Victory at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys Book 5)

by C. M. Stunich

  We end up at a table much farther away from Constantine than I think he likes, but also a bit too far from the boys for my liking. But I concede, if only to hear what the fuck this news about Ivy Hightower is.

  “If you haven’t heard already—and I assume you will shortly—Ivy Hightower was an informant of mine.”

  I just stare across the table at Sara Young and try to decide what it is I’m supposed to be feeling right now. Pamela and Penelope … I shut the thoughts down with an iron door, one crafted of self-preservation and twisted hope. Any lingering ideas I had about Pam valiantly accepting that she would go down for Neil’s death, if only to make up for her past transgressions, has been dashed. Also, finding out that Ivy was Sara’s informant both makes a ton of sense and also infuriates me. Likely, that’s the reason we found her dead on Aaron’s front lawn in the first place.

  “Your informant,” I repeat, and Sara nods, even though I wasn’t asking a question. I lift my coffee to my lips and take a sip, enjoying it black while Sara loads hers with enough cream and sugar to choke an Asian palm civet cat.

  I drag my phone from the pocket of my gray blazer and do a quick search. Sure enough, there it is, plastered over every local news site and several national news sites as well. Local Girl Killed While Under the Protection of the Violent Gang Task Force.

  I look up. Sara’s face is sad and distant, but there’s no less steel in her expression than before. If anything, she looks even more determined than usual. When I set my coffee cup down, and it clinks against its saucer, she finally turns back to me.

  “I put Ivy in danger, and I shouldn’t have asked the same of you. I’m glad you’re safe at Oak Valley.” She pauses and sits back as I scroll the article. Apparently, Ivy’s body was found on an unnamed piece of rural property near Veneta. Tom’s property.

  “Neil killed her?” I say, and I phrase it as a question. I mean, thus far that was just theory on our part anyway. But Sara’s slight nod gives me a sense of … not peace, exactly, but understanding. Everything makes sense now. Every person in my story is connected, somehow, to the Grand Murder Party.

  “I want you to know that everything you’ve ever told me, I’ve taken to heart,” Sara continues, exhaling sharply and glancing in Constantine’s direction, like maybe she’s about do something she shouldn’t but is planning on it anyway. She flicks her doe-eyes back to mine as I pick at the edge of my croissant with my perfect fingernails. Vera’s aunt is basically a nail goddess. Not sure if I’ll ever be this happy with another nail artist for as long as I live. “That tip about Neil’s father and brother … You’ve given me all the ammunition I need, Bernadette.”

  “How so?” I ask, thinking about all the times I wished I could call the cops on Neil, report him to the authorities, all the times the Thing and Pam got in trouble and found their records wiped clean.

  “I can’t talk about the details of an active investigation,” Sara begins, sipping her milky coffee carefully and giving me a look that I know I’m supposed to read into. “But the connections between those two men and the GMP are astounding.”

  I just stare back at her, the clinking of cups and the dancing of silverware a comforting murmur of normality in a life that’s been anything but normal thus far, that’s likely to be anything but normal ever again. But in a good way, the best way, because if Neil’s family goes to prison, and Pam goes to prison, and the GMP is neutered and twisted by the VGTF, and they stop selling and hurting kids … what could happen to me?

  Could I live a fabulous live surrounded by men that I love? Could I be a queen in so many other ways beside violent, dark, shadowed ones?

  Something strange happens inside of me, this odd bubbling sensation that feels like a champagne bottle about to burst. Like fireflies dancing. Like the feel of hot fingers on your skin after you come inside from the rain. Happiness.

  Pamela’s face flickers into view again, but I crush it down.

  This could really be it, the end of everything I’ve ever suffered. The bodies on Tom’s land blamed on the GMP, the deaths of the Charter Crew, the atrocities of the Pence family. All of it wrapped neatly into a black silken bow.

