“Oh, you’re still on that?” I quip, feeling this warm, gooey sense of smug satisfaction steal through me. “And here I thought only the idea of Vic’s bare cock could get you going.”
“If it’s between him, and that terror you call a cunt, then I’ll choose him every time,” Oscar agrees, maliciously smirking at me. He’s acting like he doesn’t care, but it’s quite clear that he’s got my naked body on the brain. “Do you need me to set you up with a waxing appointment this weekend? Bushes like that haven’t been in since the seventies.”
“Don't start with me this morning,” I warn, giving him a sideways look and wishing like hell I'd brought a hoodie with me. It is cold as fuck this morning. Leaning forward, I turn the heater on and sit back as warm air drifts over my chilled skin. “I put my hands around your throat once; don't make me do it again.”
“You think you're tough, don't you, Bernadette?” he asks me, his voice deceptively mild. If he thinks I don't notice the way his fingers curl around the steering wheel, then he's grossly underestimated me.
“No, I don't think anything. I've proven it. I want to go after my social worker, Coraleigh Vincent.” Oscar’s eyes widen slightly at the name, like he expected me to mention the Thing or Kali. But even I understand they’re a bit more complicated than some of the other names on my list. As far as Principal Vaughn … I have no idea what to think.
“I know all about Ms. Vincent,” Oscar says, his smile growing in depravity. It's practically obscene now, almost wantonly uncivilized. “She's been promoted, you know, since you last saw her.”
My jaw clenches as I think of Coraleigh Vincent and her plastered faux smile, her murmured words of comfort, her promises.
“Don't worry, Bernadette. Everything will be different here; you can start a new life.”
She delivered me into the hands of a monster, my foster ‘brother’, Eric Kushner.
A social worker who takes money to deliver pretty girls to ugly monsters.
She handpicks ‘em, girls who seem like victims, who don't have any extended family that might care what happens to them, girls who are pretty.
I've always hated being pretty.
I wish the scars I had on my soul showed on my face. Touching gentle fingers to the bandage on my cheek, I wonder if I’m not already on my way to getting that shit granted.
“Promoted, huh?” I ask, thinking about how a woman paid to rescue children from bad circumstances cares more about money than actually helping people. Hell, she went out of her way to make sure I was hurt.
“Come sit next to me, Bernie. I'm your new brother, after all.”
Memories swirl like a dark storm inside my head, pushing against the emotional levees I've built over the years. My protective layer of numbness is falling apart; these next names on the list are going to hurt.
1. the stepdad
2. the best friend
3. the social worker
4. the ex-boyfriend
5. the principal
6. the foster brother
7. the mom
One down, just six more to go … which, unfortunately, is one more than I thought we had to deal with last night.
“She's now the director of DHS’s new child welfare program.”
I throw my head back with maniacal laughter at Oscar's words. The thought of Coraleigh being in charge of protecting children … that's priceless.
Life isn't fair.
But if I have to sacrifice my life to make sure the people who hurt me suffer, then so be it.
Even if it means siccing villains on villains, I'll do it.
Even if it means becoming one.
“She lives in a big, fancy house in Oak Park with her husband Marcus,” Oscar continues, his voice as smooth and even as a snake's scales. I don’t liken his relative calm to tameness because, like a viper, he could strike at any moment and I wouldn't see it coming. “They have a Ferrari now, and a vacation home in Newport.”
I punch the dashboard and then immediately regret it, clutching my fist against my chest as my ears ring and my heartbeat thunders like a herd of horses.
Oscar smiles.
“You're not nearly as put together as you'd have the world believe,” he tells me, as if he knows the dark, twisted depths of my soul better than I do. What he doesn't know is that I once heard him crying in the boys' bathroom when we were eight. One of the boys in the class had pulled his glasses off and crushed them, and Oscar couldn't see anything. The boy and his friends took his backpack, ate his lunch.
Eight years later, I saw him curb stomp that kid's head outside of Prescott High.
