“You’re really and truly invested in all of this, aren’t you?” she asks, her tone accusatory, like I’ve torn apart her perfect little life and dashed her dreams on the rocks of reality. “You’re not looking for my help; I’m just an obstacle you need to overcome.”
I slip the crown back on my head, just to feel the weight of it. My eyes close of their own accord, and I pull in a deep breath. If someone had asked in August if this is where I’d be in January, sitting on a cop’s stool and wearing a crown given to me by one of the darkest minds to ever attend Prescott High, I’d have laughed in their face. What is this? What am I doing?
The thing is, I have those answers now. Pretty sure I’ve had them all along. But sometimes it takes a traumatic event to really shake you, to wake you up to the reality of who you’re supposed to become.
“I haven’t done anything wrong,” I tell Sara, opening my eyes again. The pretty little cop shifts a bit, as if there’s something in my stare that’s making her uncomfortable. Good. She should be uncomfortable. She should be terrified. Of Havoc. Of the GMP. Of the fact that she’s gotten herself firmly in the crosshairs of our turf war.
I killed James Barrasso; I bashed his head in with Mr. Darkwood’s doorstop.
That isn’t something Maxwell Barrasso is likely to forgive anytime soon, regardless of the fact that he sent his guys to my fucking school.
“Bernadette, there are seventeen dead men with tattoos linking them to a gang that’s made the FBI’s most dangerous gangs in America list. Men like that …” She trails off and then swipes both hands over her face, a rare break in her white knight hero act. “Why were those men at your school? Hmm? Because the only reason I can gather is that they were after you.”
“They were after Stacey Langford,” I say, a pang in my chest when I think of the spunky blonde with the loyal crew. Her girls must be devastated. No sooner has that thought crossed my mind when I welcome another: we need to bring her girls into Havoc’s fold. It’s the least we can do, considering everything. Besides, Stacey taught her girls well. They’ll be an asset.
“Stacey Langford,” Sara Young says, grabbing her phone from the counter and scrolling until she, presumably, gets to some sort of file on Stacey. “Eighteen years old, a father with a serious rap sheet, a mother missing under mysterious circumstances, and—”
“Stacey was a good person,” I say, feeling my anger rise to the surface like bubbles in boiling water. I’m liable to scald if Sara pushes me too far tonight. I don’t have the patience for her privileged ass, not when the fates of my boys are so uncertain.
Hael, Aaron, Oscar, or Callum could be dead.
Fuck.
I’m shaking now; I can’t help it. There are few things in this world that can shake me anymore. This, this is one of them. Don’t you dare leave me heartbroken, you assholes. Don’t you fucking dare.
“Stacey was a good person,” I repeat, laying my palms flat on the shiny granite surface of the counter. It’s the color of sand, but even less interesting. I hope for Sara’s sake this really is an Airbnb and not her house. It’s so incredibly boring. “She was more than just a file on your phone.” I shake my head. I’ve relived that moment in the hallway several times already inside my mind. Even though I know there was no way I could’ve saved Stacey, I wish things had been different.
“Listen, Bernadette,” Sara starts, drawing in a breath that she holds for so long I’m afraid she might pass out. She finally exhales as she steps forward, putting her hands on the counter just twelve inches from my own. My entire body aches, like I’ve been put through a wash cycle or something. Everything hurts. At least I found out during my exam at Joseph General that I was only coughing up blood because I’d cracked a tooth and bitten my own tongue from the beating. Could’ve been way worse, like internal bleeding and shit. They insisted on drawing blood and running some tests, too, though I’m not exactly sure why that was necessary. “You are not under arrest at this time. However”—and here she pauses to emphasize that word in a manner that’s quite menacing—“you are a person of interest.”
“Why am I at your house?” I ask, staring at her and wishing this day would just fucking end. I’m exhausted. “Is this standard procedure, to bring a person of interest to a fed’s house?”
“I’m trying to help you, Bernadette,” she says, pink mouth flat and grim, eyes shadowed in a way they weren’t before she walked into that building today and saw carnage spread out across the decrepit school like it was the fucking end-times. “I brought you here because I have a deal for you.”
