11. Olivia
Olivia
I stink. I can feel it seeping through the sheets and straight into my nose.
Ugh. If I ignore it a little longer, will it magically go away?
Yeah, probably not. It’s wishful thinking.
I wanted to become one with my mattress while drinking myself silly and forgetting my problems. Is that too much to ask?
I lift my arm, regretting the decision immediately. I recoil, wrinkling my nose and eyeing the offending underarm. I’m a walking, talking billboard for foul body odor. And I do mean foul and ripe as hell. I nearly gag. This is disgusting.
Like a real man, I guess. It’s all part of my disguise—that’s what I’d tell Jonathan if he asked what I’ve been doing the past three days. But has he? Absolutely not. All I’ve heard from him is silence. No, how are you doing, Liv? No, are you still alive, Liv?
Does he even care that he sent me to my death?
Because that’s precisely what he did by sending me back here after JJ found out who I was.
And for that, I’ve hidden deep under my comforter, staring at my door with impending doom ticking away inside my brain.
Well, and drinking some hard liquor hasn’t done me any favors, either.
Ugh.
Is this what three days of bed-rotting smells and feels like?
Yes, yes it does. I haven’t done this since I was a teenager stuck in my room with nothing to do before the boys broke through the bars my father put on my windows.
God, what a miracle that was. My father may have lessened the physical abuse he forced me to endure, but the psychological warfare he introduced by isolating me from everyone was way worse.
Oh, and look at what I’m doing to myself now. Dad would be so damn proud.
Ugh. I run a hand down my face.
“Knock, knock, roomie! I’ve come with delicious gifts of soup and crackers!” Simon’s voice rings through the door.
Simon. What a Godsend. He’s been the best caregiver I could have asked for.
Tell the man you have the flu, and he immediately runs to the corner store to grab medicine, soup, and loads of crackers.
Today? He chose a small café off campus with killer toasted sandwiches, homemade soup, and ginger ale.
Although I do feel a little guilty for lying to him, it’s not exactly the flu.
My body still aches from the fight against Brutus.
Hello, bruised face and ribs. And my period is still trying to murder me.
Well, not as much. It’s tapering off and giving me a little peace.
Thank God. That’s one less thing I have to worry about concealing while I’m here.
It’s already been hard enough hiding tampons in the trash without the two other men here noticing.
How is this my life again?
“Coming!” I rasp out and throw the blanket off my legs reluctantly.
Every time I peel myself away from my bed, the reality of my situation pushes harder on my shoulders. I’m surprised I haven’t fallen over from it. I haven’t physically seen JJ since that moment three days ago.
It doesn’t mean I haven’t heard from him, though. He’s like a persistent tick on my ass, constantly poking at me through text messages. If I thought the one threatening message three days ago was all I’d get, I was wrong.
JJ: You’re avoiding me…
JJ: Where are you? We need to have a long conversation, Spitfire.
JJ: We need to discuss the treehouse…and the gravestone…
Spitfire. There it is. That name that will forever haunt me every time I close my eyes.
It’s not the messages hovering over me like a ghost. It’s the memories, too.
From the past and present. The way he looked at me.
The surprise in his eyes and the tears threatening to seep out when he saw me as Oliver.
I can’t erase it. He’s there every time I close my eyes.
I know I need to be a big girl and confront him once and for all.
They’d never see me coming. Right? I took out Brutus.
Who is to say I can’t take out all three of them now?
Before I died, I was a weak little girl, used to submitting to her father.
I found light and love with the boys, but I was still small and couldn’t stand up for myself.
I’m a different Olivia now. Badass. Or that’s what I like to tell myself.
The biggest question I have for JJ is: has he told the others about me?
Because I’m not sure. I expected more by now.
More fights. More violence. I mean, I’ve been a sitting duck for three days straight.
So, they’re either waiting me out to strike me down, or—and this is a big or—JJ hasn’t said anything.
Weird, right? Why wouldn’t he burst into the mansion dramatically, yelling that I’m alive and they need to grab more weapons to subdue me?
Well, no need to subdue me, boys. I’m doing a fine job of that myself.
I’m primed and ready for the taking. AKA the second death that feels imminent.
Fuck.
I peer at the empty fifth of Jack Daniel’s resting on my desk.
Did I drink an entire fifth of shitty-tasting whiskey I don’t even like in three days to numb the constant pain gnawing at me?
Yes. I made a choice—an unhealthy one to cope with all the fuckery happening around me.
Yes, it took my pain away, but gave me a hangover from hell.
Enter Simon with my delicious-smelling soup.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I gingerly climb to my feet with shaky legs. Damn. Lying in bed for so many days straight hasn’t been good for my body. I’ll have to get myself back into shape. These past few weeks as a college student haven’t done me any favors.
My phone beeps again on my desk, but I ignore it for now. I know exactly who it is. JJ. Another pleading message for me to answer him.
But I can’t. I can hardly bring myself to read his messages right now without the crushing feeling of the world ending in a fiery doom around me. Let alone leave my room and face them all.
I’m such a coward.
Slowly, I open my bedroom door a crack and peek out.
“Oh, Oli.” Simon grimaces, shrinking back.
“Here’s your soup and crackers. I even threw in a fancy avocado and chicken sandwich.
” He pushes the bags forward until I take them.
“Hopefully, these will have you feeling tip-top in no time.” He offers me a pained smile, taking another step away from me.
“Don’t want to get the germs,” he says softly, rustling the bags for me to take.
“I appreciate it, Si,” I whisper and fake a cough into my shoulder, really trying to sell the ailment I don’t have. “This flu is kicking my ass.” Simon takes another step back and nods in agreement.
His hands immediately go on the defensive. “Yeah, you still don’t look so good. You know, there’s a secret doctor on campus who could probably take a look at you.”
