Olivia Twisted (Entangled Teen) (14 page)

“Pretty much.”

I’m stunned. Here I am sitting on his bike with my legs propped up over his, listening to him admit he’s stealing money. All the desire that he stirred inside my body is gone as I think of the house—the mansion—at Monroe Street. All the expensive cars lined up outside. The group home full of insanely rich orphans.

“Wait a second, you and Sam and who else?” I narrow my eyes as he glances away. “Z, what exactly goes on at Monroe Street? How does everyone have such nice cars and motorcycles and stuff?”

He frowns. “Monroe Street is a really good home, and all of us are either unwanted or orphaned. Nancy is the best mom any of us could ever have.”

“I know, but…”

“It’s also a place of business.”

A cold knot pulls tight in my belly. The entire house? “What kind of business?” I’m guessing they don’t sell Tupperware.

“Well, we all have one thing in common—we’re experts in computer programming.”

I snort. “Programming? Or hacking?”

“Well, depending on how you look at it…”

More answers in circles. I resist the urge to shove him off the bike. “Z, I’m going to ask you a few direct questions, and I deserve some direct answers. No more bullshitting. Okay?”

He sighs. “Fine.”

“Is everything that you and Sam do illegal?”

“Yes.”

“Is that how you make all your money?”

“Yes.”

I try to keep my voice even. “Large or small scale?”

He pauses for a second. “Large.”

“And is the whole house involved?”

“Yes.”

Oh. My. God.
I push myself away from him, sliding off the bike. “Are you saying every person in that house is a cybercriminal? Even little Dutch? Does Nancy know?”

His laugh is short, almost brittle. “Of course she does. How else do you think we can afford all those cars, motorcycles, even the house? We’re hackers. We target banks, corporations, even governments.”

“You’re not hackers, you’re crackers. Hackers do it for the challenge. You’re stealing from people.” But I did it, too. I hacked that account. I was an accomplice. The knowledge twists my insides until I can’t breathe.

His mouth drops open slightly at my choice of words. “Only those who can afford it, Liv. Kind of like Robin Hood, if you see it from our perspective.”

I can’t believe he’s trying to justify this. Robin Hood? I’m not five years old. As if on cue, a roll of thunder sounds in the distance, harmonizing my growing anger. “It’s still stealing. You’re like…organized crime. And why didn’t you tell me this before? Why didn’t you tell me you all were a bunch of criminals?”

He glares at me. “And what would you have done? Called the cops? Told me to screw off? Why do you think I didn’t want to tell you?”

“You’re going to end up in jail.”

“Wait a second,” he says, his voice sharper. He swings a leg over the bike and walks toward me. “You’re bothered about us taking a little money from those who don’t do shit for anyone else, but you don’t care that that house saved all of us. Some of us would be on the streets now if it wasn’t for that home. We make a lot of money from people who would never give us the time of day. I know this for a fact. Some of these people…you have no idea.”

His jaw clenches and he closes his eyes, his face screwed up like he’s in pain.
Damn it.
I don’t want to feel bad for him.

“What?”

His eyes snap open to meet mine—his expression angry and sad and something else I can’t put my finger on that cuts deep into my heart. “Let’s just say I know for a fact that these people shit on everyone else. My own father was one.”

He trails off again, staring up into the gray clouds. “Before you go judging us, stop and think about it. Has anyone ever cared about
you
?” He gazes back down at me, his voice quieter. “What have you gotten from the homes you’ve been in but heartbreak?”

The pain so apparent in his eyes softens me. He knows. He’s gone to hell and back himself. “It hasn’t all been bad. Bernadette and Marc loved me.” I falter at my own use of the past tense.

He steps close to me, one hand sliding down my arm to thread his fingers through mine. His lips brush my forehead. “No one gives a damn about us,” he murmurs. “You know that. The only people we can rely on are ourselves.”