Sara turns away and gathers a packet of papers, bringing it over and laying it out in front of me. I look at it for a moment and then adjust my gaze to hers.
“Pardon me, but I don’t speak legal bullshit. What is this?”
“Full immunity for you,” Sara says, tapping her fingers on the pages. “In exchange for information … and your testimony.”
“Testimony for what?” I ask, feeling my skin prickle with goose bumps. I want to go home. I want to see my boys. Shit, that’s the only thing I can think about right now, going home and curling up in bed with them. If I ask real nice, you think they’d all snuggle up with me together? Stranger things have happened.
“Against Pamela,” Sara says, crossing her arms again. Looks like a defense mechanism to me, all that arm crossing. Like Vic’s chin rubbing, Cal’s hood, Oscar’s iPad … and the way Stacey Langford stared at her phone with a hollow, distant look in her eyes. Shit, motherfucker. We should’ve protected her.
That’s on us.
That day in the cafeteria, when she called off her deal with Havoc, that’ll haunt me forever.
“My mother?” I ask, crinkling my brow. I’m not stupid: I heard what the boys said. Their plan was to pin Neil’s murder on Pamela. If Sara is asking me to testify, then she must have found evidence to support the idea.
“Yes,” Sara says with a long sigh. After a moment, she leaves the room and I’m left to stare at the paperwork in front of me. No way would I ever be an informant or a witness for the cops. Talk about social suicide. Besides, how would that look, for Havoc’s wife to do such a thing? I push the paperwork back and thread my fingers in my hair.
When Sara comes back in, she’s holding a familiar box. She sets it on the counter beside me. I don’t touch it, not right away. I don’t want her to know how important that box is to me. Old Homework and Assignments stares back at me in looping, feminine letters.
“We kept what we needed of Penelope’s things,” Sara tells me, laying a hand on my shoulder. It’s meant to be comforting, but my skin itches with the need to throw her off. I don’t want to be comforted right now; I want my phone back. I want to see Havoc. “You’re welcome to keep the rest.”
“Am I free to leave?” I ask, knowing that what happened at the school won’t be enough for a charge of any kind to stick to me. That was self-defense. Of course, the very fact that the GMP came to Prescott in the first place is enough to get Sara to look more closely at Havoc. But I can’t be charged for defending myself against white supremacists wearing ski masks and carrying weapons with silencers.
“You can leave,” Sara says carefully, but I can tell there’s more to this. She isn’t done with me, not by a long shot. “But I would like you to consider this offer. It’s a onetime thing, Bernadette. The DA isn’t going to give you this opportunity again.”
“Please take me home,” I insist. Sara stares at me for a moment and then nods, taking the paperwork for the deal and stacking it neatly before slipping it back into a manila folder. I grab the box of Pen’s things and head for the front door.
There’s an uneasiness in the air that tells me our city is on the brink of change.
What that change might be, depends on us.
Sara wants an informant to help clean up the streets?
Fuck her.
We take care of our own in Prescott.
And the GMP … they’re Havoc’s problem now.
Victor Channing
My palms slam into the glass of the French doors leading into the Bordeaux—an upscale wine bar in Oak River Heights that serves escargot and pâté as bar food. It’s the most pretentious place I’ve ever fucking seen. The doors swing open with a bang, causing the hostess to jump as I scowl in her direction and she cowers against the decorative rock wall like a shrinking violet.
“Excuse me, sir, you need a jacket,” a man simpers as I storm past him, dried blood crusted under my fingernails. I swear to god, I can still taste it in my mouth. I ignore the maître d' as I sweep past, dressed in a clean white t-shirt and jeans. The only shower I’ve had was a quick one down at the precinct; I could really use another. But, business first.
I pause next to the table where Ophelia and Trinity are seated, crossing my arms over my chest as they both turn their gazes up to mine. I don’t often see my mother surprised, but something akin to fear flickers in her dark eyes before she remembers to school her features against my presence.
