Victory at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys Book 5)

by C. M. Stunich

  Not sure if you can tell, but … I fucking hate billionaires. Despise ‘em actually. Pretty sure it’s impossible to be a billionaire and a good person at the same time. Definitely mutually exclusive concepts.

  “He won’t be back in time to attend the funeral, will he?” I ask and Sara Young just stares at me. “We haven’t done anything wrong. Callum defended himself.”

  “He brawled with an enforcer for the Grand Murder Party and then shot him in the forehead,” Sara explains, as if I haven’t heard the story from somebody that was actually there. She turns around and starts down the sidewalk, but I follow after her.

  “Careful, Havoc Girl,” Vic murmurs, his deep voice rumbling through me, like thunder on the night of a summer storm. I glance back to find him with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, sweats slung low, shirtless and perfect. “Keep your temper.”

  I turn back to find Sara waiting at the end of the walk with Constantine.

  “It isn’t against the law to defend yourself against a school shooter.” I cross my arms over the front of my pajama top, the one covered in coffins and crosses. It’s appropriately morbid. Bought it at the Hellhole almost a year ago with money I stole from Pam. Figured I should support a local business run by an ex-Prescott student—especially since I’ve stolen way too much from that fucking place. “So, what is this about? A scare tactic? Are you putting pressure on me because of your stupid plea deal?”

  Sara laughs. The sound is a little dry, a bit tired. I’m blurring her lines and this woman, she’s someone who loves to color inside of them.

  “You know, Bernadette,” she tells me, raking her gaze down my outfit while Constantine scowls at me. Seems to be the only thing he’s good at now, sneering and scowling. He tried, at first, when he was pretending to be a detective investigating Danny’s death. But now? He considers us all useless Prescott trash, and he isn’t afraid to show it. “I get the GMP’s motivations. And … I get the Charter Crew’s. Hell, I even understand your mother’s to a certain extent.” She points at me with a perfectly manicured French tipped nail. “But it’s you that I don’t understand, you that I don’t get.”

  I stare her down, my mouth pursed into a thin line. If one of my boys goes to prison, I will lose my shit trying to plan a jailbreak and an escape into a foreign country. I don’t want that. I don’t want to abandon Prescott and Springfield to the shadows.

  “Maybe if you got to know us a little better, you would.” I’m looking at Sara’s petite face, even while Constantine snorts rude laughter from behind her. “Maybe, if you came to Stacey’s funeral today, that would go a ways in helping repair the relationship between the authorities and Prescott. Hell, you might learn something.”

  “We have better things to do than attend the funeral of some teenage whore with a drug problem.” Constantine steps up beside Sara as she stiffens up and flicks an angry glance his way. She doesn’t share his sentiments perhaps?

  My rage flares up so white and blinding that I almost throw a ring-studded punch at the federal agent’s face.

  “Stacey did not have a drug problem,” I grind out, wondering why I’m so defensive of the girl now that she’s gone. In some strange way, I’d gotten attached to the idea of having a female friend, somebody who might actually understand me. I love my boys, don’t get me wrong, but I miss having a woman to talk to. There’s no substitute for a strong feminine bond like that. “And she wasn’t a whore. Her girls cleaned up the sex trade around here.”

  “By being their own whores?” Constantine asks with another laugh. “Believe it or not: that’s not exactly a revolutionary act.”

  “Isn’t it?” I retort as Sara turns her attention back to me. “There’s always going to be an underground, Constantine. There’s always going to be a dark side. Stacey and her girls had sex workers collecting their own money, choosing their own clients.”

  “And robbing them blind,” he interjects, looking me over with dark brown eyes.

  “That’s enough, John,” Sara says, reaching out to put a hand on his arm. He shakes her off as footsteps sound on the walk behind me. Cal. You can only hear Callum Park coming when he wants you to. And when he does, it almost sounds like he’s standing on his tiptoes—ready to move at a moment’s notice.

  “Until the world stops favoring the wealthy and corrupt, until there are opportunities for girls like Stacey Langford, you have to accept that they’ll do whatever it takes to survive. They shouldn’t have to sell their bodies, but the world you’ve created gives them few choices. But go ahead, mansplain to me what a revolution looks like. I’ll wait.”

