Chapter 11 Olivia #2
I smile at his antics, attempting to shake off the tension building in my muscles from the memories pouring through my mind.
Mack. He's here in front of me. Stoically standing in the middle of the room.
He's familiar. Yet, not. Same facial features. Minus the now permanent scowl etched onto his face. I guess that’s what being a murderer does to you.
"Yeah," I offer Simon a grin, toasting my margarita to him. "It's a blast." I lie through my damn teeth. But Simon doesn’t need to know this is like tying me to a damn chair and waterboarding me for four hours until I break. Been there, done that. Didn’t let any information spill.
So, I fake it til I make it. That’s the motto, right? Pretend that I love standing in the house of my former friends who killed me and left me for dead. Yup. Good times.
"See! I told you, roomie! Stick with me and we'll have an entire year of this!" He grins, hoisting his drink in the air. "To us and to this damn party."
"Here, here," I agree with a smile, trying not to let my sour mood take over my expression. At one point in my life, I was told my face shows every emotion I feel. Well, thanks to dear old Dad, he beat that trait out of me.
Now, I’m a stoic statue, smiling through the worst pain of my life.
"There will be a fight Friday. Sign up to fight each other then,” Mack grunts, pointing toward the door. "Now, get the fuck out until after that." The men don't question him as they shoulder check people through the crowd and march out the front door.
"Ten bucks says those two throw punches on the lawn," Simon chuckles, leaning his head back against the wall. His glazed eyes take in the crowds of the party, sighing when he spots someone, but quickly looks away.
"Does that happen a lot?" I ask, discreetly watching Mack from beneath my lashes.
“All the time,” Simon chortles.
A hurricane of emotions flutters through me, like a tidal wave slamming on the shores after high winds. Seeing Mack so close up has me wanting to retreat to the hills. Is my disguise good enough to conceal my identity from him?
I hold my breath when Mack scans the crowd, moving his gaze right over me, onto Simon, and finally, he looks away when JJ enters the room.
My stomach swoops, bottoming out. I thought seeing them from far away was bad enough. Now, they are a mere ten steps away, taking up space in this fucking house and infecting the air around them.
I swallow the lump in my throat as I watch the two of them discuss something. It's so strange to see the objects of my hatred living and breathing. But yet, staring at them, I don't feel hate.
It's rage. Betrayal. Heartache. Every emotion in between.
It all boils inside me. To the point I don't want to be here anymore. I want to give the job to someone else and let them figure out how to get close to them.
How can Jonathan expect me to lift my chin and take this like a damn man? I can't.
I rub over my aching chest, a mix between the binder digging into my ribs and the heartache continually festering inside me.
“Macklyn!” a very familiar feminine voice rings out, marching through the crowd with a grin splitting her lips. I physically cringe at the sight of her, refusing to fall into the nightmare she made my life in high school.
Newsflash–it was fucking hell.
Amanda is still the same Barbie doll she was in high school, looking perfectly perfect in every way. Her long blonde hair sways with every step until she's standing in front of them with a saccharine smile.
Ugh. I think I’m going to vomit. I thought it was bad enough being in the boys’ presence. But her? She physically repulses me on so many levels.
“JJ,” she practically purrs, running a manicured nail down his chest.
Well, until JJ scowls and tosses her hand off him.
I lowkey want to clap my hands and cheer him on for sending her the look.
You know, the ‘if you touch me again, I’ll cut your fingers off’ look.
He does it so well, which isn’t like JJ at all.
He was always so quiet and reserved, taking in the world one sound at a time.
Obviously, that changed five years ago and even now.
“That's Amanda and her squad,” Simon whispers with a look of disgust, and I agree. Amanda isn’t just some random girl wandering the halls of Hux’s fraternity home.
She was once the bane of my existence. “They’re obsessed with the kings of G.U.
” Well, I see that hasn’t changed since high school.
Ugh. “They stalk them everywhere, hoping for a bone or something. One of them might be in an arranged kind of deal with one of them. I don’t knowwww,” he trails off, looking down at his glass with a soft whine and leaving me reeling from the new information.
Arranged marriage? That sounds awfully familiar.