His other hand slides behind my neck, tilting my face up slightly. “Monroe Street is a family. We help each other out. And we make a lot of money, sure. How else could any of us survive? Think about it—what do foster kids get after we graduate? Tuition for college? Great. But what are we supposed to live on?”

I hate that what he’s saying makes sense. It’s exactly what I’ve been worried about this whole time. Why I need a good job. I always wanted to go to Princeton, and Bernadette said she and Marc would support me. She told me she’d be there to help me.

And now she’s gone.

I swallow over the lump in my throat. I promised myself not to cry about this anymore. She’s gone, and I have to move on. I have to do what I need to survive.

Z’s thumb brushes down my cheek to skim over my parted lips. The dark look in his eyes gives way to something that stirs the butterflies of desire inside me again.

“I didn’t make the world this way, Liv. I just try to live in it.”

He leans in, his lips pressing mine apart in a gentle caress. All the words I want to say—all the coherent thoughts that once made sense—dissolve at his touch. But as hard as it is to pull away from him, I lean back and look directly into his heavy-lidded eyes. “I don’t think I can do what you do. I mean, I don’t know.”

“It’s okay. Just think about it. All right?”

“But what if I decide not to?”

He teases my lips with a light kiss. “Then I guess I’ll just have to take you to the movies or mini-golf like every other boyfriend out there.”

The word “boyfriend” makes my insides melt, thought it’s pretty hard to picture Z playing mini-golf. I wrap my arms around his shoulders and we kiss for a while, minutes or hours, doesn’t matter. In the entire world, there’s nowhere I’d rather be than here. With Z, who doesn’t care if I join his gang of hackers or not.

Thunder cracks directly overhead as the sky lights up. Several large drops skim my face. “We need to go. I don’t want to get caught in this.”

We run to the bike and I shove the helmet over my head while he starts the engine and pulls out of the yard. The darkening sky taunts us as Z speeds toward the blue patch hovering over the skyline of Richmond. I close my eyes and huddle into his jacket as large drops spatter against us. Then the sky opens up and all hell breaks loose, drenching us before he’s able to pull off the road into an old abandoned barn.

I dismount from the bike and remove the helmet, shaking out the one dry part of me. The downpour is loud, crashing against the metal roof of the barn, and I shiver. Even though it’s late spring, the rain makes the air especially chilly.

“How long do you think this will last?” I ask, rubbing my hands up and down my arms. Derrick is probably already foaming at the mouth at my being late.

Z joins me to look out at the white sheet of rain. “Not long. It’s a short afternoon storm, no big deal. Will you get in trouble?”

I snort. “Y-You think?”

He glances at my soaked clothes. “You need to take off your shirt.”

My mouth drops open but I manage to croak out, “Excuse me?”

“No, really. You’re freezing. Here,” he says, sliding out of his jacket. “Don’t worry, I won’t look.” He turns his back to me.

I manage to pull the soaked shirt over my head, all too aware that I don’t have a tank on underneath. I had thought with the warmer spring weather I would only need the one layer. Stupid, stupid. I slip my arms through the dry sleeves and pull the jacket tight around my body. It smells deliciously masculine, giving me goose bumps despite the warmth. “Okay, you can turn around.”

His arms circle my waist, and I rest my head on his chest. It’s a surprisingly comfortable feeling, considering I’m practically naked under the jacket. I wonder what I’d do if he were to slip it off my shoulders. The thought of his hands moving across my bare skin sends a sharp spasm through my body that borders on frightening. I push the image from my mind and concentrate instead on the rain. We stay like this for a while until the torrential downpour becomes a light drizzle.

“I guess we should be heading back,” I say reluctantly, caressing the smooth leather of the jacket. “I shouldn’t let Derrick see me in this. He’d blow a gasket, and I really don’t feel like sitting through another lecture on birth control.”

Z gapes at me, such a foreign look on him that I start giggling. “Derrick talked to you about birth control? Are you serious?”

“Yes, and it was the worst half hour of my life. Don’t even get me started.”

