Victory at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys Book 5)

by C. M. Stunich

  I hop into the back, stretching my legs along the bench seat as Bernie crawls over and straddles me. Her pretty little hands free my pulsing cock, teasing the pre-cum that leaks from the tip as she lifts her green eyes up to mine. Tucking some of that gorgeous hair behind her ear, she leans down, leather-clad ass up in the air as she slicks her tongue around the head.

  Her mouth creates a torrid love affair with my cock as my fingers massage her scalp, encouraging her to take me as deep as she can. The slick feel of her tongue makes my balls contract, and I have to bite my lower lip to keep from spilling myself too early.

  I’m going to savor this fucking moment.

  The sound of tires on gravel precedes the police cruiser pulling into the lot, and I glance briefly at the screen of my phone before chucking it into the front seat.

  “Seventeen minutes,” I groan as the song switches to “Porn Star Dancing” by My Darkest Days and Zakk Wylde. The police keep their distance, parking in the space farthest from us, but with the top down, and Bernie’s ass sticking up the way it is, there can’t be any doubt as to what we’re up to over here.

  And, like, I honestly couldn’t give a fuck less.

  All that matters right now is the way Bernie squeezes the base of my shaft, her tongue slicking up the underside like she’s licking a goddamn lollipop. She flicks her gaze up to mine as she wraps her pink mouth around the tip, tongue shooting out and tasting me as my hips buck up against her face.

  “We have an audience,” I tell her, but Bernie just chuckles, her mouth still wrapped around my cock. The vibration of that throaty sound vibrates my shaft, and my eyes roll back into my head. “Jesus Christ, Blackbird.”

  “That’s nothing special,” she murmurs, yanking my jeans down and encouraging me to take them off. Well, shit. In the backseat of the Eldorado, the top open, the city stretched out before us … The Ford F100 across the parking lot is bouncing quite nicely, letting me know that Pussy Point is living up to its name.

  I kick my boots off and let Bernadette pants my ass. She sits up briefly, undoing her own pants and dipping her hand inside, her eyelids fluttering as she plays with her pussy for a moment. I have no clue what she’s doing, but I’m game to watch. When she withdraws her hand, her fingers are slick with her own lube.

  I watch, fascinated, as she drops her mouth back to my cock, circling the base with her left hand and sucking the tip while at the same time inserting a lubed-up finger into my ass.

  “Motherfucker,” I groan, the fingers of one hand digging into the seat while the other grips Bernie’s hair with a rough, almost violent contraction. There’s no controlling myself then. The orgasm slips from me along with a guttural sound that echoes across the parking lot and I shoot a hot stream of cum into my girl’s mouth.

  She stays where she is as I pulse and thrust against her and then collapse into the seat.

  “I take it you liked that,” Bernie purrs as I yank my shirt over my head and offer it to her to clean her fingers off. She chucks it into the front seat and then crawls up against me, her breasts pressing against my chest as our mouths come together with a sweet heat, sultry rock music spilling out into the night.

  “Thank fuck Oregon recently passed that close-in-age exemption law,” I say, still panting heavily as Bernadette trails hot kisses along the length of my jaw, pausing at the pulsing throb of my pulse. She pulls back just slightly and quirks a brow. “Romeo and Juliet law? No?”

  “So you won’t get charged with statutory rape?” she queries back, and I nod. Technically, since I’m eighteen and she’s seventeen, and we’re being followed by cops, it could be bad news bear for me. “Oh, and that’s absolutely something Sara Young would do.” She sits up and combs her hair over her shoulder, her hands resting on my bare thighs.

  A pleasured scream sounds from the direction of the Ford across the lot and we grin at each other.

  “This is fun, having a bit of an audience,” I murmur, snatching my boxers from the floor as Bernadette scoots back, and dragging them back on. “I mean, if that’s something you’re into, we’ve got a built-in one back home, now don’t we?”

  Bernie’s eyes sparkle, and I wonder if she hasn’t thought about all the fun we could get up to together. Different partners, different groups, different … arrangements. I wouldn’t mind being watched, the way Victor did that first night, when he filmed us. I’d like to do that again except, you know, without getting kicked out.

  “You put your underwear back on,” she hazards, like she actually thinks I’m going to nut and run. Nah. I might’ve been a man-whore, but I was never that sort.

