covered by his shirt.
“They took parts of my liver,” he slurs, slumping more.
"Earl," the bartender sighs, nodding at the security guard who reluctantly waltzes over. "I'm going to ask you to leave now and kick you off the premises for thirty days. I can't let you scare away business."
Earl grunts when the security guard lifts him off the stool by his upper arm and escorts him away from the bar, down a hallway until they disappear from sight. Once the commotion dies down, the bartender shakes off the interaction and goes back to checking on everyone.
I down the rest of my drink and slide it forward, catching the bartender's attention.
“So, you here for the slots?” he asks curiously, as he pours me a new drink and sets it in front of me.
His fingers tap the bar again, drumming a few times. A heated hunger swirls in his eyes as he looks me over, stopping at my chest before meeting my eyes again. A red tint takes over his cheeks, and he clears his throat when he discovers he's been caught peeping.
“That's what most everyone is here for. Gambling for the weekend and stopping here to drink and eat.” He waves a finger around, gesturing to the other patrons.