I lick my lower lip to wet it and shake my head.
“He who is without sin should throw the first stone, Oscar …” I warn, and he laughs again. Maybe he finds it funny, me using a religious story to chastise him. We both know we're headed straight for hell.
“Your stepfather's becoming a problem,” Oscar admits as we pull into the parking lot of the grocery store. Across the street is the pharmacy where Hael took me to get a morning-after pill. “Seeing him at Aaron's house last night was a concern, to be sure.”
“Isn't that why Havoc has people?” I ask dryly, glancing over and finding Oscar's trenchant expression resting on me. He pushes his glasses up with an inked middle finger, flashing the 'V' of his H.A.V.O.C. tattoo. Jesus, what have I gotten myself into? “To warn us about that shit? How did the Thing get into the house? And with Kali and Scott on top of it?”
“That's what Victor was dealing with last night,” Oscar says as he pushes open the driver's side door open. “Several of our guys were left bleeding and broken by Mitch's crew; the rest are now bleeding and broken because Vic cannot stand failure of any kind.” He slips out and closes his door behind him, leaving me to catch up.
I take my sweet time, refusing to be intimidated by Oscar Montauk.
Once I get inside, I find him sitting at the café near the front door, sipping a coffee and fucking around on his iPad.
What a drama queen, I think, setting my jaw as I pause beside the table. Oscar gestures at the empty seat across from him with an elegant hand, wrapped entirely in ink. Out of all the boys, he's the most covered in tattoos. He must've really worked his ass off to get so many at such a young age. Not for the first time, I wonder about Oscar's family—or if he even has any. Sometimes, it's a blessing to be alone.
“Take a seat.”
There's a second coffee sitting there, waiting for me. I slump down into the plastic chair, listening to the incessant beeping of products being scanned at the registers. People wheel carts past as I sit there in a sea of normalcy, more aware than ever before that I will not be living a life like any of them. My biggest worry will never be about what's going to happen for dinner. Instead, I'll always wonder if calling out Havoc was the biggest mistake I ever made.
My fingernails tap against the surface of the table before I finally reach for the coffee. Oscar ignores me like he always does, zoned in on the screen of his tablet. He's basically glued to that thing. I figure it holds all of Havoc's secrets. One of these days, I'm going to get a hold of that thing and unearth every dark story it holds.
After a moment, I pull my phone out and turn it on, nausea taking over my belly as I wait to see the impact of last night's charades on the Prescott High gossip circle. There are photos of the Halloween party on every student's social media accounts, hundreds of them, videos, too. But … nothing about clowns and boys with skeleton makeup on their faces.
Nothing about murder.
I do, however, have several texts from Kali Rose-Kennedy herself.
Hah.
Kali Rose.
Liar. Thief. Coward.
And the Havoc Boys and I … we were going to kill her. I just didn’t know that yet.
Where the hell is Danny, you psycho?
That text is followed by a dozen others, accusing me and the boys of kidnapping Danny, threats to call the cops. No matter how well the boys buried Danny, t
his problem isn't going away. No, it's only going to get worse.
I exhale sharply, a fear taking over me that I've never felt before.
For some stupid, silly reason I was certain that I had nothing to lose, that I'd fallen as hard and as far and as fast as was possible, that I was truly at rock-bottom. But I was wrong. We always have more to lose than we think we do, don't we?
“Kali's been texting me,” I say, pushing my phone across the table to Oscar. He looks up briefly, his gray eyes catching mine. He doesn't want me here; he doesn't want me to be a part of Havoc. And every time something happens between me and Victor, I get the sense that I'm making him like me less and less. Why, I have no idea. The way he looked that day he caught me with the paperwork I'd stolen from Vice Principal Keating's office, it was as if he were desperate for me to fail. Like he'd take any reason he was given to get me kicked out of Havoc. “My inclination is to tell her to fuck off, then block her.”
Oscar reads the messages carefully, looking for meaning beneath the lines. And then he passes the phone back to me.