  “Yeah, but only so I’m not flashing bare ass and getting myself arrested.” I grab her and she lets out a small gasp as I flip her body and pin her underneath me. My mouth finds Bernadette’s, sucking her lip between my teeth and biting down gently, just enough to make her squirm. “You yourself said it: if she can find a trumped-up charge to bring one of us, Police Girl will do it.”

  “And why, exactly, would your bare ass be showing?” she whispers as I grin against her mouth, pressing close and encouraging her lips to part for my tongue. I’ve never tasted a girl so sweet with such an acidic mouth. Like, she can pop off like the best of the Prescott bitches, but when we kiss, and I close my eyes, I imagine that we’re just a pair of high school sweethearts from the fifties, destined to grow old together.

  Feels like we could be, up here on ‘Hookup Point’, in this fifties car. Shit, even the Ford parked across the lot is from the fifties. Add in that leather Havoc jacket she was wearing, like she’s one of the Pink Ladies from Grease, and our favorite drive-in, Wesley’s. The soda fountain in south Prescott …

  I break away briefly to change the music from sultry rock to classic fifties hits.

  “What on earth is this?” Bernadette asks as I start “Where the Boys Are” by Connie Francis.

  “Just roll with it, Blackbird,” I tell her, pushing her back onto the seat with a hand on her chest. I undo those sexy pink cigarette pants of hers—also, incidentally a fashion from the fifties—and yank them off along with her panties. It’s full dark now, the city lights sparkling in the valley below us.

  You’d never know, looking at us now, that we survived a school shooting less than two weeks prior. Or that we’re in the middle of a gang war. No, up here on the Butte, everything else fades away. We’re just two teenagers in the backseat of a pink Caddy with heated bodies and wandering hands.

  “Blackbird,” I start again as I part her sweet, white thighs with my tattooed hands. Bernie moans and lets her head fall back, completely unashamed at exposing the swollen plump heat of her cunt to me. My own breath catches and my lashes flutter. I can already feel blood rushing to my cock as I stare down at her, wearing Victor’s old Prescott High tank, looking like a princess from another decade. “Those nights at the homeless shelter with you were some of the best days in my entire childhood.”

  “Don’t say that,” she whispers, but it’s the truth and I’m not ashamed. “You have no idea what a comfort you were to me,” she adds unexpectedly as I drop a single finger to the sweet curls between her legs. I’ve never liked girls that shave it all off. Kinda bothers me. Like, God or Goddess or Mother Nature put hair here for a reason, right? I run my fingers over those pale curls, teasing my finger down the slick line between Bernie’s thighs until she parts her lips in a sexy pout. “For years, I thought about you whenever I got scared on a stormy night.”

  “No,” I breathe, because I just can’t take hearing that. It’s too much. It’s far too much, more than someone like me deserves. “Blackbird …” My thumb finds the swollen nub of her clit, sliding over it as she throws her arms back, hands clutching at the edge of the car behind her.

  With my other hand, I tickle the softly dimpled flesh of her inner thighs, my eyes drinking in her perfect curves, the frantic rise and fall of her breasts as she closes her own eyes and pants in desperation and need. I can’t resist; I drop my mouth down between h
er thighs, sliding my tongue between her folds and swirling it around her clit.

  She curves her legs over my shoulders, trapping me where she wants me and giving me the privilege of paying off my debt. My hands curve underneath her, cupping and kneading the rounded perfection of her ass as I taste that tart-sweetness of her cunt. There’s nothing else in the world like it, that soft fragrance, that dulcet tang on my tongue.

  “Oh, Hael,” she groans, her hips rising up to meet my mouth. I lift my head up just enough so that I can look at her, her lids squeezed shut, her fingers digging into the Cadillac that I put so much work into. Just for her. This is a gift that I’d only ever give to my one and only.

  A smile curves across my lips as I move my left hand—yeah, I’m a leftie—to her pussy, slipping a single finger inside of her and feeling the silken heat of her wrap around me.

  “Shit.” The word escapes my lips before I drop my mouth back to her clit, adding a second finger and then a third, Bernadette’s body stretching to accommodate me. It’s so goddamn warm inside, so slick, the walls textured in a way that my cock full-well remembers. My hand pumps in and out as I use my tongue in a slow, languorous rhythm, my own hips grinding against the seat. With nothing but my boxers between me and the leather seat, I have no problem finding a spot that gets me just right.