  I cross my arms over my chest as Constantine works his jaw in frustration. Unlike Sara, he has no desire to take my filthy tainted soul and wipe it clean. Luckily, it seems like Sara’s the senior partner in their pairing; he defers to her.

  “I’m ready,” Cal says, pausing beside me in a pair of boots. He’s clearly been ready for a while, hanging back and watching me verbally flay two FBI agents. “But I’d like to attend the funeral. This won’t take long, will it?”

  Sara looks at him for a moment before dropping her gaze back to mine. Her eyes are contemplative, swirling with ideas and theories. She knows we’re dirty somehow, but she doesn’t want to believe it. Strange circumstances are coming together, giving her reasons to give into her naivety and let us off the hook. There are bodies, but we didn’t bury them. There are bad things happening in this town, but we’re not doing them.

  “Maybe we will go to the funeral,” Sara says, surprising me. Constantine, too, if the look he throws is her any indication. He can’t possibly fathom why she’d want to waste her time at the funeral of a dead whore. Anger rises up in me, hot and filthy, but I push it aside. Save it for later, as Vic might say. Wield it like a weapon. I really should trust his advice, considering how goddamn similar we are. “Why don’t you give me the details and we can speak with Callum after?”

  I stare right back at her, and I swear, the look on her pretty face is a challenge.

  The thing is, I’m a dog of motherfucking war. I know exactly how to hold the stare of another predator and win. After a moment, Sara takes out her phone, unlocks the screen and passes it over to me.

  After a split-second of hesitation, I take it and type in the address. Stacey’s funeral is being held at a different cemetery than the one where Pen is buried, thank god. I’m not sure if I’m ready to go back up there just yet. And not necessarily because of the trauma Neil put me through, but … because I don’t how to face my sister just yet.

  It wasn’t the Thing with his twisted appetite that finally snuffed out your sweet light? It was Mom? Pen, if you were so scared of Pamela, you should’ve told me … You should’ve told me everything. We could’ve run away together. We could’ve taken Heather with us.

  My breath catches because I know that, even in my desperate dreaming, a plan like that never would’ve worked.

  “Starts in two hours,” I say, studying the two VGTF agents. Keep your friends close, your enemies closer, am I right? And I intend to keep Sara tucked up right beside me until we get through this. “For now, you can fuck right off. Prescott doesn’t like pigs—be they from the SPD or the FBI or the motherfucking CI-fucking-A.”

  “Why don’t you see if you can’t get the F-word into your speech a bit more frequently?” Constantine jeers, turning away and heading for the passenger side of the car. “Shows off how much class you’ve got.”

  “Oh, Constantine, baby,” I call as Sara starts after him, pausing to give me a look that clearly says don’t get started with him. “You have no idea how classy this bitch can be.”

  I let out a throaty chuckle, eyes shifting to the right as I hear a monster sound system throbbing from down the block. Not entirely unexpected in this neighborhood, but …

  “Hael’s back.” Cal dips his chin briefly and then lifts a hand up to indicate the pink and white convertible rolling toward us. The top is down, the vintage beauty clearly responsible for the
music pulsing in the gray February afternoon. The song that’s playing is “Girls in the Hood” by Megan Thee Stallion. My lips twitch. Really, Hael Harbin? Really?

  “You motherfucker,” I murmur, putting my hands together in a prayer position and touching them to my as-of-yet unpainted mouth. Don’t worry though: I’ll correct that later. I have an idea for a custom blended color for the funeral. Prescott girls know their lip color; I can’t disgrace Stacey’s memory with something basic.

  Hael pulls the car up alongside the curb behind the maroon-colored Subaru that Sara’s been driving. The paint is shiny and fresh, almost glaring in the tumbledown neighborhood with its overgrown lawns, faded apartment buildings, and moss-logged roofs. We have some mad car culture shit in Prescott, but you won’t find any residents here leaving their vintage beauties outside to be stolen. Happens all the time. The rule at Prescott High is: if you’re stupid enough to get your car stolen, then it doesn’t belong to you anymore. Get over it.

  Rumor has it that’s how Scarlett Force met her main squeeze—by stealing his car and then totaling it.

