. . .
Olivia Woods
I initially thought going out on dinner would him would somehow make the heartbreak better - I'd see how mad he was and then I'd feel a bit better for my decision.
I didn't expect him to look at me with longing in his eyes.
Alisa Sokolov was smoking on my couch, eyes on Ivan. Zavier had called pretty much right when Alisa came over. Alisa said I could go if I wanted to because Ivan and she had a lot of things to talk about.
Now that I was back, I didn't know how to talk to her.
I sat down on a chair, still in my dress. "Did you order food?" I asked her.
"Ivan did. And then he refused to share." Her voice was heavy with a Russian accent. The Brooklyn accent she used to have before wasn't there, at all.
Ivan had left me alone with Zavier. The dinner had stretched over an hour. The half-hour thing had been bullshit from the start.
I took out my phone. "I'll order something for you. Chinese?"
"You know what I like."
I paused. I did know what she liked.
I ordered, a little bit for myself too because I always got hungry in the middle of the night, and then set my phone down.
Now her focus was on me. Alisa was dressed in an all-black outfit, her eyes lined with thick eyeliner and bright blue eyes bright. She tapped her white nails on the armrest. "Are you not going to ask me what I'm doing here?"
"I thought you wanted to talk to Ivan."
"No," she said instantly. "Toddlers are better at making a conversation than him. I am in Paris to hunt someone down. I knew you were here. I thought you'd like a little visit."
"You're hunting someone?"
"I'm an assassin."
Wow.
Where was the Georgia who worked in a shitty diner?
Nowhere. She was nowhere, except my mind, perhaps.
She leaned forward, putting her elbows on her knees. Ivan walked closer to me. She smirked at that but didn't take her eyes off me. "How have you been?"
"Okay," I said. Lying, of course. I couldn't be in a worse place mentally. "What about you?"
"I'm alright."
"That's good."
"Da."
This was awkward. I wished that Daisy was here. I ran my hand on the hem of my dress, spotting a mistake in tailoring. You can't do one thing right. "I never really thanked you, did I?"
"I didn't do it for you."
"No?"
"I did it for myself. I'd be pretty sad if you died."
"So you saved me so that you wouldn't have to be sad?"
"Exactly." She leaned back into the couch, putting her ankle on the knee of her other leg. Her heels glittered. "Do you live alone?"
"I love with a friend."
"Who?"
"Someone."
She smiled. "Am I replaced?"
"I don't know. I don't think she is an undercover spy."
"It's always the ones you trust."
"I know that."
"You're salty about it."
"You're covered in scars because of me."
"I don't care."
"I do."
"You care too much."
"You care too little."
"Because I don't have time to cry about everything."
I just stared.
She paused, face softening. "Fucking hell." She ran a hand through her blonde hair.
There was a knock on the door. I stood up, but of course, Ivan was there to take it before I could. I didn't even know how it felt like to open the door for someone anymore.
He came back with the food. I brought some plates for her. "I'll be in my room."
"Livy - wait-"
I closed the door as I entered my room. "I'll be out in half an hour. I just need to calm down." I didn't want to cry in front of her. And Ivan.
"Oh...okay. I'm sorry."
"Okay."
I slid down, sitting on the ground. I don't have time to cry about everything.
I wish I had a handle on my emotions as she did. But I didn't. I felt too much.
Weak.
That word came into my mind again. I wasn't surprised. I had a whole cycle of self-loathing now. I had lost count of how many times I had wanted to call one of them mid-sobs. But I wanted them to move on. And hearing me cry wasn't going to allow that.
They deserved so much. Especially after all the shitty things that had happened to them. I wasn't blind anymore. I knew they weren't good people. But I just couldn't care about that.
I wiped the tear from the side of my face, wondering when I became this sensitive. I had gone numb after dad was thrown into prison. Eventually, I got my emotions back. But this time they were too much.
As if I had been repressing things. Maybe I had.
Getting bullied was awful. Shaking while leaving your house, lowering your head when you walk in the hallways, almost running out of the school as soon as it was done...it was awful.
And three of the people who made it hell...had been with them.
They were the beautiful, mean girls of my school. I couldn't even blame the Creeds for wanting them, even for just one night.
They looked different than me. All of them were tall and confident. I could imagine them liking confident women.
I squeezed my eyes shut as the videos flashed in my mind again.
It doesn't matter anymore. They aren't yours anymore.
They weren't.
But I was sure I'd always be theirs.
. . .