  As Connie sings about where the boys are, I only have one girl on my mind.

  “Please, please, please,” Bernie moans, her back arching as my fingers slide in and out in that same, slow, perfect pace. She gets fucked enough. Girl needs to just relax into this. I ignore her cries for faster, harder, more, and take my time, loving the fine beads of sweat that cling to her white skin. It’s a cool February evening, but if the sex is good, you always sweat, even just a little.

  The couple in the Ford are really going at it now, their voices raised in pleasure, mixing with the crooning nostalgia of the fifties radio station that Connie started for us. When I feel my own climax sneaking up on me, I adjust my hand, removing one of my fingers from Bernie’s pussy and slipping it into her ass.

  With a shudder and a soft cry, her inner muscles wrap my fingers, pulsing and throbbing as she comes, spilling more of that sweet juice over my hand as I lick and suck at her clit. My hips pump faster against the seat until I’m coming apart with a desperate, searing relief, like that first hit off a joint, or that first sip of coffee in the morning. My orgasm is like … falling into bed after a long trip or cracking your knuckles or snorting a line of the purest coke. It’s almost as good as falling in love. But not quite.

  We stay where we are for a moment, panting and shivering as the cool air brushes across our sweat-soaked skin.

  “Jesus, Hael,” Bernie murmurs and I chuckle, sitting up and grabbing my discarded shirt again to clean my hand off. I’ve thoroughly fucked my boxers and honestly, I’m real glad I went with leather for the seats. Have you ever tried to get cum off a fabric seat? Fucking sucks.

  I sit up and drag my jeans on with shaking hands, slumping back into the seat as Bernie yanks on her panties and forgoes her pink pants entirely. She curls up against my side as another Connie Francis song starts up.

  “This … was not what I expected from you,” she whispers, tucked close to me. I glance back just in time to see a familiar maroon Subaru driving away. Huh. Hadn’t even noticed the VGTF assholes joining us on the Butte. Hope they enjoyed the show.

  “In a good way?” I ask, feeling my stomach knot as I wait for her answer.

  “In the best way,” Bernie agrees, and I sigh, my head falling back so I can look up and see the stars. “The absolute fucking best.”

  And with that, I’m damn near certain that I could die happy.

  Bernadette Blackbird

  Convincing your five possessive alpha-dick lovers to let you dress up like a whore and raid a gang-owned strip club is one of the hardest things a girl can go through. Frankly, I’m starting to run out of patience here.

  “Listen to me,” I start as Aaron leans back in his chair at the admittedly cute vintage table in the kitchen. Fifties era, linoleum top, aluminum legs and banding around the edges. Bound to be a classic someday. I might steal it when we leave. Not sure where I’d put it, but I like it. The look Aaron gives me is one-part irritation and two-parts terror. He knows that once I’ve latched onto something, I’m like a bulldog with a bone. He already knows he’s going to lose.

  Vic, on the other hand, could use a memo.

  “Listen to you talk about an idea that isn’t happening?” Victor quips, spraying testosterone in the air like a dragon breathing fire. My mouth tightens, and I feel myself getting all southside pissed off at him. “You’re not going into that club. Bernie, did you hear what Callum said? He couldn’t beat Mason Miller. No offense, but if Cal can’t do it then you can’t do it. I can’t do it.”

  “Not in a one-on-one fight,” I argue, standing up from my chair so quickly that it falls over, scratching the already ruined wood floors. This place is a dump, even by Prescott standards. But it’s also buried so deeply in our territory that if the GMP were to attack, our people would appear at their own windows, holding sawed-off shotguns and ready to fight. “But I have a plan. I’ve been talking to Vera, gathering information.”

  I grab Oscar’s iPad, our fingers brushing as I go to take it from him. Our eyes meet and a bolt of ice slashes through my chest, cooling some of my ire but encouraging a whole different sort of fire between my thighs, one that blazes so hot that a bead of sweat trails down between my breasts.

  Flipping the cover open, I pull up the map I drew with his stylus this morning, over coffee and doughnuts with Vera. She’s actually kind of … cool? Like, I can see how she became Stacey’s BFF. She fucks and discards naughty Prescott boys the way Hael used to plow his way through girls. Her mouth is filthy, but she’s sharp as a fucking tack. Loyal, too. Even with Stacey dead and buried, she won’t allow anything to taint her friend’s memory.