  “Hael Harbin,” I warn as my heart thunders, and I forget for a moment that I’m supposed to be pissed off at the two VGTF agents standing in my yard. “What the fuck is this?”

  But, of course, I know exactly what it is.

  This is my ’57 Cadillac Eldorado, the one he promised to restore for me.

  Promise, delivered. There’s even a bow on the motherfucking hood.

  “Girl,” he says, turning the song up and then opening the door and revealing the bloodred leather interior. “Your man doesn’t say shit if he doesn’t mean it.” He lights up a cigarette and raises his red brows in Sara’s direction. “Officers.” He turns back to me, effectively dismissing them as unimportant. “Get that tight ass over here and check out your new ride.”

  He steps back and holds out a tattooed hand to indicate the driver’s seat.

  Personally, I’m rooted to the spot, as if the ivy spilling down the side of our rental house has trapped my ankles, bound me to Prescott soil so I can feel the dark but vibrant energy of the neighborhood.

  “Probably stolen,” Constantine murmurs, but I ignore him. If he’s stupid enough to think the Havoc Boys would bring a stolen car around with the VGTF on our dick, then there’s really no reason to worry about him at all.

  “Hael …” I start again as Megan sings about being a bad bitch.

  “Blackbird,” he warns right back, reaching out and snatching my wrist. He yanks me up against him, putting his lips up to my ear and sucking the lobe into his hot mouth. My hands come up of their own accord, fingers curling in the front of his t-shirt. When he left this morning, I assumed he was checking on his mom. This … I did not expect this at all. “Stop questioning your good fortune. Sometimes, good things happen. Just smile and say thank you baby, yes I’d be happy to suck your dick later and call it a day.”

  I smack him in the chest, and he laughs, but we both know that we each owe each other oral sex. Regardless of the giving and receiving, neither of those scenarios is a punishment for either of us. As I bury my fingers in his shirt, dragging the neckline low enough that I can lick the Hot Rod ink on his chest, my eyes close and I summon up the memory of us fucking in the front seat of the Camaro. Or on the hood of it in Aaron’s driveway.

  “It’s beautiful,” I breathe, thinking of the fuzzy pink dice he got me for Christmas. They’re admittedly hideous, and totally tacky, but I see now that they’ll go perfectly on the rearview mirror. “Actually, it might be the most beautiful thing that anyone has ever done for me.”

  I press my face into his chest as he bands his tattooed arms around me. As always, he smells like coconut and motor oil, like grease-stained Prescott dreams dotted with vintage cars and inked hands and scrappy determination. Havoc owes its existence to Hael as much as to anyone else because without him, and his constant desperation to maintain cheer, to joke around when everything else seems to be falling apart, this would never work. He tempers the rest of us with a strength I don’t think even he knows he has.

  “Shall we go for a drive?” he asks, and I nod, still pressed against him. Really, there are a lot of other ways I’d like to thank Hael Harbin—most of them involving either my pussy or my mouth wrapped around his dick. Unfortunately for both of us, the decorous officers of the Violent Gang Task Force are still standing here.

  “Come inside for a minute,” Cal murmurs, moving up to stand beside us. As he does, and his heat joins with Hael’s, I start to wonder about combinations of boys. Like, does a Hael/Cal sandwich taste any different than a Hael/Vic sandwich? What about a Cal/Oscar with a side of Aaron? Will they enhance each other’s flavors or just cancel each other out?

  Only one way to find out …

  “Inside,” Hael says, working his jaw briefly. “Okay.” He leans down and kisses my cheek with an affectionate ferocity that leaves me trembling slightly in my pj’s. Hael Harbin makes me feel safe, and excited about life, like we might do something crazy at any moment. Hold hands and dive into an ice-cold stream. Wake up at five in the morning to make pancakes. Pack an overnight bag and jump on an international flight. “Let’s go inside for a moment so you can get dressed? Then we’ll look at the car.”

  I pull away from Hael just in time to see him lift a dark gaze and a scowl on the officers. They’re standing there, looking around the neighborhood and making notes on Sara’s phone. They even write down the license plate of the Eldorado which annoys the fuck out of me.