  “Anyway, what I meant to say was … I’m sorry. You and your boyfriends,”—and here her mouth twitches slightly—“should try to enjoy your time at Oak Valley. I’m leaving your police detail outside the school, just in case. But for now, at least, I’m not pursuing any charges against you.” She levels a look on me that also very clearly says, just because I’m being nice now doesn’t mean I don’t suspect y’all of mayhem and chaos elsewhere. “I would, however, like to know about Heather Pence. And Kara and Ashley Fadler.”

  Motherfucker.

  “We’ve hidden them from the GMP,” I say, taking another sip of my coffee. “Wouldn’t you do the same, if they were your sisters?”

  Sara’s mouth pinches, and I know this goes against her clear-cut rules of what’s right and what’s wrong, but eventually, she just sighs and gives me a look.

  “You used your contacts to get them into Oak River, didn’t you?”

  I say nothing, but fuck this woman for being perceptive beyond belief.

  “Well, after failing to track down Aaron’s mother, I’m starting to put together a picture, one where the care of two minor children are in the care of yet another minor child.” She glances across the café toward where Aaron sits, his mouth in a pretty sulk, a chestnut curl flopped onto his forehead. A minor … child. With his jacket off, and his white button-down undone at the top, showing just the faintest dusting of chest hair. Child. Hilarious. Sara looks back at me. “Besides that, CPS is aware that Heather has been living with you until recently.”

  CPS. Child Protective Services. An organization I stopped trusting the day Coraleigh left Penelope and me with the Kushners. I’d rather die than give Heather or Kara or Ashley up to a system that doesn’t care.

  “They’re safe,” I tell Sara, leaning back in my chair and crossing my arms over the front of my stupid ass prep school uniform. It’s like, as soon as Oak Valley started using this hideous Catholic schoolgirl rip-off uniforms, I swear to fuck, every other school within three hundred miles started doing the same.

  Jesus H. Christ, but I hate mimics.

  Just because one prep school does it, doesn’t meant the rest of them need to start going all Single White Female and trying to wear Oak Valley’s pompous skin.

  “They might be safe, but you and your husband will need to legally challenge Heather’s custody with the court. Because you’re emancipated, you have a chance to fight this. Aaron … is in a much worse position than that.”

  “Sara—” I start, ready to go full fucking Prescott on her. If there’s one thing I cannot be reasoned about, it’s the care of those goddamn kids. I’d rather take off and run, forgo the inheritance and the future of Prescott and even leave the pedo ring in place to protect my family. But, interestingly enough, it seems like I might not have to do that.

  Having finished her coffee, Sara stands up and looks down at me with a curious expression on her face, like something about me has managed to surprise her. Guess she’s managed to surprise me, too, because I almost, sort of, kind of like her a little bit. Almost.

  “Anyway, dealing with minor child placement and custody issues is not a part of my job description.” She gives a small sigh and shakes her hands out, like she can’t believe she’s actually doing this. “Send me a picture of the girls today, so I can see that they’re alright and I’ll let CPS do their own work.”

  I let out a sharp exhale as Sara turns away, collecting Constantine near the front door before slipping outside and heading down the street. I stay where I am, waiting for the familiar flicker of shadows, the chorus of musky male scents, and the scraping of chair legs on the floor.

  When I look up, I’m surrounded by all five Havoc Boys.

  “How did it go?” Aaron asks, the arms of his shirt pushed up to reveal corded forearms dressed in ink. I finish my coffee and set
it aside as Cal steals my croissant and proceeds to eat it, crouched in his chair instead of seated on it. Other café patrons are staring, but screw them because they drink cat shit coffee and Cal is a hot fuck. Also, he’s loyal and protective and an incredible dancer and he’s all fucking mine.

  “Actually,” I say, glancing over at Oscar on my right, Hael seated beside him. Victor stays standing, leaning his monstrous body up against the window behind him. “It went surprisingly well. For the first time since this all started, I’m wondering if things aren’t going to work out okay after all.”

  “They will,” Oscar purrs, a nightmarish smile lighting on those pretty, peremptory lips of his. “Provided we can come up with a plan for Maxwell and Ophelia.”

  And he’s right.

  Because even if Trinity is playing along for now, and Ophelia has backed off, and Maxwell is quiet … this isn’t over yet.

  In fact, it’s far fucking from it.

