Chapter 11 Olivia
I regret this decision.
Immediately.
Why did I allow Simon--someone I barely fucking know— to convince me to come to this party?
No is a one-word sentence, after all. I should have said—no, Simon, I'm going to freaking bed.
My tits hurt. My feet hurt. And I just want to pretend this entire adventure isn't happening.
I need some Liv-time, far away from Oliver.
But I couldn't. This is all a part of the job. I'm Oliver Davenport—party animal extraordinaire, ready to go out at a moment's notice so I can spy on my peers and befriend my ex-best friends.
Good times.
Damn. I really need a drink. Something to drown out the tension bubbling in my gut and threatening to spew out my mouth.
From the moment we walked through the door of the frat house, my senses were assaulted by the stench of horny, drunk people. Jordy would fit in perfectly with this crowd. Me, on the other hand? I'll have to suffer through this for the sake of my case.
With barely a foot in the door, we bumped into fifty people loudly chatting, dancing, and drinking their lives away. The entire first floor of the large, Victorian-style mansion was overfilled with rowdy college students.
“Welcome to Greenwood U!” Simon shouts above the music, throwing his fist in the air. He bobs to the loud music I don't recognize and grins. “Follow me!” He waves me on, and I follow without hesitation.
Where else would I go? Certainly not in the corner where two people have their tongues down each other's throats and their hands exploring everywhere.
Nope. That's their corner now and not my business.
People. God. They're everywhere. Touching each other. Laughing loudly over the music and drowning it out. Girls cheer "woohoo!" so loud, I think my eardrums might have blown out.
Yeah, this was not a good idea. Just give me a walker and call me grandma, because I'd rather be knitting a sweater than standing here in this frat house.
All I wanted was my warm blankets and a good night's sleep.
Instead, I get this loud and out-of-control party with my new roommate.
Who seems to have disappeared into the crowd and never returned.
I sigh from the corner of the room I've been awkwardly standing in since Simon left me with a promise of grabbing us drinks. I check my phone. It's been over fifteen minutes since he left me here. Did he get kidnapped? Lured away with the promise of booze and locked in a basement?
Fuck. My brain conjures nothing but terrible scenarios. All of which I've seen on the job. I'm sure he's fine. Maybe he met up with some friends, and now is the perfect time for me to run away and never look back.
But, ugh. Girl code. Or Bro code in this case.
I can't leave him behind at a damn party where anything could happen. Drugs in his drink? Kidnapping? A fire? Even if he's not a girl. He's still my party buddy, and I can't abandon him when he might need me.
Damn you, conscience. Why do you have to be so persistent?
I sigh, leaning against the wall in the far corner of the living room.
Or what resembles a living room. There's ratty furniture pushed to the edges of the room with patchwork and stains.
A large TV hangs on the wall above the brick fireplace, displaying a movie I don't recognize.
Lots of guns, explosions, and early 1920s gangsters run across the screen.
My eyes scan the multitude of flushed faces, catching up with their friends. Maybe I should look on the bright side. I'm here. Alive. And this gives me a glimpse of the people who attend GU.
Buck up, Liv. You got this. Totally got this.
“Margarita?” Simon sing-songs, slurring his words as he dances with one in each hand.
Now he's speaking my language.
Simon slowly swings his hips. A grin stretches across his lips, reaching his glazed-over eyes.
Holy shit. There’s no way in hell he could be this intoxicated already.
Right? We’ve barely had anything to drink.
Or I haven’t. He was gone for a suspiciously long time, which was okay for the job I’m on.
The more I can observe and report, the better off I’ll be.
But from my vantage point, it’s just a bunch of rich college kids drinking the night away.
Nothing nefarious.
Yet.
“Thanks,” I say over the noise, grabbing the margarita from him eagerly.
I shiver at the cold glass and slowly bring the concoction up to my lips.
As a rebellious teenager, I sipped margaritas while the guys drank beers or mixed drinks.
We always took them to the treehouse and sipped our booze while the world passed around us.
The treehouse, in the middle of the woods between our houses, was our home away from home.
A way to escape the mobster lifestyle our parents led.