He starts to laugh but then stops, tilting his head to look at me seriously. “Wait, a half-hour conversation about birth control? Didn’t that creep you out?”

I shrug. “I guess he’s just against teen sex. Come on, let’s go already so I don’t have to sit through a lecture on how rain can magically give a person a cold.”

He laughs at that.

I pick up the sad-looking waterlogged shirt off the ground. This will be a cold, uncomfortable ride back to town. “Let me put this on so I can give you back your jacket.”

He takes the soggy shirt from me and slings it over his bike. “Keep the jacket. You can bring it to school tomorrow.”

Because of the wet roads, Z drives slower back to my neighborhood. He drops me off in front of the house and I kiss him quickly before running up the steps to the front door, wet shirt in hand. Unfortunately, when I step inside, Derrick is standing at the window, watching Z pull away.

“Again, Olivia? Do you really have no care at all for what we ask? And look at you. Out for a ride with the bad boy?” Disgust is plain on his face as he glares at Z’s jacket.

“He’s not a bad boy. He’s a friend, and you can’t tell me what to do,” I say sharply, turning to walk to my room.

He catches up to me and grabs my arm. I whip around. “Don’t touch me.”

“Look, all I want to know is that you’re safe. You’re kissing all over this guy who’s supposedly your tutor, then the next thing I see is you pulling up on his motorcycle, wearing his jacket and carrying a wet shirt. What do you think I’m supposed to say? I know I’m new at this parenting thing, Olivia, but help me out here.”

“Okay, I get it.” I sigh. “Sorry I worried you. But you can’t expect me not to hang out with my friends.”

“Just respect our rules. That’s all I ask.” His eyes rake over my damp jeans and waterlogged shoes. “Go change. We’re having a get-together tonight with some of my coworkers. I expect you to help Denise out. I don’t want any drama from you, all right?”

“Sure, no problem. No drama here.”

He nods curtly and I head to my room. “Oh, and Olivia?”

“Yes?”

“Straight home tomorrow. On the bus. Got it?”

The way he says it means there’s only one possible answer that will avoid a lecture. “Sure. Got it.”

I get into my room and slam the door, knowing I’ll be on the back of Z’s bike again tomorrow afternoon, and every afternoon after that. I hug the oversized arms of the jacket around me and breathe in the familiar warm scent. Being close to him like this makes every cell in my body sing.

…

Z

I don’t go back to Monroe Street. Instead, I ride around on the bike for a while, ignoring the damp chill that slices through me without the leather to block it. For the first time, I’m letting myself be stupid-happy and not thinking about what’s going to happen next. I don’t care about Bill, about Nancy, Sam, or anyone else who would disapprove. No longer does it bother me that Liv’s face fills my thoughts all the time. It doesn’t even matter that she’s hesitating to join us. She’ll come around eventually. And if she doesn’t, screw it.

I throttle the engine and speed down the lonely country road.

Nothing matters anymore. Just her.

Chapter Fifteen

“
He stood for a moment with the blood tingling through all his veins from terror, that he felt as if he were in a burning fire; then, confused and frightened, he took to his heels.”

—Charles Dickens,
Oliver Twist

Z

Sam must have said something. Not only is everyone in the house coming out of every room to look at the guy who’s always pulled together—now a windblown, chilled mess—but their emotions are written all over their faces: disapproval and misplaced concern from Nancy and Sam, surprise from Micah and Cameron, though they bump my fist as usual. Bitterness from Jen, though that’s nothing new.

What bothers me is how Sam felt she could so blatantly discuss my business with everyone at Monroe Street, not to mention put me on the spot with Liv. She looks as if she wants to talk to me, but I head straight to the office and slam the door behind me. I refuse to let the high I’m on from my afternoon with Liv be punctured by Sam’s ranting about how I’m neglecting my job, how I’m screwing things up for her, too. How I’m going to break Liv’s heart.

