Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 89074 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89074 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
I walk over toward the bookcases and give Oliver a smile. At first he looks past me, like he doesn’t expect that I could possibly be approaching him. But finally his eyes widen, and he runs a hand through his hair as I nod at him.
“Hey, Oliver. Come help me and my buddies with a bet,” I tell him.
He joins me as I return to Noah and Weston.
“Welcome, Oliver,” Noah says. “Champagne?”
“Sure,” he says with a shy smile. “What’s the bet, by the way?”
“Last year, we kept a tally up on the main board in the entryway,” I explain. “Every time somebody came home in the morning on a walk of shame, we added a tick to the board. Last year, Noah won.”
“Shut up,” Noah protests, but he’s grinning proudly a moment later.
“Some guys get around more than others,” I say. “Oliver, I want to know where you’re placing your bets this year. You’re new to Onyx, so going based on first impressions only, who do you think will have the most walks of shame this year?”
Oliver puffs out a laugh, scratching the back of his head. “I don’t know. I don’t want to assume anything—”
“No, no, assume away,” Weston says. “That’s what this is for.”
Oliver’s eyes scan the room, and he shrugs a few seconds later. “I don’t know, I guess that guy Hunter?”
“Oh yeah? Any reason why?” Noah prods.
“He just seems like the kind of guy who probably gets a lot of action,” Oliver says. “Show me a girl who wouldn’t fuck a guy who looks like that.”
Noah breaks out into laughter, and Weston looks like he wants to puke.
“Show me anyone on Earth who wouldn’t fuck you, Oliver,” Noah comments. “Do you actually do modeling, or do you just look like a walking Calvin Klein ad?”
I see a blush appear on each of Oliver’s cheeks, and he seems to struggle for words.
Noah and Weston start talking about their new best personal records for bench presses in the gym, but I’m still feeling like I need to reassure our youngest Onyx member.
“You ok?” I say in a low tone, leaning near Oliver’s ear.
“Good. Great, actually,” he tells me. “I’m just… not used to compliments.”
He pulls out his phone and holds it out for me to see. He flips through a few photos of a gangly, acne-covered teen with a bowl cut for hair.
“No way that was you.”
Oliver nods. “That’s classic Ollie, and it’s how I looked until I got a haircut.”
“That’s more than just a haircut, bro.”
“I also started putting in time working out. Joined the hockey team in high school, and in the summers, I was lifeguarding. Add in some dermatologist help for my face, and an unexpected growth spurt…”
“And you became a hunk.”
“I wouldn’t call it that,” he says, smiling a little as he scratches the back of his head. “Can I stop talking about myself, now?”
I’m starting to realize that Oliver isn’t always shy, but he’s definitely shy when he’s forced to talk about himself.
“You’re adorable, Ollie. Don’t hate on your younger self, either. You were cute, even then,” I assure him.
“I thought I’d always be the ugly duckling, if you want the truth. Got bullied sometimes. I think I still feel like that guy on the inside.”
Ollie looks strong but sweet, the kind of guy who must have been turning heads forever.
But he doesn’t see himself that way at all.
“Did I hear you say you played hockey?” Weston asks, turning back toward us. “As a football player, I have to ask. How the fuck do you do all that on skates?”
Oliver laughs, and already he seems like he’s more at ease. He’s chatting along with them soon after, and it turns out he’s not awkward at all once someone gets him talking.
This is what I fucking love about Onyx, and really any of the houses on Red Row.
In the end, they’re all about connection.
And nothing feels better than being able to bridge a gap and watch someone like Oliver fit into place just like I experienced last year as a freshman.
Everything feels warmer for a moment.
I sit down on a ledge near an open window, letting the cool air hit my skin.
Everything feels good, actually, before I hear the sound.
It’s sudden when it comes.
A tiny whoosh sound coming from one side of my head, quiet enough that I could have missed it if it weren’t for what happened after.
And I feel a pinprick of sharp sensation, right on the edge of my neck.
“The fuck?” I mutter.
A few people’s heads turn.
I reach up to my neck, expecting a bee or a wasp.
But my hand hits something bigger.
I glance over at the window and see it in the shadowy reflection: there is a tiny little dart sticking out of my neck.
Panic hits my blood before whatever’s in the needle does.