Wade huffs behind him, coming into view and staring me down. “You look like you could use a doctor, dude.” His nose wrinkles at the sight of my hair standing on end. “And a shower.”
“Rude!” Simon hisses, pushing Wade away slightly. “He’s been sick!” Simon throws his hands all around.
“What? I’m telling the truth, dude. Oli, man.
No offense.” He shrugs before trotting off into the mini kitchen and grabbing a can of Lysol from under the sink.
“Just as a precaution.” Thick sprays of Lysol beam in the sunshine streaming through the small living quarters’ windows, killing all the non-existent germs.
Simon rolls his eyes dramatically. “Sorry about him, Oli. He’s sort of a germaphobe when it comes to illnesses. It’s probably why he prefers to spend time with the dogs!” he sarcastically shouts over his shoulder.
Wade shakes his head as he continues to dump lemony Lysol into the room. “Yeah? Well, the dogs don’t talk back. Well, some of them,” he snorts, sucking in a deep breath. “See? No more germs. Now, it’s your room’s turn.” He gestures to the can and sets it on the counter. “Later?”
I nod, biting my lip when Simon huffs at his antics again. “Ignore him. Seriously. Eat your soup and get better, yeah?” Simon winks, grabbing his phone from his pocket. “Besides, I need you better; we have tons of parties to attend, and maybe an initiation to get into?” He wiggles his brows.
“How do we know if we’ve gotten into that?” I blurt hurriedly.
On a list of things I’ve done since I got to Greenwood—I forgot I applied to be in my ex-murderer’s frat. Fuck me running. How will that go? I’m sure swimmingly.
Simon cocks his head. “Well, I’m not sure.
It’s all very hush-hush.” He touches a finger to his lips.
“But if there’s anything I can do, it’s find out anything and everything.
” He grins. “Now, eat your damn soup and get better.” He turns on his heels and marches to the shared living space, plopping on the couch.
I sigh, shutting and locking my door. I make my way back to my bed with my bags in hand and sit on the edge. The aromas coming from these bags smell heavenly, and I know I’m going to devour every single bite.
As I’m about to scoop a mouthful of soup into my mouth, my phone beeps again.
“Damn it, JJ,” I grumble, carefully grabbing my phone and opening it. My stomach falls when I read the email that came through.
Oliver Davenport. Please report to Dr. Temperance Moreau’s office tomorrow at 9:00 a.m. for your mandatory advisory meetings. We have many things to discuss, including your failing grades and multiple absences.
I blink several times and reread the email. Failing grades? There’s no way in hell I’m failing anything. The year has barely begun, and my only grades are from pop quizzes and homework, which I’ve aced. I mean, I’ve taken these classes before in online school.
How the hell?
My face screws up when I log in to my online portal to access my classes and grades, and I nearly choke on my soup.
All failing grades? Every. Single Class?
What the fuck is happening? There’s no way this can be real. I can’t be failing. If I fail my classes, then my scholarship gets ripped out from under me, and I won’t be able to attend.
On second thought…
I take a bite of soup and contemplate my options. Oh, sorry, Jonathan. My mission failed because you put me here on a scholarship that depended on my grades—giving me no time to focus on my mission and the murders happening around town.
What a shame.
But then again, I do want to get to the bottom of the people disappearing and showing up with their guts removed.
Ugh. Images of Dane pop into my mind. Whoever uploaded those to the SlamApp should burn in hell.
Thankfully, they were taken down within hours of being posted.
So, there’s some sort of moderator keeping an eye on things.
After eating my soup and my amazing chicken-and-avocado sandwich, I decide to become a person again. So, I shower and clean myself up.
I’m a real human now! I think as I stare in the mirror and note that my shaggy hair has already grown out a little.
I may have to get a real haircut to keep this disguise going.
Whatever. I quickly dress, forcing myself into my binder, which I’m thankfully getting used to.
It’s still snug against my aching ribs, but everything seems to be getting better.
Agent Seven: Seems I’m failing classes, and they’re going to be threatening my scholarship. Might need a little backup.
Agent Zero: I will look into it. Do you think someone tampered with it?
Well, me being me—I didn’t even think about that.
I mean, who would have the skills to hack into the school’s system and set me up for failure?
Carter? Nah. Why would he touch my grades?
I mean, he’s an asshole, but he wouldn’t set me up.
Okay, maybe he would for fun. He’s the first person who crosses my mind other than JJ.
But… Is JJ that good at hacking? I shake my head. I have no damn clue.
Agent Seven: No clue.
Agent Zero: Stand by, I’ll have Dave investigate it.
Fucking Dave. He’s useless. He failed to cover my tracks in my records, letting JJ discover my shoddy files, and now he’s going to have the skills to track whoever did this? Yeah, right.
For the rest of the day, I avoid Simon and Wade again. I opt to stay in my room and clean up the mess I’ve made over the past few days. I’m not technically ready to step outside this room and face my newest reality.
But my hands are tied.
And I’ve been summoned to the academic advisor. I have to show up. Jonathan would have my ass if I purposely got kicked out of Greenwood for something as trivial as low grades. So, I pull up my big girl panties—or should I say, boxers— and face everything head-on.
I’m on a mission, anyway. There are people in this town who need help, and that’s what I’m here for. Being a secret agent is more than solving cases; it’s helping the people who genuinely need a helping hand.
So, that’s what I’m here for. No more pity parties. No more drowning my feelings in booze. Okay, not as much booze. I’ll still need a shoulder to cry on to numb the anxiety jetting through my veins.
I’m going to face my murderers head-on. Show them I’m not scared. Even though I’m fucking terrified to look them in the eyes and have them know it’s me.
It’s now or never.