My lips tug up at the memory of kissing Liv, holding her as we watched the rain—and God help me, the way she looked wearing my jacket. Sam has no clue; breaking this girl’s heart is not in my plans.

Needing a distraction, I sink into the chair and pick up the file I’m supposed to be working on for Bill. He’s going to start asking about it soon, and I’ve only looked into the business and charitable dealings for background. I start with some of the leads I pulled for personal information that could help me break his password.

Most of the results again focus on the various deals of Carlton Brownlow and his company. Pictures of him as an old man are scattered through various articles. His face looks so familiar. I glance at the black-and-white image stapled to the paper in front of me. Maybe I’ve seen him on TV or in the
Wall Street Journal
. I know it was recent.

I get his place and date of birth, early family life, parents, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles—recording everything I can find that could be used for a password. It can’t be easy if Bill’s team already tried. Looks like he was married with one child—a daughter named Agnes—and both wife and daughter are listed as deceased.

In an old newspaper clipping, I find a picture of him and his wife in a society paper. They look young and happy, maybe in their forties. The background includes a welcome sign for Niagara Falls, and the caption reads, “Mr. and Mrs. Carlton Brownlow revisit Niagara Falls for park rededication.” Brownlow is obviously quite a public figure, which helps.

I open an article about some arts foundation and scan through it. A close-up of an older Brownlow and his wife and daughter appears at the side of the article. The daughter looks to be in her mid-teens, with dark hair and large brown eyes that seem familiar somehow. I zoom in and stare at the picture for a moment. The caption underneath the smiling family reads, “Carlton Brownlow and his wife, Olivia, are featured benefactors of the arts at this weekend’s event.”

Something snaps inside my head like a trap that finally catches the elusive mouse. I can’t take my eyes off the picture, off the familiar heart-shaped locket the woman in the photograph is wearing.

Shit.

…

Liv

At six o’clock, I shut down the laptop and slip it under my bedspread before joining Denise in the kitchen to help her put together the appetizers for Derrick’s party. She runs through her list with me: deviled eggs, sausage balls, fruit platter with strawberry cream cheese, chips and dip. I peruse the list and decide that since Denise is so picky, I’ll chop the vegetables and fruit. I’m slicing strawberries when Derrick walks through.

“Oh, Olivia, it’s so nice that you’re helping Denise put together the appetizers. Isn’t that nice, Denise?”

I look at him. Does he not remember telling me I had no choice in the matter? He walks over to me with an arm stretched out, but I quickly slide away to the other side of the island. He acts like he doesn’t notice, but I wish he would.

The guests begin to show up at six thirty, and an eclectic group it is. It looks like the only thing they have in common is that they work together. Derrick opens up the liquor cabinets and begins acting as bartender for the group, having me take a Bloody Mary to the vamp-looking woman, a rum and Coke to the guy who’s obviously gay and comfortable with it, a beer to the ex-football-player-turned-salesman. Derrick and the wanna-be-a-football-star guy spend a lot of time talking about their glory days on the high school football team. Bor-ing.

Derrick makes a special martini for his boss, who politely accepts and sips at it, but then slogs it down when he doesn’t think anyone’s looking.

Okay, then.

Derrick himself holds a drink of one kind or another all night, as does Denise. Her usual vodka and tonic in hand, she starts getting loopy pretty early on. I’m starting to see a new side of Denise—one that looks nothing like the withdrawn, mopey woman who barely says two sentences to anyone. She’s making stupid jokes about sausage balls and hanging on Derrick. Derrick has his hands all over her.

Ick. I can’t take any more of this.

Though he had insisted I stay out and help with the party all night, I head to my room. My guess is that Denise will crash soon and Derrick will probably be pissed that she didn’t fulfill any of her promises.

I pull out my laptop and do searches for Z and Sam and Monroe Street Home for Boys and Girls instead. I know it won’t show me anything except generic information—and absolutely nothing on Z—but now that I know what they do, I’m interested in finding any possible hint of information. I find Sam’s birth records in Washington, DC, but nothing else.

