Chapter 7
Once the heat of the shower subsides, I stand directly in front of the mirror, wiping away the moisture built up on the glass. My tongue threatens to leap down my throat the moment I lay my eyes on the person staring back at me.
Short, shaggy brown hair hangs past the tips of my ears in the front, but it’s slightly longer in the back, with its tips touching my neck.
Green-colored contacts change my eye color.
Thick, black-rimmed glasses rest over my eyes to record my every move and interaction.
No makeup covering my scars or blemishes.
Not me.
My reflection stares back at me, yet it doesn't feel like me. I'm different. Yet the same. It's not really me. There's a stranger in my place—a man with glasses and green eyes.
Not Olivia.
Oliver.
My newest identity.
My fingers cling to the counter in the bathroom, curling over the edges and digging into the flesh of my palm, leaving indents. My eyes squeeze shut as the pain takes over, drawing my focus to the physical pain. Not the mental pain festering inside, trying to claw its way out.
Everything I successfully locked away into a black box in my mind comes back with a vengeance to haunt me.
Their faces. Names. Voices.
Our memories. The good. The bad. All the ugly parts of us scream from the depths of my mind, reminding me of who they are.
Their claws reach out, attempting to pull me back to the moments we shared.
The happy. The sad. The fucking devastating.
Leading to the betrayal swimming before my eyes as a fire erupts and eats away at my existence.
I'm dead. Barely alive. Barely functioning.
Barely fucking breathing.
I suck in a breath, reminding myself that my lungs need the oxygen to survive. Blinking past the persistent memories flashing across my eyes, I stare at myself in the mirror. I force my gaze upon the person I’m about to become for however long this case takes to crack open.
Stop thinking about them. Stop thinking about what happened. Move forward. Take them down when the time is right.
Because that’s what I’ll do. I’ll stick to my job. To a fucking T. I won’t deviate, but I will bring them down. One by one. To their knees until Veritas drags them away and throws away the key.
They’re criminals and deserve the prison that awaits them.
“Liv,” Jordy's voice swims through the emotions piling high inside me and swirling like a storm ready to strike.
It's happening. It's real. I'm doing this.
I got this.
I'm okay.
Totally fucking okay.
I tilt my head, and the longer strands swoop over my temples and ears, tickling them, but not going over my shoulders like they normally do. Shaggy with uneven layers from a home done haircut, but yet, it suits me.
My gaze shifts to the long strands still lying on the ground unswept and mocking me.
We did it. We cut my hair. We made me into someone I’m not. All for the case.
My fingers run through the shorter strands, attempting to ground myself. Attempting to tell myself that my hair doesn't matter. It doesn't matter that I hadn't cut it in five years. Not since the night of their betrayal and the fire.
The long strands of my dark brown hair were my safety blanket.
Hiding the physical trauma of that dreadful night.
Concealing the betrayal I’d been subjected to by the ones I thought I could trust the most. Huxley.
JJ. Mack. It hid the shame that festered behind my eyes.
Never showing the world the stupid girl who fell for pretty words and ultimately fell and died at their hands.
The long slash across my throat signifies the brutal end to our relationship, doled out by their blood-stained hands.
The wounds may be healed. But the memories will forever be etched in the back of my mind, coming back at the worst possible time to haunt me.
Healing isn't walking away from the problem at hand and pretending it never existed. It's facing it head-on. And maybe apprehending the very people who killed you without a second thought.
Cutting my hair feels like I've jumped into the deep end of the pool, unable to swim to the surface, and I'm slowly sinking further into the darkness.
“Holy fuck,” Jordy says, poking the side of my face and bringing me back to reality. “You're really going to pull this off. It's too bad for your tits they—umph!” He groans, stumbling back.
Sexist bastard.
A frown etches across his lips as he rubs at his chest. The very chest I just punched with my full strength.
“You're very mean,” he pouts playfully. “That'll leave a bruise.”
Good. That’s what I was aiming for.
I level him with my best glare. “Leave my tits out of this,” I grumble, returning my attention to the person staring back at me in the mirror.
It’s unreal to see myself this way. Usually, it's wigs and false teeth. Maybe a little makeup to blend in. But this disguise is an entirely new playing field.
An entirely new person without trying hard.
Swallowing the lump forming in my throat, I square my shoulders. An eerie sense of confidence bursts through me. I've got this. This entire situation isn't about me. This is about taking them down. Taking Franco to Hell, where he belongs.