“Victor, have a seat,” Ophelia tells me, sipping her wine. Trinity is a bit white in the face. Does she know yet, that her half-brother is dead? Or should I say her lover? Shit, they’re one in the same, aren’t they? Incestuous motherfuckers.
“I agreed to this little deal for a reason,” I say, lifting a hand and gesturing absently at Trinity Jade. She blinks up at me with eyes like sawdust. That’s the color they are to me, something dull and dusty, something useless. Scrap. Throwaway. I would never actually entertain the thought of marrying or sleeping with someone like her.
Everybody knows Prescott girls are the best in bed anyway.
A smirk catches the edge of my lips, but it doesn’t take. Today was a complete goddamn surprise to me, and I thought I’d prepared for everything. Agreeing to marry Trinity was supposed to get the Grand Murder Party off my ass. Instead, my school got shot up. Unacceptable.
“What on earth are you talking about?” Trinity asks, smoothing her hands over her lap and looking at me like she’d happily ride my dick into oblivion. I stare back at her, and I don’t bother to mask my feelings. I wait until she shivers before turning my attention back to the egg donor.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I start, a sarcastic laugh snapping out of me like the crack of a whip. Sliding a borrowed phone out of my pocket, I pull up a news site and toss it onto the table. Low-Income School Devastated by Shooting. Don’t ya just love that? How they had to mention how poor we are in Prescott? As if that fucking matters. “Maybe the fact that the GMP sent more than a dozen men to my fucking high school this morning.”
“We didn’t know about this,” Trinity says, glancing over at Ophelia. Based on her expression, I don’t think she knows that James Barrasso is dead yet. That, or she’s as much of a psychopath as my mother and doesn’t care. “This wasn’t part of our plan either; James was responsible. His father is going to have a talk—”
“James is dead,” I say, because I want the news to sting. I want to see this girl’s reaction. She just stares at me like I’ve spoken in another language. If Hael were here, I’d ask him to translate it into French for me. Maybe this highbrow bitch would understand that?
“Sir, I need to insist you put on a jacket …” the maître d' says, approaching me the way you might a vicious dog, one that’s foaming at the mouth and straining against a chain. But, you know, I’m not an animal—even if Bernadette makes me feel like one. Fuck, I need to be inside of her. That’s what I need to do, go home and bury myself in her heat. That’ll calm me down. She’s the only person that can.
Ehh, but I’m a reasonable monster.
I take the jacket and slip it on. After all, the employees here are basically slaves to the wealthy. They’re paid a pittance that doesn’t even cover their fucking bills to wait on these people hand and foot. Why is it so much to ask, to just give people a living wage? How the fuck is this shit controversial and politically polarizing?
I sit down at the table, grab the bottle of wine by the neck—I hope it’s expensive—and chug the rest of it in one go. On the outside, I look calm. I know I do. On the inside, I’m fucking seething. One mantra repeats over and over in my mind: rein in your temper Vic; wield it like a weapon.
Ophelia just stares at me, her body tense, like she’s afraid I might finally do it, kill her right here and now.
But I’m also a careful monster.
Going to jail means no Bernadette. No protecting her. No fucking her. No holding her in my arms and kissing away her tears. She means everything to me. Everything. And I’d do anything for her … even that.
I won’t let myself put words to whatever ‘that’ is, but it sits there in the back of my mind, crouched like Callum in the shadows. Callum. Where is Callum? Where is Hael? Aaron? Oscar? I can’t get ahold of anyone.
At least I know Bernadette is safe.
For now.
But we have a serious mare’s nest that needs untangling, don’t we?
“James is dead?” Trinity asks, her voice hollow but her porcelain expression schooled into one of polite disinterest.
“He’s dead,” I reconfirm, sitting there in that awful restaurant with the stone walls and the low ceiling, live music in the corner, bottles of thousand-dollar wine on every table. That’s why this place is called the Bordeaux, because they serve exclusive bottles of wine worth upwards of twenty-grand. “Killed him myself.” Lie. But I can’t let Trinity or—via whatever social grapevine they have going on—Maxwell know that it was my wife that delivered the final blow. If anyone is going to receive retribution for that, it should be me.
