Page 45 of Faux Real
“Yes, Kennedy, I’m sure,” he laughs. “You are stoned out of your mind.”
“Shit, hey?” I muse, nodding my head, my mind a bit hazy, dull, but at the same time vivid and clear. “Huh, so this is weed...interesting. I thought it would be a little more intense.”
“Were you expecting to have a sudden urge to commit mass murder or something?” Oliver teases. “Jump out a window?”
“Ha ha.” I roll my eyes and playfully shove him as a shiver seizes my body. “I don’t know what I was expecting, not this though.”
Oliver’s eyes narrow in on my bare arms. “You’re cold,” he observes. “You have goosebumps.”
Shit, he’s going to make us go inside. “No, I’m not,” I peep. “That’s just uh—my natural skin texture.”
“Right,” Oliver sighs, shaking off his jacket and tossing it on my lap. “Here. Take it.”
“Aren’tyougoing to be cold then?” I ask quietly, stroking the leather fabric, a slight flutter in my chest. Does weed give you heart palpitations? Is that a side effect? I’ll have to Google later.
“I was born for a Siberian climate, remember?” he says casually. “Put it on. If you get sick,surelyyou’ll blame me for missing classes and that will be amajornuisance.”
“Okay,” I say quietly, slipping on his jacket, an aromatic cocktail of spices and woodsy notes filling my lungs.Mmm. It smells good. Like a cozy winter’s day. Like—I shake my head, turning to face Oliver. Nope. Just a jacket. “So? Umm...how does it look?”
Oliver nods, his tongue on the fringe of his lips. “A bit big,” he whispers, flipping out the collar for me, his grey eyes studying me. “But you pull it off quite nicely.”
“Yeah? Do I look like a bad biker chick?” I ask, holding up my fists and punching the air in tiny motions. “Like I could beat some bitches up?”
He snorts, shifting closer to me. “Are there bitches you’d like to beat up?”
“A few,” I admit, leaning back against the brick wall, sucking in a deep breath. “That is, if I could do it and not suffer the consequences of my brutish actions.”
“Like Corrine?” Oliver asks as we both stare out into the still pool, the moonlight reflecting off its surface.
“She’s up there,” I hum, fiddling with the zipper of his jacket, attempting to create a beat with each movement. “Next to Maya, Larisa, Sawyer, Zeek, my mom, my dad. The list goes on.”
“Long list,” Oliver notes, taking a sip of Jameson. “I have a list too.”
I let out a soft chuckle. “Maybe we can pull aHorrible Bosses,” I suggest. “You take care of my list, I’ll take care of yours.”
“We can’t,” Oliver says, passing me the flask. “We’re too close in association, it would never work. Perhaps we hire a hitman, wire the funds through an offshore account.”
“A hitman just for a light beating? Seems excessive.” I snort. “But I’m open to the idea.”
“Excellent,” he says, turning his head toward me, his features softened. “I’ll search for one on the dark web later this weekend. We’ll split the fee fifty-fifty.”
“Deal,” I smile, rubbing my hands together. “But if I get caught, I’m taking you down with me. I will sing like a canary, maybe even plead temporary insanity or something.”
“Seeing as you’re completely mental, I think that defense would work wonderfully,” he smirks. “You could even call me up as an expert witness. I’ll give you a raving testimony.”
I roll my eyes, resting my cheek on the flat of my bended knees. “Thanks,” I breathe, a smile clipping my lips, a sense of calm relaxation spreading through my limbs. “I appreciate it.”
“Of course,” he says, his gaze flickering across my features as he lifts his hand toward my face.What is he doing?Hesitating for a brief second, he sweeps away a strand of hair that’s trapped between my eyelashes, his fingers grazing my cheek as he retreats. “You had a little something—”
“Oh.” I push my hair fully out of my face, my breathing shallow, uneven. “Better?”
“Yeah.” Ollie nods, clearing his throat as he shifts uncomfortably like he’s sitting on a rock. “Are you uh—warmer now?”
“Mhmm,” I hum, my face burning up where our skin met, my mouth suddenly very dry. “Really warm.”
“Good,” he says in a hoarse tone before his head snaps toward the yelling coming from the French doors that lead into the yard.
Oh shit.