Especially in the world of the mob. “Damn, I need another margarita.” He grabs my wrist and pulls me forward through the crowd. Not giving me the chance to say no.
“You will marry him whether you fucking like it or not.” My father drunkenly sways before me as I rest on my mattress. His spittle flies with every furious word he growls.
I know I should keep my mouth shut. But how’s that phrase go?
People don’t remember the good girls who follow the rules.
They remember the rebels who stick up for themselves.
And I’m determined to be that. Someone has to set a good example for my sister Sophia, and it won’t be either of my parents.
Mom's a doormat, too afraid to stand up to him. And Dad’s an abusive prick.
“He’s like fifty,” I huff, crossing my arms over my chest.
Mistake number one.
I don’t see the backhand coming, but I sure feel it the moment it connects with my cheek, and I land on my side. But who am I kidding? I should expect that kind of treatment by now. He treats me like the dog who shit on his shoe, and the golden boy gets taken everywhere like a king.
I resent that little fucker. Not that I want my dad’s attention. I don’t. But it would be nice to know what it’s like to have a good father who participates in my life. Instead, I’m just the daughter he never wanted. Same with Sophia, my sister. We’re girls. Useless to him.
How barbaric is that?
“Doesn’t fucking matter. He wants you. You will want him.
Now be an obedient bitch and prepare yourself.
The wedding is set for after you graduate college.
Be glad he’s even giving you an education.
” He leans in over me, hovering above my face with a snarl.
“Don’t make me completely get rid of you before then.
Be fucking good and obey the rules.” He spits on me before turning on his heel and marching out of my room.
My door slams, and the lock on the outside clicks into place.
I sigh, turning toward my barred windows.
It’s only three in the afternoon. That lock won’t come off until morning.
No food. No drinks. Just me and my imagination, considering my father took everything of value away from me.
It’s a good thing I snuck a cellphone–thank you, JJ–into my room and left it in case of emergencies.
The joke was on him, though. Not only did I take care of that before he could ever marry me off to some fifty-year-old creep eager to bed me, but I died before the wedding could come to fruition.
Obviously, the bastard didn’t care enough because he fled like the pussy he was and started a new life.
Or, hopefully, Raphael Viotto rolled over and died of alcohol poisoning like he deserved.
Actually, that’s too easy a death. I hope Franco caught him and burned him alive like we had to endure.
Two more girls show up behind Amanda with smirks on their lips and drinks in their hands.
I don’t recognize them. They aren’t the same squad she had in high school.
These must be her upgraded besties, far away from Chrissy and Stacy.
Hurray for me. At least this time, I’m not someone they can stomp all over.
I’ve grown a backbone. Oh, and I’m not a chick in their eyes. So, that’s a perk.
As I watch the three girls circle around JJ and Mack like sharks drooling and begging for a bite, I take notice of all the girls in the room.
They stare at the guys with moons in their eyes.
Like they’re the answer to world hunger.
Or their hunger, more like it. JJ and Mack are their tickets to…
Well, I’m not sure what they think. Sure, they have connections to the mob and the mafia, but that gives you nothing but death and destruction.
They must be thinking about all the Hollywood movies they’ve seen about rich mobsters and expensive cars.
Sorry, ladies. That’s not a real perk here.
“Margaritas!” Simon sings when he pulls me into the empty kitchen and beelines toward the margarita machine on the counter.
It looks so similar to the one Mack constantly used back in the day; I’m convinced he took it for this house.
But why? Wouldn’t he want to throw that memory away and never look at it again?
I know I do. A mental image of me throwing the margarita machine out the window and watching it die a sad death comes to mind.
But what am I saying? That’s blasphemy. It gives delicious drinks. No matter who the dickbag owner is.
Simon quickly fills our glasses again to the brim, sloshing the red, iced liquid around. Mmmmm. Strawberry. Like an orgasm in my mouth, temporarily relieving me of the pain in my chest from being here.
“Cheers to you, roomie,” Simon slurs, clinking his glass against mine.
“Cheers,” I say with a tight smile. “How many of these have you had?” I eye him suspiciously. He had one with me, and he’s already slurring his words and wavering on his feet. Not to mention, the glossy eyes and crooked smile.
Simon is toasted.