Alisa and I eventually ended up talking normally, as we used to do back when she was Georgie.
"Break up," she muttered. "I honestly never thought they'd let you go."
"You're the third person to say something like that."
"Good to know you have smart people around you." She took a sip of the flavored vodka we had and made a face. "What shit is this?"
"Vodka."
"That's a lie."
"It literally is vodka. It's just.. flavored. Raspberries."
"That's a crime."
"Says the assassin."
She smirked. "Chicks find it hot."
"I'm sure they do," I said dryly. I picked up a shot and gulped it down, slamming the tiny thing back on the island.
She raised her neatly done eyebrows at me. "Since when do you drink like this?"
"You've been gone for a while."
"A few months."
"Felt like years."
"...Same." She took a shot. "Fucking Raspberries."
I giggled, sitting down on the stool.
Daisy returned home and Alisa and Daisy got along... well.
A little too well.
I watched as Daisy showed Alisa some of her photographs. But Alisa's eyes were fixed on Daisy's face.
"Do you like this one?" Daisy asked.
"Beautiful," Alisa muttered, eyes lingering on the tiny sunflowers made on Daisy's cheeks. She glanced at me. I raised my eyebrows. She smirked.
I shook my head and took another shot.
. . .
"Stay still," I said to Declan and I tried to fix his collar. "Does it feel like it's choking you?" I asked, a bit loudly. Backstage was loud. And this was the fashion show of the winter. Arnaud didn't really do fashion shows regularly.
Declan was closing. And this collar was bothering me to no end. It didn't look right. I was going to lose my mind.
"Yes," he said.
"Can you walk like this?"
"...yes?"
"You don't sound confident."
"You look seconds away from tears."
I raised my hand, letting him look at my palm. "Had a bit of an...accident with the sewing machine."
He stared at it. "Olivia - what the fuck?" He took my hand in his gloved ones gently. "Did you fucking sew-"
"You're making it sounds like I did that knowingly-"
"You don't make stupid mistakes-"
"Oh, that's not true-"
"It is," he insisted, looking down at me. "This isn't healthy, Olivia. You're too distracted. Now, it's dangerous."
"For someone who can't breathe, you can sure say a lot."
His eyes narrowed. The backstage darkened, and that told me the show was about to start.
"Go to the line. You can be mad at me later."
I took my hand away from his and gasped.
There was blood on his pearly white glove.
Oh no. Oh no. Oh no.
I took a step back.
And suddenly Carrie was there. "Why do you look like-" her eyes fell on the glove. "No. No. This is not gonna do, at all."
"I-I'm so sorry-"
"Don't be sorry. Go mix red acrylic with some medium. A lot of it, yes? Make it look like your blood."
I did as she told me instantly. I was dying inside. She took the plastic bowls I had mixed it in. I mixed a lot.
Declan and I gasped in horror as she splashed the red on the first model's clothes, then the next, then the next...till all of them had a dark splash of red on their white and black outfits. The first one had the most and the last the least.
She handed the bowls back to me. "Good color matching."
"Some it might be my own blood."
She looked down at my hand. "Tell me there is at least no thread in it."
"I pulled it out. It wasn't much. Just...deep."
She stared at me and then took out a handkerchief from her purse. She wrapped it around my palm. "I assume it will be pointless to ask you to leave right now."
"I am actually ready to run away after running your show."
"Oh, darling." She smiled, just as the first model walked out and audible gasps were heard. "Mistakes make masterpieces."
. . .
Thots?
Feelings?
Bad words that come to mind?
Hotel?
Okay so something I think I need to be clear about is that...it's true, yes, I write a lot of seggsy stuff. But the placement of smut is so important. I've left books even if they had good smut because I didn't like how everything paused for it.
Now, I know my audience. Y'all want smut all the time. But I know all of you (or most) do like a plot. And, as an author, the plot keeps me writing. Yes, I enjoy writing smut. But the essence of a story is in romanticism. Not only the seggsy kind.
I do hope you understand what I mean.
Why do I write sexy as seggsy when I literally use the filthiest words in my books? I don't know.
Bie bie
Btw his name is Baby Bob. He has a pdh in philosophy. He parties hard but doesn't drink for some reason. He is cool to be friend with but has humour as a defence mechanism. Which doesn't always works so he shuts people out and disappears for months.
(Yes I created a whole character. I'll maybe add tales of Baby Bob to every A/N. Y'all can skip it tho. It'll be weird. )