  “Was that really our first day?” I ask as I flop down on one of the hideous gray sofas in the living room, trying and failing to not appreciate the view outside our wall of windows. It’s pretty much fucking awesome, seeing the whole of the Willamette Valley sparkling in the distance like a handful of jewels across an ebony blanket. “Because it felt like a fucking year. Also, I’m probably going to fail every class I’m signed up for except maybe gym.” I scrub both hands over my face, dressed in a pair of BlackCraft Cult sweats with a Ouija board pattern and a tank top that says I Have Witchcraft on my Lips. Being in love is its own kind of magic, so I figure it’s not a total lie.

  A quick glance at my phone shows a few old messages from Sara Young asking me to call her. Since we already had a conversation today, I delete them and don’t think anything of it. I don’t ask how high when a cop tells me to jump. I’ve also got a few texts from Vera, describing in great detail her newest conquest’s cock. Actually, there’s a picture that goes along with her anecdotes. Guess we’re ride or die bitches now. I suppose helping us murder a well-known gang member kind of sealed the deal on that one.

  “Why the fuck do you have a picture of some random guy’s dick on your phone?” Aaron asks, pausing behind me with shower-damp skin and a pair of pajama pants that should be illegal. They cling to his slender hips, showing off that sharp set of V-muscles and a light trail of chestnut hair that disappears under the waistband. Fuck.

  I force my gaze away from him and back down to the dick on my phone. Honestly, it isn’t that great of a dick. The head is too flared, too purple for my liking, and the veins are just out of control. A few here and there are nice, but like, this one is spider-webbed with them.

  “Vera sent it to me for examination. Frankly, I’m not impressed.” I tap out a message telling her so as Aaron snorts and comes around to sit on the sofa with me, his eyes taking in the apartment with a mixture of excitement and distaste that I full well understand. Like, this place is nice, and it feels safe, but it’s also foreign and excessive and cold.

  “I don’t like you getting pictures of random cocks on your phone,” Vic says from the direction of the kitchen, unloading a bag of groceries that he had delivered to the front gate about an hour ago. The security guard collected the purchase, inspected the items, and then had a courier deliver it to our room. That’s how things work here, at Oak Valley Prep. There’s a servant for every menial task. The edge of my lip curls up in distaste.

  “Well, you can just deal, Alpha-Dick.” I send the text to Vera and then set my phone aside, picking up the leather-bound journal from the table that Aaron got me for Christmas. He wrote a message on the inside that’s almost too sweet to repeat, something about how I should, like, chase my dreams or something. This is where I’m going to write my poems, now that I’m not in Mr. Darkwood’s class anymore. My English class here is … way different. We’re reading some shitty story called Bartleby, the Scrivener that makes my teeth hurt a little bit whenever I try to start it. It’s that terrible. “Vera is the only possible girlfriend candidate that I have right now, and I intend on keeping her around.”

  Vic snorts at me, but he really isn’t all that bad as he appears. He’s an alpha male, sure, but he isn’t a controlling misogynistic twat-waffle.

  Aaron watches me poise my pen above the page and I lift my eyes to his, feeling that same warm brush of heat in my chest that I always get when we look at each other.

  “I wish the girls could stay here with us,” he says, glancing back at the apartment. There’s plenty of space here. In fact, there are three bedrooms in total. We could probably finagle a way to get the girls moved into the space, but the whole point of them coming here under aliases was so that the GMP didn’t know they were here in the first place. If they don’t know where Kara, Ashley, and Heather are, they can’t come looking for them.

  And if the GMP does come looking for us … the girls won’t be around to see the bloody aftermath.

  “Me, too.” I set the journal down and lean into Aaron, closing my eyes as he runs his fingers through my hair. Oscar, meanwhile, hangs near the front door with Hael, installing a series of locks that Callum’s chosen to keep us as safe as possible. I find the sight of a half-dozen locks comforting because it reminds me of Prescott, of home. That is, Aaron’s house and not the duplex I lived in with Pam.

  Pam.

  Shit.

  A subject I’ve been avoiding for weeks now.

