Page 25 of Dark Little Game
“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 itthat,” 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’talwaysshy, 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 feelsgood, actually, before I hear the sound.
It’s sudden when it comes.
A tinywhooshsound 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.
“Rayne,” Weston says, immediately reaching up and crudely yanking the dart from my neck.
Images flash through my mind, but my thoughts are slowing down, already.