In true Mack fashion, he always made these types of drinks for me. Using Franco’s stash, of course. No matter how often he got into trouble for it, which was a lot. Franco even resorted to locking up his favorite alcohol in a cabinet. But Mack still managed to get some, despite the consequences.
Just for me.
I hum into my glass, squeezing my eyes shut as the familiar taste hits my tongue, igniting something deep within me.
It’s like a taste of home. A memory mixed into the liquid for my brain to conjure and relive over and over again.
Like the night when I was sixteen and we were bored on summer break, hanging out in the treehouse.
"It's good, right?" Mack asks, grinning as he watches me sip his latest concoction with hope in his eyes.
This isn't the first or last time he attempts to find me something I'll like. We've gone through the list of mixed drinks, beers, and other assortments. Nothing tastes right.
But this? This delicious cold drink? It's perfect.
My eyes widen at the flavor as it hits my tongue. "Yes," I breathe, eager to take another sip. "What is it?"
Mack grins more, looking smug. "It's called a margarita. We now have a mixer in the kitchen. They had some left over from a party or some shit. It looked like something you might like." He blushes, quickly looking away.
Right. The party at Franco's. We all ducked out the moment the grown-ups decided to go into the basement of his mansion. We know what that means. They're going to talk mob business and probably do freaky stuff I don't want to think about.
"It's so fucking good," I whisper, putting a hand on his arm. "Mack, seriously! You finally found it." I grin when he perks up, smiling so wide I can't dispute the happiness flowing through me.
"Finally," Hux laughs, taking a swig of the beer he stole from the party. "I never thought we'd find you something you actually enjoyed, Trouble."
He’s not wrong. I hate beer. I usually hate mixed drinks of any sort. So, to finally have something that tastes semi-good and will get me drunk? Yes, please!
I stick my tongue out at him and finish the rest of my margarita quickly, begging for more.
"Anything for you, Livy," Mack chortles, climbing out of the treehouse through the trapdoor in the floor, clinging to my margarita glass. "I'll be back."
Fifteen minutes later, he came back with a small cooler full of beer and an entire pitcher of margarita mix, claiming he took the rest of it before anyone could drink my new favorite. We drank the night away, laughing and scheming on what we'd do the next day after we worked at the casino.
And nothing ever changed. I still hate the taste of beer on my tongue, no matter how many times I’ve had to fake liking it for my roles.
Me and beer? Yeah, we aren’t ever happening.
I prefer the ‘girly’ drinks, as Hux used to call them.
Something sweet and flavorful that makes me happy.
Or when I’m in a mood–straight bourbon or whiskey on the rocks to take the edge off.
The music from the party brings me back to the present, and my eyes widen at the chaos ensuing in front of me. A fight breaks out between two massive dudes. Blood spills. Noses crunch. And I cringe.
“Isaac! Isaac!” Half the crowd chants.
“Chance! Chance!” The other half chants louder and with more excitement in their tones.
More punches land. More blood spills onto the hardwood floors. Ouch. They’ll be feeling this fight for days.
"No fucking fighting in the house!" a gruff, familiar voice shouts over the music and marches into the room red-faced. He huffs several times, emerging through the circle of people that formed around the two fighters.
I’m in a time warp. Or that’s what it feels like watching someone I used to know with fury written on his face try to break the two up.
No one else steps in to help when he grabs the fighters by the fronts of their shirts and pushes them away from each other with a grunt.
They stumble over their feet, nearly falling on their asses, but stabilize.
Blood seeps from each of their noses and lips.
Isaac or Chance–I’m not positive on who–snarls at the other again, promising a world of hurt if he comes after him again.
"The only fights allowed are at the Coliseum." He crosses his muscular arms over his chest. "Not in my goddamn house."
It's odd having a deep-rooted memory of someone stuck in your mind for so many years and then finally seeing them in the flesh. I can't peel my eyes away from him as he scolds the massive dudes, growling at one another like they can't wait to get back to pummeling each other's faces in.
“Having fun yet?” Simon asks with a goofy grin, downing his margarita in one gulp. The immediate regret of his decision happens when he squeezes his eyes closed and his lips pop open. “Brain freeze,” he wheezes, holding a hand to his forehead. “But so worth it,” he sighs, peeling his eyes open.