  I use my toe to lift the cover of the journal, so that I can see the wrinkled and smudged piece of paper that contains my list. Only one name remains. The most damaging name of all. The one person who led me to the Thing, to Coraleigh, to the Kushners. All along, Pamela was involved in the very same human trafficking ring as Ophelia. Shit, Penelope and I were involved in that.

  We were sold once upon a time.

  I choke on the memory and draw my foot back, letting the journal slam shut.

  “Are you okay?” Cal asks, padding down the hall from the direction of the bedroom in a pair of boxer shorts and an unzipped hoodie over his bare chest. In this light, I can see all of his scars. The sleeves of his sweater are pushed back just enough that I can make out the fallen ballerina tattoo on his arm as well. “You look lost in memory.” He smiles, like he well knows that feeling, that face, that sense of falling into something even when you’re trying your very best to fly.

  “Pamela,” I say, and it’s all I have to say because these boys know me so damn well that they can infer the million and one emotions that go along with that name.

  Cal sits down on the sofa opposite me as I study that ballerina tattoo in earnest, and Aaron strokes my hair with strong, steady fingers. It occurs to me then that the GMP has not only taken our school from us, they’ve also stolen away Callum’s classes at the Southside Dreams Dance Company. There’s no way for him to go into town and teach safely. So, for now, even that fragment of his dream has been put on hold.

  I tell myself it’ll all be better later, that once Vic gets his inheritance, Callum can build a dance studio and hire professionals and give little Prescott dancers a chance to cling onto dreams they’d never have thought possible in a million years. Because, even though Victor technically owes nothing to the rest of the Havoc Boys, I know that when he said we’d all have an equal share of the inheritance, he meant it.

  “Do you want to see Pamela?” Callum asks finally, after giving me a moment to process. Hael joins him on the couch a few seconds later and lets his friend put his legs across his own. They’re cute together, Cal and Hael. “If you don’t, that’s okay. And if you do, that’s okay, too. My grandmother killed my mom. I still want to see her.”

  “I …” The words get stuck in my throat. Do I want to see Pamela? It’s a question I haven’t let myself ask because I knew the answer would sicken me. Aaron’s fingers still in my hair and his breath catches, like he can sense the direction of my thoughts. “Frankly, I just wish she would die and disappear, so I never had to think of her again.”

  And there it is, the reality
of my strange relationship to a woman I hate so much that the very idea of her fills me with something sad and sick and broken. If she really did kill Penelope—and I feel like Sara Young is a far too careful hero to make a mistake like that—then I don’t ever want to see her again. She isn’t worth a single breath, a single sip of water or bite of food. The world would be instantly better off if she didn’t exist.

  “We can make that happen,” Oscar says, pausing next to the couch in bare feet. Bare. Feet. Something about Oscar’s tattooed feet make me excited in a way that I can’t explain. Like, I’m damn near positive that not only was he a virgin before me, but also that nobody else has ever seen his feet like this, exposed and naked on the pale wood floors of our new apartment. “Is that what you want? You were right, about finding one of Stacey’s girls in the county jail that could help us out.”

  I lift my eyes up to his, impossible to read behind the thick lenses of his glasses, too distant to interpret. But I have the power to bridge that gap, to see all the way down, into the twisted complexity that makes up one of the most beautifully damaged people I have ever known.

  Victor joins us, his aura making the room seem impossibly small despite the fact that it’s fucking huge and almost disturbingly austere.

  I sit up, but I stay close to Aaron. Being close to Aaron makes me feel vulnerable but strong, too, like I can take that vulnerability and wield it as a weapon in the same way that Victor wields his anger.

  After a moment, Oscar moves away, and my heart seizes painfully in remembrance of his past fuckups, his fleeing, his leaving me alone in the cold and the dark with blood between my thighs … But he comes back quickly and puts a glass of chocolate milk on the table in front of me, complete with straw.

  “It’s a biodegradable straw,” he tells me when I lift incredulous eyes up to his stoic face, his inked fingers brushing gently against the front of his tattooed neck. “Since I know you give a lot of fucks about that sort of thing.”