The second book of a much loved series that has been ongoing since March. Thank you all for 15k reads, fanart, fanfiction, and nothing but positive reviews. <3
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Vincent and Scott are officially a thing! But every relationship has its... compli...
((SO I found this photo that looks so perfectly like Ollie, then I found out it's fREAKING ANTONIO BANDERAS GOOD JOB VPG WHY DON'T YOU JUST SUBCONSCIOUSLY MODEL YOUR CHARACTER AFTER LIKE THE MOST FAMOUS LATINO GG but *sigh* if you gave him green eyes, this is n̶o̶t̶ ̶A̶n̶t̶o̶n̶i̶o̶ ̶B̶a̶n̶d̶e̶r̶a̶s̶ OliveyOliver.))
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Oliver swung the door open, instantly wrinkling his nose as the distinctive smell of marijuana drifted out to meet him.
"Ey, Ollie!" One of the Mexican men in the room held out a smoking joint to him, "Come here! Take a load off! Relax!"
Oliver rolled his eyes, pushing past the crowded, dilapidated room and walking into his own bedroom.
Well.
What constituted as 'his' bedroom was a dingy, rotting room with five beds pushed in, all pressing against each other in awkward angles, no real order. Clothes and bags and rotting food lay everywhere.
It was disgusting.
He looked over at the bed next to his and noticed the linen had been completely stripped off. Seeing as bed-sheets were rarely washed in this hovel, it meant only one thing. Another kid had been deported. The latest one was only eighteen. It was always sad when the young ones got caught. It reminded him of himself at that age.
No, that's not true. He'd never seen anyone struggle into the group camp just as desperate as Oliver had been.
Nobody knew his life story; and nobody gave a cogida. And that was the way he wanted it. The illegal Mexicans that lived in this godforsaken dump were only out for themselves. They'd all escaped some kind of traumatic experience, and they used America for drowning their sorrows in drink and cocaine.
All except Oliver.
He shut the door to the bedroom, locking himself inside. The other occupants of the house expected he had a stash of weed hidden in his personal belongings - that or there was some dirty, disgusting thing that he liked to do with himself in his spare time. The truth was nothing like that.
He sighed, dropping to his knees and pulling a dusty suitcase from under the bed. He let his thumb stroke over the silver case. In here were his life savings. He was just a few hundred off. In a few hundred dollar's time, he'd finally have enough to apply for a legal American citizenship, move out of the slimy rat-hole where he lived and get a proper house. Maybe, eventually, he'd have enough to settle down with someone.
Yeah. As if.
He smiled, relief washing through him. Just a few more weeks of hard work and he'd be out of here for good.
Fumbling through his pockets, he pulled out sixty dollars from his latest shift. He spun the case around on the rotten wood floorboards and reached down to the little padlocks, one on either side.
The smile disappeared.
The padlocks had been smashed open, completely broken and only just hanging on the case.