It doesn’t make any sense. There was tons of information on me—the proof is sitting in Derrick’s closet in that little box. Which reminds me of the disc in my laptop bag. I reach over to fish around the inside of the bag until my fingers feel the smooth round disc. I pull it out and slip it in the CD slot of my laptop.

The computer whirs for a while, then iMovie opens up. I had assumed the files would be PDF files, not a video. Did they record their responses, too? Curious, I click the play button.

The video is black and white and seems to be from high above in a room. I watch, but nothing is moving. I peer closer. It looks very much like…my room
.

I gasp. It is my room. I can see my
Believe
poster on the wall, over my bed. Why is my room being recorded? Nothing happens for a minute, then I watch as I walk through the door, kicking off my shoes and pulling my Slice of Happy polo over my head. I’m in my bra, searching in my closet for a T-shirt.

I’m in my bra!

I stare at the screen, my throat suddenly constricted so badly that I can’t breathe. Why are they recording me?

Not “they.”

He.

As soon as the thought enters my mind, I know it’s true. The memories of the seemingly kind touches and fatherly gazes flood through me like pinpricks all over my skin. Derrick has been watching me. He’s a pervert of the worst kind.

My stomach churns as I watch myself slide out of my pants and slip on some shorts—and between, a clear shot of my panties—then grab my homework folder and lie down on the bed. I force my eyes up from the screen toward the ceiling, and there’s what seems to be a small hole where the ceiling meets the wall.

The door bursts open suddenly and I slam the laptop cover down. My hands are shaking, but I slide them under my legs and fight against the bile rising into my throat as I face Derrick.

“’Livia, you’re not supposed to have that,” he slurs. “You’re gonna get in trouble with the missus, but don’t worry, I won’t tell.” He holds his finger to his lips. His eyes are glassy and unfocused.

“You should knock,” I say, my voice raspy. The words register in my brain only after they’ve left my lips. It’s a little late for knocking.

“Oh shhure. Come on out. I need help cleaning up; everybody’s leaving.” He stands there for a moment, lurching on his heels, then shuffles away.

I slip the laptop under my covers and pull my knees up to my chin. As if on fast replay, my mind shifts quickly through memories of helping Derrick in the kitchen, trying to avoid his casual hugs and touches.

Oh, God.

Maybe I should go to Sam. Maybe Z…no, not Z. He’d go ballistic.

Maybe the video is just to see if I’m doing drugs. Maybe this is a ploy of both Denise and Derrick to see what the bad foster kid is doing. I close my eyes and pray that’s all it is.

I hear my name being called. I grit my teeth and step out to the living room to get this over with. Maybe I can convince Derrick to go to bed so I can clean up in silence. He doesn’t drink often, but from what I’ve seen from the few times he’s had too much, he gets riled up easily.

There are only a few people left now. Denise is nowhere to be seen, so I assume she’s already crashed. The vamp lady is running a hand along Derrick’s chest as she leaves. He slaps her on her ass and she winks suggestively at him.

I look away before I lose whatever’s in my stomach.

Another couple guys stumble out the door with Vamp Lady, apologizing for having to leave early, since she’s their ride. Last to leave is his drunk boss, who slurs about how grateful he is to have such a great employee.

I pick up the cups off the floor and stack them on top of dirty, discarded plates. I offer to Derrick that I’ll clean everything.

“Nooo, ’Livia. I made the mess; I help clean it up.” He gets a black trash bag and puts the paper items into it, clean and dirty, whistling the whole time. I give up and head to the sink to wash the serving dishes. As I dump what’s left of the salsa down the drain, I sense Derrick watching me. I cut my eyes over to see him tilting his head at me, smiling. My gaze switches back to the sink as I rinse out the bowl, my mouth suddenly dry.