  “This is a map of Kay’s,” I say, noting that Vera scrawled KKKay’s in the corner. Fuck, I hate white supremacists. Nazis and racists and homophobes and sexists and fascists. Gross. But anything to inspire hate and division, am I right? “And this is Mason’s personal room. According to Vera—and a few of Stacey’s other girls—he uses this room every time he goes to the club. Every. Fucking. Time.”

  “And your point is?” Victor asks, his massive body leaned up against the countertop, rippling with ink and bullshit and smelling like amber and musk. Even as I hate him, I crave him. Even as I desire to gouge his face with my on-pointe nails, I want to fuck him. He makes me feel in ways I haven’t since my father died. “Mason will pick a girl and take her to that room, and if he isn’t stopped, he’ll fuck and torture her. He might even kill her. You’re not taking that risk, Bernie. You might be queen, but I’m still king, and I say no.”

  “Do you have a plan?” Callum croaks out, rubbing at his throat. The scab on the front is fading away, but he’s still got stitches—proper ones—in his shoulder and arm. It could’ve been a lot worse for him. If he wasn’t smart enough to know when enough is enough, he wouldn’t be here to crouch on top of the table like a spider monkey, hood pushed back, blond hair bright. “Something other than the obvious one of parading you in front of Mason under the guise of a call girl.”

  “I do,” I say carefully, looking over at Hael. He nods and holds out a hand, his other arm crossed over his chest.

  “I’m willing to at least listen?” he proposes, shrugging his massive shoulders. Swear to fuck, when I think about him with other women, I get stabby. But damn it if I don’t appreciate his skills. He fucks like somebody who earned a Hot Piece of Ass degree from an ivy league university. This guy knows what he’s doing, he’s got the talent and equipment, and he makes his experience work for him.

  I shift where I am, feeling my thighs get slick with need. That’s kind of how it is around here, a flurry of sex and violence. It’s just what we do, okay? No need to judge. I know how fucked-up
we all are.

  “I’ll listen, but I’m not agreeing to anything that puts you in a precarious position,” Aaron adds as I sit down on his lap and he lets out a grunt, palming my hip and letting his fingers get just a tad too close to the fly of my jeans.

  “If you’d all shut the fuck up, put your balls back in your boxers for a minute, and let me talk, you’d understand where I’m coming from.” I point at the map again. “It’s a near guarantee that Mason will choose a girl and retire to this room—alone. Stacey’s girls say he doesn’t like to be watched. Mostly, it’s because he’s into some really sick shit that he doesn’t even want his comrades in arms to know about. Everybody in the GMP is afraid of him, apparently. Killing this guy puts us so much closer to dismantling their organization. His fellow gangbangers hate him. He passes judgement too quick and plays judge, jury, and executioner on a regular basis.”

  Cal pops the top on a Pepsi can with his blue-painted nails and then sits back on his heels, sipping it and alternating handfuls of chocolate covered peanuts while he watches me.

  “We all agree that taking down Mason is important, but not with such significant risk to you.” Oscar slides the iPad back in his direction, pointing out several other bedrooms on the same upstairs hallway as Mason’s. “What if he decides he doesn’t want to take you back to his room? What if he decides he wants to use one of these instead? Then what? If you’re trapped with him, we might not be able to get to you in time.”

  “That won’t matter because I’m not going into the room with him. Shit, I’m not even asking to play call girl.” I lean back against Aaron’s chest and he shudders, curving a muscular arm around my midsection. His rose and sandalwood smell drifts around me, bolstering my resolve. “This is what I propose,” I start, exhaling as I push back red-tinged blond hair from my face. “Vera has already agreed to help me out. She’ll go to Portland and join the girls set to work the reception at Kay’s. Once she’s in, she’ll let us in the back door.” I point it out with my new favorite fingernail, the one with the little ring pierced through the tip. “Hael, Aaron, and I will head out to the front to keep an eye on Mason. With so many people in such a dark club, I doubt he’ll recognize us. The rest of you”—I point my finger at Cal, Oscar, and Victor—“will set up in the hall and inside Mason’s room. Regardless of what girl he picks, he’ll come up the stairs and we’ll have him alone and surprised. A one-on-one fight isn’t necessary. We just need to be slick about it.”