Being the leader fucking blows sometimes.
I tap my fingers on the surface of the table. I’m so agitated right now, it’s tempting to just kill both women right here, right now. But that won’t solve our problems with the GMP. Or the police. Reasonable monster, careful monster, neat monster. Don’t make any messes you can’t clean up, Victor Channing.
“Excuse me,” Trinity says, standing up so suddenly that the attendant rushing over to help with her chair doesn’t quite make it in time. With small, neat steps, she makes her way to the restroom, leaving me alone with Ophelia Mars.
I look over at her.
“This changes everything. You know that, right?”
She sips her wine, eyes focused ahead on all the curious, gossiping nitwits that fill the restaurant. In an ebony gown made of silk, her hair twisted into a chignon, my mother is the very picture of elegance. I look just like her, but hyper masculine instead of hyper feminine. If I had a daughter, I bet she’d be Ophelia’s clone. Our DNA runs strong on that side of the family.
“Let me talk with Maxwell; this was all a huge mistake.”
“I cannot undo his son being dead,” I tell her, knowing that there will be no more talks of peace between the Grand Murder Party and Havoc. They’re going to come at us with everything they have and then some.
I’m not sure we can handle that.
Not head-to-head anyway.
We do best creeping in shadows.
“Let me talk to him,” Ophelia insists, turning to look at me. Even now, I can see the wheel in her head turning as she plots. The way she looks at me, I can tell she imagines that’s what I’m doing, too, plotting against her. Of course, she thinks like that because she’s always scheming. People who scheme the way she does always suspect everyone else of doing the same.
In this case, at least, she’s right.
I shake my head, a sardonic laugh slipping from my throat.
“Talk to him about what?” I ask, tilting my head to one side as I study her, like a wolf who cannot quite understand why his prey is still running when it’s quite clear she’ll be on her side, bleeding hot in the snow, sometime soon.
“Just give me time, Victor,” she snaps back at me, fingers tightening ever so slightly on her wineglass. Ah, there it is, that perfect porcelain mask of hers cracking right down the middle. This is as bad for her as it is for me, and she knows it. If I die, my
entire inheritance goes to charity—as per Grandma Ruby’s wishes.
And wouldn’t that just be a shame?
“I’m preparing my people,” I tell her, knowing that whatever information I give her now is going straight to Maxwell Barrasso. “We’ll wait for an official apology from Maxwell, but only until Monday. You have a week, Ophelia.” I pause and lean forward, looking her dead in the face. I want her to know how serious I am about this. “One week.”
I stand up, taking the jacket with me.
The restaurant can add it to Trinity’s tab.
Lord knows Ophelia can’t afford it.
Bernadette Blackbird
Sara Young pulls into the driveway of Aaron’s place. I’m heartbroken to see all the windows dark. The Bronco and the Firebird are missing. Shit, I don’t even see Vic’s Harley. Across the street, two uniformed officers sit in a quiet cruiser, watching the place.
I can’t decide if it’s for our protection … or to catch us in a lie.
“Can I please have my phone back?” I ask, turning to look at her. I don’t know what the rules are for cops and phones and searches and all that. I do know that Sara had a search warrant, and that her team seemed to have no trouble cracking my passcode.
She shuts the ignition off, leaving the car to tick and cool around us.
“Not at this time, no,” she tells me, and I sigh. It’s such a heavy sound, you’d think the world were collapsing around me. “Do you want to tell me what mare’s nest means?”
My mouth twitches.
“A place, condition, or situation of great disorder or confusion,” I say, quoting Merriam-Webster for the win. I shift my gaze away from the dash and over to Sara’s petite face. She’s so … cute. And pixie-like. Pretty much the opposite of me. When I look up and into the mirror on the back of the sun visor, I can see my pouty mouth, the dramatic shape of my eyes. Without my usual makeup, I look too young. The image disturbs me, so I flip the visor up and away. “Why do you ask?”
Victory at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys Book 5) Page 3