“Okay, I’ll clean the rest in the morning. Let’s call it a night,” I say, turning around with bowl in hand.

“Olivia, you’re so pretty,” he says, moving closer to me. My heart pounding in my ears, I try to slide around the island but slip in a puddle of something and fall forward onto the tile, smashing the salsa bowl and cutting my hand.

“Crap!” I pull a large shard of glass out of the oozing red gash on my hand and press it against my stomach to stop the bleeding.

“Oh, no, let me help you,” Derrick says as he crouches to push me up. I try to move around but he’s gripping my injured hand, making me wince in pain. “You’re bleeding. I need to have a look at that.”

“It’s okay,” I gasp as I stand and try to wrench my poor hand away. “I’ll go wash it off. Why don’t you sit down and I’ll be right back.” Sometimes the quickest way to get out of a bad situation is to pretend to go along with it. It’s always worked for me in the past.

“No, no, lemme help you. You’re in so much pain, Olivia.” He pushes me back against the sink, crooning, “Poor Olivia,” and I shove at him with my good hand, as hard as I can. He doesn’t budge. His hand moves under the hem of my shirt but I push it away. He laughs but moves toward me again.

“Derrick, get off me. You’re drunk. You don’t want me. Go wake up Denise.”

“Denise is a cold, frigid bitch. Not like you.”

“Get off me. DENISE!” I scream as loud as I can, trying to squirm out of his strong grasp. He shoves one of my arms behind my back, pressing his body against me hard to trap it. He grabs my wrist and pushes it up against the cupboard. It shocks me how strong he is for a drunk. The stabbing pain in my hand doubles as it’s crushed behind my body.

“None of that,” he rasps, leaning close. The stench of stale alcohol sends a wave of nausea through me. “You’re not so innocent. I’ve seen you together—in the kitchen and at the club. I know you’ve been screwing that guy.”

“At the club?”
Oh my God.
A dim memory of someone who looked like Derrick from the back flashes in my mind. “Why?”

He laughs hollowly and presses closer. “Your little friend got in the way. You didn’t need him. I would’ve taken care of you.”

Derrick drugged me. His admission makes me more terrified, if that’s even possible. I try without success to wriggle away, my knees shaking so badly that I can barely support myself.

He works his leg between mine and moves his free hand up to my chest, forcing his way under my bra and squeezing me hard. I start to cry, my whole body trembling uncontrollably, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t care. He releases my wrist and moves down to fumble with the button of my jeans as his mouth presses hard on mine. I try to shove him away, but my muscles seem to have forgotten how to move. He grabs my hand again and holds it above my head, against the cupboard. I try to scream but my throat is so tight that nothing more than a squeak comes out.

I can’t let him do this.

My senses come reeling back to me and as hard as it is to do, I relax for a moment, just long enough for him to believe I’m going to comply, then turn my face and sink my teeth into his arm. He yelps and yanks it away. The distraction allows me to thrust my knee up into his groin, making him double over in pain.

I shove away from him and run on quivering legs to my room, slamming the door behind me and looking around for something to place against it, since none of the stupid doors in this house have locks. Oh, why didn’t I run out the front? I manage to move the desk chair underneath the knob and sit with my back flat against the door, breathing fast, shaking violently, tears pouring down my face.

“Olivia? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…” Derrick’s muffled voice sounds on the other side. He tries to push it open, but the chair holds, blocking his entry. “Come on, let’s talk about this. I want to help you.”

“Go away!” I scream as hard as I can, quaking even more at his wheedling voice. “Go away! Go away!”

Nothing but silence. I pull my shirt over my face and sob into it.

The throbbing in my hand soon reminds me of my other problem. I look at the gash and the blood everywhere. There’s no way I’m going back out there, but I remember a half-empty bottle of water in my backpack. I stumble over and use my good hand to unzip it, grateful to see the bottle still there. I manage to open the cap and pour the water into the wound. It doesn’t do much, and the liquid makes it sting, but I have no other options.