“Do what you'd normally do,” he tells me, sipping his coffee, and then spinning his iPad around so I can see the screen. There's an entire thread on Mitch's Facebook page about Danny; nobody's seen him since last night. Nobody knows.
At least, not yet they don't.
“Have you guys ever …” I pause, looking up from the screen to see Oscar's stoic face. He's beyond handsome, like some billionaire born in the wrong part of town, so cultured and elegant, so beautiful with those high cheekbones and that full lower lip. The tattoos on his neck and his hands almost add to the illusion, providing a sort of contrast to his unearthly beauty. “Well, ever done anything like that before.” Has Havoc ever murdered someone before, that's my question and he damn well knows it.
Oscar just smirks at me, his devil-may-care attitude pissing me the hell off.
“Unlike Vic, you don't have a stranglehold on my heart, Bernadette. I'm not about to give you all my naughty, little secrets.” He stands up, taking his coffee and his iPad with him. “Let's shop. Our budget is three hundred dollars; we need food for the week as well, not just today.” He opens a list on his iPad, and I see that it's like, some sort of master list of basic shopping needs.
“God, you guys are weird,” I murmur, taking a cart as we pass by and pushing it down the aisle. “Gang members don't generally shop for food together, you know that right?”
“Whoever said we were a gang?” Oscar asks, pausing in the middle of the aisle and giving me a look that says I've disgusted him. Seriously, I can't win with this guy. Fluorescent lights beat down on my head, the rolling of cart wheels and the whining of small children near the checkout making me feel trapped. Itchy. Desperate to escape. “We're a family, Bernadette. I'd have thought you figured that out already?”
Oscar takes the cart, heading down the aisle in black jeans and a white t-shirt, one of the most casual outfits I've ever seen him wear. I let him go, grabbing a small red basket instead and loading it up with the ingredients I need for tonight's dinner. Once I'm finished, I wait near the self-checkout, sipping my coffee and waiting for Oscar.
As far as mornings go, this one is terribly boring.
But I have a feeling this is just the calm before the storm.
You don't murder a teenage boy and just walk away from the ramifications.
Oscar rejoins me a while later, but we don't talk to each other.
Once we've paid for the food and loaded it up, I climb back into Hael's car and sit in silence while Oscar starts some orchestral piece that gives me the chills. Checking the title of the song on his phone, I see that it's Heaven, We're Already Here by The Maine, only … a music-only version of the original. The sound of it gives me the chills.
“Do you have the video?” I ask as we make the turn into Aaron's quiet, little suburban neighborhood. I don't have to specify; Oscar knows what I'm talking about. The video with … Penelope. And the Thing.
They have a video; they have proof. All this time, they've held the one thing I needed in their clutches. Havoc's reaching claws have no qualms about drawing blood from the innocent.
They're using Penelope's pain to keep the police at bay.
They're using mine.
Oscar says nothing, pulling into the driveway and then handing me his iPad.
I wait until he's climbed out before I press play on the video he's pulled up.
My mind goes blank, and everything that makes me, me … it all just disappears.
The world is evil; I've always known the world is evil.
But this, it’s even worse than I ever could’ve imagined.
My hands shake and fat tears roll down my face as I watch what I already knew to be true take place on a shiny glass screen sitting in my lap. My sister's most unbearable pain, and there it is, etched into technology forever.
I make myself watch the whole thing; if Penelope suffered then I can at least watch. I can watch. I can fucking watch.
Throwing the passenger side door open, I fall to my knees with the iPad clutched against my chest. Pushing up to my feet, I start running. I have no idea where I'm going, but I can't stay here. Heather will be safe with Havoc.
Despite everything else I know about them, I believe that part to be true.
So I run and I don't stop, holding the iPad like I'm holding Penelope's heart in my hand.
“Bernadette!” It's Oscar's voice, calling out to me.
But he doesn't stop me, and I don't slow down, pushing myself so hard that I trip and fall more than once, bruising my bare knees on the concrete, turning them bloody.
