Page 30 of Bitter Rivals (Bitterwood Elites)

Ben ignores the blank stares and immediately walks around the large, mahogany desk, pulling open drawers. I do a quick search of the book shelves, finding nothing but meaningless titles reflecting back at me. I never understood the love of reading, unable to get lost in fictional worlds as my reality has always been too bleak to overcome, but I’m jealous of those who can get lost inside the pages of a book, become the characters, feeling the fear or lust of their thoughts scrawled across the cream pages.

Abandoning the shelves, I move over to the computer and wiggle the mouse. It awakens the screen, and I’m prompted for a password. “Any ideas?” I ask Ben, not wanting to enter the wrong one too many times. If we get locked out, it will only make it more obvious that we’ve been here. I doubt there are recording devices or cameras inside here to catch us, because if I were a man like Windsor, I would hold my secrecy and privacy above all else.

“Try Bitterwood.”

I type it in and the password box wiggles in irritation. Big red letters with the words, try again, pop up. “Nope.”

“Fuck.” Ben tugs on a locked drawer, then searches for a key. “Something less obvious?”

“Hell if I know. I still can’t believe we’re even in here.”

Ben snorts and runs his hands through his hair. “I can. Windsor is too arrogant of a man to think someone can outsmart him. He’d never dream of a student entering his private space, thinking us too frightened of the consequences to risk it—and for most that’s probably true.”

“But we’re not most students are we, Bentley Lennox?”

Ben grins at me from under the desk, trying to get his hand behind the drawers. I enter a few more passwords but all are rejected. Pissed, I walk away from the desk before I break the fucking computer and stare blankly at the rows and rows of books when I come across one that grabs my attention. With forest green binding, and golden letters, the titleThe Gallerytwinkles at me, and my jaw almost drops.

“Ben, I found something.”

Grabbing the book, I flip it open as Ben lumbers to my side. Rows and rows of names, locations, and bids stare up at me from the gilded pages.

“Holy shit,” Ben mutters. “The Gallery is much larger than I thought.”

“There arehundredsof them.”

Names are organized by continent, then country. Rows and rows of the most insidious of humanity written plainly for all to see. I keep flipping, page after page, until I come across a new section, titled, Games.

The Pit, Bawl or Brawl, Crazed Maze, and many others are listed below it. Some, like Bawl or Brawl have been crossed out with red pen. I flip the page, taking it all in, sweating as worry ebbs in my brain. I can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong, more wrong than I ever could have imagined.

I flip back to the lists of names, find Ireland, and drag my finger down the page. Written at the very bottom is a familiar name, a name I grew up both hating and adoring at the same moment. I feel the color draining from my face, my fingers and tongue growing numb. “It can’t be.”

I read it twice, three times, rubbing my eyes to make sure this isn’t some illusion, some trick my brain is playing on my vision.

Ben wraps his arm around my shoulders. “I’m so sorry, Cash.”

His condolences only make it harder to believe, yet more real at the same time. No matter how many times I blink, how many times I read it, the name is still the same, belonging to the only dad I’ve ever known...

Brian O’Connor.

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