  As Hael puts a hand on my lower back to guide me away, I catch a glimpse of said license plate, and my lips twitch. It’s a specialty plate featuring the infamous Crater Lake. Oh, and it’s personalized. Frankly, I’ve always thought of people who get personalized license plates as big fat douchebags, but …

  “HAVOC?” I choke out, disbelieving the ability of the Havoc Boys to actually get such a thing printed on a license plate. At first, I wonder if that’s such a good idea, advertising my gang affiliation to the world. But then I remember that it’s motherfucking tatted on my knuckles, that you couldn’t miss the Havoc Boys if you tried. Besides, whenever we’re about to do something illegal, we just steal a different car to use during the crime.

  “HAVOC,” Hael confirms as he guides me up the walk and inside, past a shirtless and still-smoking Victor. Vic closes the door behind Callum, flicks a lock, and then scoots over to peek through the curtains.

  “So goddamn predictable,” he murmurs as I try to pry myself away from the spell Hael seems to have cast over me. “They’re putting a tracker on the Eldorado.”

  “Before they even finished parking, Constantine hopped out and stuck one to the Bronco and the Firebird.” Hael pauses and gives Vic a grim sort of look that very clearly says apologies in advance. “They tagged your Harley, too.”

  “Motherfucker,” Vic growls as I strip off my pj shirt right there in the dining room, flashing my tits to all three boys present and startling a fourth when Aaron comes down the steps and pauses in the foyer.

  Dragging a white t-shirt over my head, I shake my hair out and pretend like my nipples aren’t so hard that they hurt. Or that they’re not showing through the fabric like two fresh pink roses—complete with thorns.

  Aaron’s eyes catch on my breasts before he reluctantly drags his gaze up to my face, swiping a hand over his own and shaking his head at me. I just smirk right back at him.

  “A tracker, huh?” I murmur, moving over to peek out the curtain beside Vic. “What do we do about that? Borrow cars to get around?”

  “No,” Oscar says, also joining us from upstairs. “We’ll use the trackers against them. Guide them where we want them to go.” His razor-sharp mouth tilts up at one corner, and his eyes sparkle with all the ways we might fuck with the cops without actually committing any crimes. “It might be advantageous to do a few experiments, see if we can’t lose them, and if we do, how long until they catch up to us.”

  “Which Bernie and I are very
happily going to do as soon as they get the ever-loving fuck out of here,” Hael says, and this time, he just throws the curtains nearest him open, cigarette clenched between his teeth as he waves at the detectives with a tight smile on his full lips. “Not very subtle, are they?”

  Aaron huffs as he slumps into a chair and then hops right back up as it creaks and groans beneath his bulk.

  “Jesus,” he murmurs, shoving chestnut hair back from his forehead with clear annoyance. He could probably use a haircut. Not sure if I’m going to allow him to get one though. I sorta like his hair longer. “What need would they have to be subtle? We know they’re after us; they know we know.” He shrugs his big shoulders. “Anyway, Bernie.” Aaron turns that piercing gaze of his over to me, the colors of his irises a mesmerizing blend that the artistic side of me is dying to recreate with a brush or a colored pencil. Except, my talent lies in poetry, right?

  Spring and summer, a twisted tide, a gaze of made up of green grass and the sunshine that falls across the blades.

  Eh. Maybe I shouldn’t quit my day job as a gangster’s wife? Or … gangsters’ wife? Apostrophes make all the difference, don’t they?

  “Yes, Aaron?” I ask as his eyes travel my body again, sliding across my breasts in just such a way that I shift a little under the intensity of it.

  “Do you mind if I tag along?”

  “Ooooh,” Hael howls, tossing his head back as he laughs. The cigarette flops out of his mouth and he curses as he drops his chin and bats at the still burning embers on his shirt. “You want to join us, do you, lover boy?” Hael continues to shake his shirt out as he chuckles at Aaron. “I hear you and Vic performed like pro-wrestlers in a tag-team match: all the faux fighting, all of the unnecessary drama, but damn good actors when it came time.”

  “I meant on the drive, you fucking twat,” Aaron gripes back, flicking open the box of pink doughnuts on the table.