Numb, numb, numb.
All I want to be is numb.
Numb, like when I was locked in the closet. Numb, like when my foster brother smoothed his hands over my budding breasts. Numb. Forever numb.
How could they? All this time, they had this video. All this time.
The Thing knew—he knew—that this would freak me out, that it would make me question everything I thought I knew about the Havoc Boys. And he was right. I hate that more than anything, that he knew exactly how to get under my skin and destroy me.
There's video proof of Neil Pence raping my older sister.
And I hold it in my hands.
But if I turn it in, he goes to prison … and so do the boys.
At first, I don't realize where I'm going, not until I find myself outside the door to the Southside Dreams Dance Company.
I push my way in, my face wet with tears, my legs wet with blood, and I find my way down the hall to Studio C.
“Get the fuck out,” I snarl as soon as I step inside, still clutching the iPad, my skin soaked in fresh sweat, my heart in pieces. Callum pauses at the front of the room, turning to look at me with eyes the color of melancholy. That's what they are; they're not even blue, not really. Blue doesn't look like that, like a pool of a thousand tears, like crushed dreams and fragmented realities.
“Excuse me?” one of the girls at the front asks, and I flick my green eyes over to hers. If I were certain I could stop myself just short of murdering her, I'd storm over there and tear her pale pink leotard from her anorexic body.
“Out,” I repeat, and then I throw the iPad as hard as I can against one of the walls, shattering both the screen and the mirror. It comes down in silvery shards, sparkling as it falls, like my pain's an art project, on display for everyone in that room to see.
“Everyone out,” Callum confirms, turning fully around, his sleeveless navy hoodie unzipped over his black tank top and leggings. “You'll all get a full refund for today, and a free class. Go.” He waits as his students file out, moving past me to lock the door and draw the shades behind them.
“How could you?” I ask as he turns back to look at me, fully aware that I'm crying again. Silent tears, though. My pain is always silent. If I let it go, the monster inside of me will start screaming, and she won't stop until I'm deaf, until the world falls quiet around me and leaves room f
or only the worst thoughts. “All this time …” I start, a harsh laugh slipping past my lips. I should've painted them with that teal-gray color I like, the one that reminds me of zombies and graveyards. Pretty Little Dead Girl is the name of the shade. It seems appropriate in this moment. “How did you get it?” The words come out like a bite, a verbal punch to the gut. And then, the worst part of it: “and if you saw it, why didn't you stop it?”
Callum moves back to the front of the room, pushing play on his stereo and starting up Sex Metal Barbie by In This Moment; I recognize the haunting darkness of it right away. When he turns around to look at me again, he offers up a hand.
My footsteps are loud as I move across the well-worn floors of the studio, placing my hand in his and then kicking off my boots.
Cal pulls me close and then uses the force of his body to guide us into the center of the room again, spinning me and then letting me fall into his arms. Our gazes meet, and hatred ripples through me in a brilliant and violent wave.
After all the things they did to me, I still liked them all. I still wanted to be a part of their group, more than anything.
And now this?
I feel like a reaper's come and stolen my soul away, leaving me truly empty in a way that I never was before. No, instead, I was only trapped. Now, how am I supposed to survive this emotional blow? Because after everything, despite everything, I still had the Havoc Boys. I still had them. Even if this is a life lived in darkness, it's at least a life.
Now I have nothing.
Now I am nothing.
Callum guides me around in a circle, my hand in his, our bodies circling each other as the soles of his slippers whisper across the floor. When he drags me in close, slamming us together front to front, the music grinds on, desperate and low and angry.
I fucking lose it.
My fists pound against Cal's chest before he grabs my wrists, the strength in his grip surprising as he tries to hold me back. Meanwhile, Maria Brink continues to let the husky purr of her words weave through the still air in the studio, creating magic where there was none.
Today though, right now, it most definitely feels like black magic.
Chaos at Prescott High Page 5
