Alive

Chapter 19

Oliver

(Wednesday, May 15)

I think I'm in a movie. A weird science fiction movie that I definitely don't belong in. I'm more about the action. Car chases, stunts, shit like that. But limping through the halls after Dr. Douchebag, listening to his nerdy rants, this is the kind of stuff I fast forward. The porn nurse tried to get me into a wheelchair, but that wasn't about to happen. I think I'd choose to walk even if the bone were broken.

I'm thinking we're just heading for another room, but the doctor doesn't stop. He continues toward the back of the building, and the moment we step out into the alley, he finally shuts up. Which is about the only thing I'm grateful for right now. There's a black car running, the back door open with some kind of chauffeur holding it open. I mean, what else am I gonna call him? He's wearing black pants with a white dress shirt, complete with a charcoal vest and navy tie. His hair is slicked back, and he's wearing a pair of glasses. It's weird as shit, though. If I'm not mistaken, the guy's younger than me. I don't know what to think as Dr. Tener motions toward the seat. He probably explained it on the way out, and I just ignored him. That's the problem with long dismal monologues. There's usually important details somewhere along the way.

I don't want to look like the moron I am, so I pretend like I know exactly what's going on. Fuck, I pretend I'm the one who called the car. Planned the whole thing. I slip in, buckle up like my leg isn't seizing up, and my chest doesn't feel like a million bricks fell on top of it earlier. I mean, I've already signed the contract. So the best I can do is roll with the punches. Or in this case, I guess, the fine print. But when the doctor opens his mouth, I force myself to listen. Hope the next time I won't have to bullshit the attitude.

"Get comfortable," he says, his eyes trailing after the driver as he makes his way to the front. Then he leans back, folding his arms. "It's a long drive."

Fuck I want to ask questions. It's almost worth it, but I don't. I don't know what kind of competition I think is going on here. But there definitely is one, and signing the contract put me at a clear disadvantage. A battle of wits, maybe? Nah, I think it's dumber. Something like who can look the coolest. I've got a couple badass wounds working in my favor. But he's got the fitted suit and calm demeanor. I glance over my clothes and consider giving up on the whole thing. Elle's sweats. Couldn't this have waited until after my package arrived? Son of a bitch.

I'll just have to break him down. Ask him questions, figure out his weakness. Bonus points if he cries.

"So," I say, spreading my legs apart. I try not to wince as I rest my right ankle over my left knee. Invade his space, just a little. "How long have you been working here, Kirk?"

He clears his throat, shifting a little toward the door. A point for me.

"A while," he says. But he's nervous enough to put a smirk on my face. Just a quick one, before I morph it into a look of interest. You gotta play innocent before you play dirty.

"Ten years?" I ask. "Twenty?"

Oh the victory of a facial twitch. It's so small, but I didn't miss it.

"A while," he says again. It's funny that I'm actually getting to him. I mean, the guy can't be more than thirty. I doubt he'd have been here since he was ten. But I pretend that's not obvious, keep the momentum going.

"But you're the head of this project," I say. "Right?"

He's staring really hard at the seat in front of him.

"We all have our roles to fill," he says. Which throws the balance off a bit. Because that's a pretty fucking awesome thing to say. Nice one, Kirk. Vague and cool. I'll give him a point.