Finally, getting the much-needed revenge I've wanted to enact for years.
“You might actually pull this off, Liv. Like seriously,” Jordy whistles, putting an arm over my shoulders.
Leaning close, he whispers, “You fucking got this.
You're a brave fucking warrior. We've been to Hell and back.
Now's your chance to kick some ass.” He squeezes me tight and kisses my temple affectionately.
And then promptly ruins the moment by opening his damn mouth.
“You know, I could shave some of my—umph!” He gasps, backing away from me and rubbing his stomach while wincing.
“Yeah, you're gonna kick ass. Those dudes don't know what's going to hit them. Seriously! You're violent.” He shakes his head with fake disappointment, but I see the truth shining in his sparkling eyes. He’s proud of me. Knowing how hard I’ve fought to overcome the screaming nightmares and my past constantly chasing me.
He's the one who had to pick up my pieces. Over and over again. It's a wonder why we've never dated or seen each other in that light.
We're family, regardless.
“Violence is my middle name,” I quip, sucking in a breath at the sight of my reflection again and tightening the towel around my body.
My stomach turns the more I prepare myself for the next few months of my future.
I'll have to face them. My ex-best friends.
My murderers. I'll have to pretend that being around them doesn't upset me. In fact, I've been instructed to be their friend however I can. I’ll have to follow them everywhere, but it won’t be like before. When I was a child, the trust between us was strong. Now? I’ll have to do it out of obligation and duty, so I can uncover as many of their misdeeds as possible.
My end goal?
Get into their frat. Get into their gang, which loosely ties into the college… Somehow. Find out what Franco is up to and why he's suddenly funding a college.
All in a day's work, I guess.
“Okay, I think I'm ready.” It's a lie.
I'm slightly numb. Slightly freaking out. Slightly ready to puke my damn guts out.
You'll be fine. You'll be okay.
But will I?
“Fat chance,” Jordy quips, rolling his eyes and seeing straight through my deceitful words.
“You’re so not ready for this. Besides, you can’t go out in that towel.
Come on, Livy Poo. I’ve got the hook up for you.
” He sings every word, darting to the side when I lift my hand to smack him in the back of the head.
Asshole.
“I told you not to call me that,” I grumble, reluctantly following him out of the bathroom in a towel and stopping in the small living room where several piles of male clothes lie on the couch and floor, along with several pieces of clothing that look like sports bras and tight tank tops.
An assortment of flashy tennis shoes sits neatly in a row.
No doubt Jordy’s doing with his love of name-brand shoes and fashion.
“Yeah, well. You tell me a lot of shit. It all goes in one ear and out the other.” Jordy laughs again when I shoot him a look.
He waves a hand. “All right, you ready for this, Olivia?” He mocks the way he says my name, slowing it down until I’m rolling my eyes.
“Or should I say, Oliver?” He raises a brow when I flip him off.
If there’s one thing about Jordy I love, it’s his sense of humor. Ten seconds ago, we were crying our eyes out in the bathroom. And now, we’re barely suppressing our smiles. He has this air about him that lifts the dark clouds hanging over my head, making sunshine appear.
“Oliver,” I mutter, shaking my head. “So, I’m guessing these are my clothes.”
“Yup! Jonathan asked me to bring you some clothes. So, I went shopping on his dime.” He lifts a shoulder.
“Jesus, what did you buy? The entire store?” I start rifling through the piles of t-shirts, long sleeve shirts, nice button downs, baggy jeans, boxers, briefs, and everything I could possibly need.
“You know what? You’re unappreciative of my fashion choices.” He sniffs haughtily, lifting his nose in the air. “But yeah, I went to a men’s clothing store and bought your size in everything.” He grins. “It was fun.”
“You and I have a different definition of fun,” I grumble, standing tall.
As a teenager, I loved clothes. Colors. Hell, even fashion trends.
Nothing made me happier than dragging Hux, JJ, or Mack into a shopping mall and buying new outfits.
Now, though? I loathe it. I’d rather buy something online and have it shipped to me.
“But thank you, Jordy. I can only imagine what Jonathan would have bought me to wear.” I wrinkle my nose.
“Probably something hideous. Pfft.” Jordy promptly rolls his eyes with a huff. “Now, try on all these and we’ll see if they fit you.”