Chapter 10 Olivia #2
Good. Dane can stay as far away as he’d like. Forever.
“An old relic?” I wonder aloud, knowing exactly where and what it is.
“Oh, my sweet, sweet, naive new roomie. Prepare yourself for Friday. It’s quite the spectacle. Big guys in the ring with their shirts off and sweat on their chests,” he swoons, putting the back of his on his forehead before we part ways, going into our own living quarters.
I immediately shut the door, despite it not having a lock. It’s the semblance of privacy that finally has my shoulders sagging and my mind reeling with the night's events.
Today was a fucking day. Coming here. Seeing them. Having to pretend I’m someone I’m not. It’s a heavy weight on my shoulders. It’s a challenge I never wanted to give myself.
But here I am, working for the man who saved me, trying to bring down the pricks that ruined me. All in a day's work.
Dane's lone box he left behind taunts me from the other side of the room as I plop down onto my mattress. It remains unpacked and unmoved on his empty mattress, void of sheets and life.
Maybe this won’t be so bad, after all. If I had to room with someone who was here all the time, then I wouldn’t be able to rid myself of my disguise.
It’s risky, though. There are no locks on my door.
My only reprieve is the bathroom, but I can’t constantly lock myself in there when I need to unbind.
Speaking of. This damn bind hurts. My tits are screaming for air.
Maybe I’ll try the tank top version tomorrow and see if it’s looser.
Whatever. That’s tomorrow’s problem and I’m too tired to pull off my shirt and binder.
For now, I’ll suffer and get used to it.
I groan, falling back onto my small twin-sized bed with a huff, and pull out my phone, attempting to distract myself from well… everything.
SlamApp. An unofficial place for news, gossip, and unsanctioned events for Greenwood U, Greenwood, California. Must have a college-approved email to log in. Anonymous features are available.
I lick my lips, downloading the app, inputting my new college email and taking the welcome tour of whatever the app has to offer. The first thing that pops up is the same message Simon showed me in our meeting.
Fight. Friday night. Coliseum. Come and call out your opponent on the day, or click here—Jackson Wilder. (Photos from previous fight nights available here. Buy at the bar, bring your own booze, rides, and designated drivers. We’re not responsible for your blood loss or anything else.)
My heart stalls, sputtering to a stop. Heat rushes to my face, then just as quickly drains, leaving my fingers ice-cold wrapped around my phone.
Wilder? Jackson Wilder? He’s here? At this campus?
I shake my head. There’s no way. It has to be a different person. A different Jackson Wilder. Right? That’s a pretty common name. It has to be. Because if he’s here, then that psycho who likes trackers is here. My traitorous body heats. Nope. Nu-huh. I’m living in delusional land all by myself.
They aren’t here.
They can’t be.
Or it proves that I’m the unluckiest girl on the damn planet.
Deep breaths, Liv. It’s not like he’ll recognize you. You’re in disguise now, with annoying glasses, colored contacts, and strapped down boobs.
Sitting back on my bed, I get back to work scoping out the SlamApp.
With my breath in my throat, I click on the photos and swipe through them.
Static fills my ears at the images of the men I knew before, standing in the middle of the ring with blood dripping from their lips and ears.
Vicious expressions blanket their faces, making me shiver.
What was the catalyst for their fall into the darkness?
Me? Having Franco as a father? Their violence-filled lifestyle?
Honestly, the possibilities are endless.
But looking at their darkened eyes and bloodied flesh, they’ve come to the point of no return.
Surfacing as the men their foster father always wanted.
Brutal soldiers.
Hux AKA Huxley Crewes preens at the camera with a half-cocked smirk and his arm above his head.
Tattoos cascade down his chest, arms, and abdomen.
They’re everywhere. Marking him in colorful designs.
Portraits. Small star shapes. Flowers. Animals.
Most have been etched on him since we were teenagers. But some are new.
My eyes squeeze shut at the numbers etched on his chest, surrounded by daisies–my favorite flowers. A tattoo that wasn’t there before. Something new. Something damning that has my stomach turning and knots forming over my aching heart.
2-2-4.
“Today. Tomorrow. Forever,” I murmur aloud through a choked, rage-filled sob.
The number is everywhere when it comes to him. My gravestone. His chest. It’s like it meant something to him, but it didn’t. There’s no way it could have after everything was said and done. Not after they fucking killed me.
