Page 15 of Ramsay

Ramsay nods at Oliver, and Oliver steps forward, grabbing my arm gently. I allow him to lead me away, looking back at Diem to see Ramsay standing before him with his arms crossed over his chest.

Diem doesn't back down, and I can't hear what they’re saying, only that it's an intense exchange, judging by the scowl on his face.

“...do? Let...fucker...her?”

Oliver tugs me away, and I follow beside him quietly. It's entirely likely based on their conversation that I could be walking into my own death.

Which is a strange notion to be sure, but I’ve played with enough fire to know people in general are not all sunshine and roses. I guess though, here in suburbia, I failed once again to understand that the same tenets apply. Savagery can beat in the heart of anyone, no matter their socioeconomic status.

And this might inevitably be what kills me because I can find trouble easily but struggle with pulling myself back out of the hole. It’s too late for regrets now though, all I can do is move forward, and hope like fuck today isn’t the day I die. Wouldn't that be ironic? After all the shit I’ve pulled.

Oliver leads me to his car, a simple sedan with no bells and whistles, much like mine, a gift from my parents when we moved here, and they encouraged me to find a new life. Jokes on them, this new life is no safer than the other.

At least before, I knew who my enemies were. Here they’re all wolves dressed in sheep’s clothing.

I give one last attempt to get out of whatever Oliver has planned, some part of me cautious about getting into a car with him. I can no longer ignore my obsession for their possible misdeeds. I mean, Diem’s related to the head of a known mafia family. Making me disappear would be child’s play.

“I’m fine. I can see myself home,” I say again.

Oliver ignores me, chuffing under his breath as he pushes me gently into the car. Sighing, I clutch my head and slump into the seat.

Rounding the car, he starts the engine and pulls out of the lot. Quietly, I watch the houses fly by before the scenery turns to trees and finally the freeway.

“Where are you taking me?” I ask.

If he’s going to this much effort, it must mean I’m going to die. Strangely, I don’t fear death, just the motions of getting there.

“The estate,” he says simply, his calm facade focused on the road.

Soon after, we reach a turn-off in the distance and travel down a tree-lined drive, where a mansion emerges when we round the bend. It’s enormous, easily thousands of square feet with turrets, brick siding, and a circular drive.

I knew from rumors and the way Ramsay carries himself he’s rich, but I guess I had no notion of just how wealthy. This is beyond my imaginings, and I cannot contain my jaw drop as I take in the rolling green grass, perfectly trimmed hedges, and monstrous home before me.

“Come,” he says, exiting the vehicle and expecting me to follow, which I do. I have no other options, and frankly, I’m curious. I know of no one Ramsay’s invited behind the curtain, and I’m standing in Ramsay Yates’ driveway staring at his damn house.

Oliver lets himself inside, and silently I follow. The home from the outside is a stately manor, and the inside does not disappoint. Gleaming hardwood floors, a beautiful side table, and a vase of fresh flowers are the first thing I see.

Oliver walks away, and I try to keep up, passing rooms filled with antique furniture, tall windows, and a view of the rolling hills on the back property.

Up a staircase, we go down a long hall, until he stops before a door and pushes it open.

Inside is a huge, beautiful bed with dark hangings and bed covers. The walls are painted a dove gray, with pictures of rock stars in perfect frames hanging along the wall—all the greats from Hendrix to Clapton.

Passing Oliver, I take in the scene and wonder if this isn’t Ramsay’s room. It’s sterile in that there are no personal effects, no pictures of family, no knickknacks, not even a sweatshirt or discarded article of clothing to be found. Somehow, that matches the image of Ramsay I have in my head. Such coldness would not inspire anything as mundane as memories hanging on the walls.

At the end of the bed sits a plush dark sofa, facing a large screen television. By the window is another seating area with two chairs and a table.

I spy a bathroom through the partially open door as I step up to the window and gaze out the backside of the house, almost gasping out loud at the vista before me.

Trees and grass and perfectly formed hedges for miles and miles, beyond which is a crystal blue lake.

“Stay here,” Oliver says gruffly, closing the door to the room and leaving me alone inside.

Curious, I wander around, running my hands over the smooth, clean surfaces. When Oliver doesn't immediately emerge, I open a double set of doors and step inside a closet easily twice the size of my bedroom at home.

After walking to the back, I turn and gaze at the door, running my eyes over the neatly pressed expensive clothes hanging precisely by color and type. Ramsay is one seriously OCD dude.

With a tingle of curiosity, I pull the hangers back and peruse the clothes, feeling the expensive soft fabrics under my fingertips. It’s a weird thought to know I’m standing in Ramsay's closet, although he’s so fucking uptight, it’s weird to think he has something as mundane as a closet at all.

---