The Black Rose

Entry 20

Knock. Knock. Knock.

I awoke with a start. Jolting upwards, I glanced around frantically. "It was just a nightmare," I uttered. A tortuous nightmare that had become my sleep regimen.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

"What the?" I exhaled as the banging continued. Whoever that was had a death wish.

Rising unceremoniously, I trudged down the stairs to the sunlit living room. Who could be banging on my door at this hour? I had been in this city less than ten hours.

I grabbed a kitchen knife, ready to stab the perpetrator's eyes out, I opened the front door. My hair askew, brows furrowed, robe ajar, "Yes?" I breathed exasperated.

"Well, good morning to you," a seemingly familiar face greeted me.

"I'm Damien," he announced waltzing into my home.

My hand loosened slightly over the knife's handle.

"You can put that away, Olivia, or should I call you Alexandra?" He grinned, his lips curling a little too excitedly.

"What time is it?" I demanded.

"It's nine, o clock, way pastime for you to be awake," he chuckled sarcastically. My blood boiled. Did he not know who I was? Of course, he didn't, why would they tell him anything?

I ignored his spunky attitude.

"I got you a coffee and a muffin," he offered, placing them on the kitchen counter.

"It's Alex," I sassed like a child who was in desperate need of a nap.

"It seems someone has woken up on the wrong side of the bed, Alex," he corrected, his brow rising. "How about you get dressed, and then we can attempt this conversation again?"

I glared at him, silent daggers moving from my eyes to his eyeballs. I clenched the kitchen knife with my fist. Without saying a word, I grabbed the muffin bag and coffee. "Not so fast," he blurted, extending his hand out.

I reluctantly relinquished the knife, but kept the bag and pounded my way back up the stairs.

I shoveled the sugary puff into my mouth and chugged the coffee. I didn't need to be a lady here. My mouth stuffed to the brim with a blueberry muffin, I moved to the nightstand and let three pills tumble into my hand. My saviors.

Moving to the dresser, I grabbed a pair of matching underwear and bra. To the closet, I threw on the first pair of pants I could find, which happened to be a pair of white-washed denim overalls, the label ripped out. I picked a rust orange half-shirt off the hanger and dressed. This is what a cool analyst from L.A. would surely wear. I finished the outfit with a pair of dangling rose gold bracelets and cute rose gold flats.

Moving to the bathroom I splashed water over my sleepy face and combed through my hair. I pulled it back in its comfortable, slightly disheveled bun. Last thing. I opened the nightstand drawer, empty. I opened the other drawer, also empty. My eyes scanned the room looking for—

My eyes hit the painting. Could there be? I moved to the girl hanging on the wall and gently pulled the frame from the wall. Like a door, it swung open. Sure enough, there was a safe behind it. I placed my thumb to the scanner and to my chagrin, it opened. Inside was a stack of cash, two passports with various aliases, as well as a knife, cleaning supplies, two wigs, black, yellow, and orange pills, and most importantly a gun. I grabbed the knife. A gun was too obvious.

I shoved the knife in one of the smaller pockets of my overalls and skipped down the steps, the sugar and caffeine providing the perk I needed to tolerate my new forced acquaintance.