2-2-4 was once a number we said, on repeat. A promise. It was us against the damn world. Today. Tomorrow. Forever and always.
But now it means jack shit. It’s just a number followed by 225. No meaning behind it. No love or pretty words to invoke any sort of feelings.
Or it shouldn’t.
It shouldn’t have knives plunging through my chest and tears on my lashes. But it does. And I can’t let it anymore. I grieved this already. For five long years, I’ve thrown myself into work and recovery, getting over their betrayal.
Or so I thought.
Being back in Greenwood feels like I’ve taken a thousand steps backward, and I’m right where I was the day I watched my funeral.
In the fucking ashes of my life.
“You’re alive. You’re taking them down. You’re free,” I murmur to myself and clear my head from all the static, filling it relentlessly. “But now, you have a job to start.”
With that sentiment, I shake myself out of the morbid feelings and focus on Mack standing beside him in the picture. He’s a job. Not an old friend who hurt me and betrayed me. A job. A person who needs to go down for their crimes and be punished.
Macklyn Owens. AKA Mack. Doesn’t have as many tattoos lining his flesh, but they’re still there. On his arms. Hands. Shoulders. And slightly on his chest. Not as personal as Huxley’s. No meaningful numbers or objects special to what we had stand out.
In the background of the photos stands JJ.
AKA–Jasper Jeremiah Jones. With his hands in his pockets and his eyes focused on the winners in the circle.
He takes it all in with his large, expressive eyes.
Always the observer. Never the provoker.
Peace was always the mantra he lived by, never wanting to ruffle feathers.
But he was quick to stand up for what was right—taking injustices seriously.
Well, back then, anyway. I’m sure Franco has sunk his claws deep into JJ by now, hoping he and the other two will step up once college concludes.
Swiping through several more photos, I take in the scenery of the building. And then it hits me. Pictures of the venue.
“Dude, I found this place, isn’t it cool as fuck?” Mack grins, bouncing on his toes. “I call it The Coliseum. You know, like that place in Rome, but with a different spelling. Look at all the stones.” He points to the crumbling concrete littering the thick forest floor.
Hux blinks, his jaw opening wide.
JJ’s brows furrow as his neck cranes back, staring at the massive structure.
“What is this place?” I murmur, moving forward in awe.
“I bet it’s only visible from the sea,” JJ says thoughtfully, peering around the edge of the rounded structure and viewing the massive ocean below the cliff.
“Who do you think built this?” I swallow hard, following JJ to view the massive waves slamming into the rocks below. If I took ten more steps, I’d slip off the edge of the cliff and fall in.
“I’m surprised it hasn’t fallen over.” Hux rubs his chin, staring it down. “It doesn’t look safe.”
“This was in Captain Greenwood’s log!” Mack excitedly exclaims, pulling up an article on his phone.
“See? It’s a sign his treasure is somewhere near here.
” He clears his throat, scrolling. “Through the sea and rocks, a structure hides within the vines and above the caves. X marks the spot.” He grins, showing us the new piece of information. “The treasure has to be here!”
Hux nods. “It could be. But don’t you think someone has been here already?”
Mack frowns, shoving his phone away. “They could have been,” he shrugs, casting his eyes toward the dirt. “Doesn’t matter, I’m going inside anyway.” He turns on his heels and darts inside the massive structure with a huff.
“You pissed in his Cheerios,” JJ murmurs.
“Someone needs to,” Hux scoffs angrily. “There’s no treasure. Someone found that gold a long time ago.” His eyes roll toward the blue sky, gracing us with a beautiful day to explore the woods near our home.
“Rude,” I quip, slapping him on the shoulder. “Now, let’s go exploring.”
We explored the space for multiple weeks, taking in the crumbling rock seats, hidden passageways, and dirt floors, never giving up on finding the treasure we were seeking.
Something was planted here many moons ago when Captain John Greenwood, a pirate on the high seas, stumbled here after an accident, fleeing from the authorities.
His treasure has never been found, but this town was named after him. Casinos were erected in his honor. Similar to the eatery and bars. All for him and the memory he left behind after discovering this land.
And now, his memory is being used to help kids pummel each other on Friday nights for shits and giggles. Probably bets, too.
It’s just another aspect of our childhood used for their fun and games, tarnishing what we once had there.