Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83040 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83040 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
This is when I look around and realize the place has emptied out. When we got here, there were a couple of dozen tables with people at them, but now every single table is empty.
He was afraid I might throw a fit.
I want to. I want to call him a liar. But before I have a chance a waiter appears with a tray. And on the tray is a tablet. The tablet is placed on the table in front of me, and when my grandfather gives a nod, the waiter presses the screen and a video comes to life.
I stare at it. I stare at drone footage of Olive as she and Collin walk down the center of the Edge Security compound. Then it zooms in to another man, standing further down. Ean Shephard.
I look up at my grandfather and he’s frowning. “I’m sorry, Ambrose. Not just for the loss of your puppet, but for what comes next for you.”
There’s not enough time for me to react. Four men, at least, are already behind me and the next thing I know, there’s a funny smell in my nose and everything is fading to black.
A soft chime wakes me, but I don’t open my eyes. One of the perks of sleeping next to Olive every night is that she turns off the alarm. Instead, I sink deeper into the bed and blankets and put the pillow over my head to enjoy my luck just a little bit longer.
But instead of turning off, the chime keeps going, forcing me to wake and mumble, “Turn the chime off, Olive.”
She shuffles next to me, and a moment later, it stops.
“Thank you,” I manage to mumble.
“Why does this feel so familiar?”
I sigh, so tired. Really, really, really wanting to go back to sleep. “It’s a dream, Olive.”
“Oh,” she says, and I can tell she’s smiling. “I’m dreaming.”
It comes out so cute I actually lift the pillow and open one eye to look at her. Sometimes Olive can be nicely put together, like during an important meeting or something like that, but most of the time she comes off disheveled. And when she wakes up in the morning, she comes off as a mess. Hair everywhere, eyes all low and lazy, and usually wearing t-shirts and panties.
I like it. It’s so real. Not like some women with all the makeup, and the pretenses, and the clothes. Olive is a what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of girl.
Of course, I molded her into this girl, but she wouldn’t be able to pull it off if she didn’t already have it. She’s so much better than just an asset. Or a girlfriend, for that matter.
She’s my best friend.
I’m still peeking at her with my one open eye and she’s gazing back at me looking all tousled and sexy, so I say, “Wanna fuck before work?”
She gives me a coy smile, like she wants to play. “If this is a dream, why do we have to work?”
“Good point.” I grab her, making her laugh and squeal, and pull her into my chest, holding her until she relaxes. She snuggles me, and I hold her back, wondering, not for the first time, if she’ll forgive me or hold a grudge when the time comes to retire.
“That’s up to you,” my grandfather says.
And when I look over towards the windows, he’s here, in our apartment, sitting in a chair and backlit by the bright rising sun.
I blink and he’s gone. But his words linger.
Will she love me or hate me when this is over?
It’s up to me. Everything she does is up to me. I think for her, she acts for me.
“We have to go over the rules though,” I say.
I can feel Olive’s confusion. “What rules?”
“You know. All the rules. About me and you. And you and Shep. And me and CORE. And you and CORE. And don’t even get me started on Collin. I mean, that was kind of unexpected.”
“What do you mean?” Olive tries to lift her head up off my chest, but I hold her tight, not letting go. It’s a metaphor, I think. She doesn’t try hard, just gives in like she’s been trained to, and relaxes.
“You ran right to him, Olive.” I don’t mention how pissed off everyone is—and by everyone, I mean my grandfather—but Olive knows me well enough to hear it in my voice. “Why? I mean, you could’ve done anything but that and everyone would’ve been happy. But you went right to him.”
“Who’s unhappy?” she asks.
“Well, everyone.”
“You?”
My hand snakes around her hip, slides up her arm, over her shoulder, and then slips under her chin and across her neck. “Yes. I’m unhappy about it. It’s supposed to be me and you, remember? And you just… forgot about me.”
“I didn’t—”
That’s as far as she gets because my hand tightens on her throat so quick, it startles her. And I can feel her struggling to suck in air, but she’s unable to. She likes the choking. It’s sick. I’m sick because I’m the one who programmed her to feel this way about it.