Victory at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys Book 5)

by C. M. Stunich

  “You’re running like, seriously fucking late,” he says, looking around the house like he’s going to miss it. I will, too, in a strange way. But I’ll also be relieved to start fresh somewhere else. Anyway, we’ve got some time to kill beforehand. We don’t move for a couple of months. “Do you want me to drive? Since, you know, you drive like a fucking grandma.”

  “Fuck you,” I fire back, toying with my phone for a minute. “We could probably get Wesley’s on the way back?” Even though we’ve graduated, and the diner is sort of a Prescott High hotspot, I think we can get away with going there indefinitely. After all, we’re Prescott royalty, aren’t we? “Do you want to see if everyone else is interested in going?”

  “Roger that,” Hael says, slipping back outside to the smell of weed. It’s our own strain—Havoc at Prescott High—and it’s fucking delicious. I’d smoke some if I wasn’t about to drive three little girls to a party.

  My mouth softens, thinking about Bernadette in her pink and white Cadillac Eldorado, hair billowing in the wind. I exhale sharply just before the back door opens and Hael reemerges with Victor, Callum, and Oscar at his back.

  “If you’re all going to Wesley’s, then I’m going,” is what Vic says as he breezes past, and I sigh. We’re out of the woods as far as the GMP goes—at least that’s how it appears with their infighting and power struggles up in Portland—and we’re not being tailed by the VGTF anymore, but Vic is a good leader and he keeps us on our toes, reminds us that we need caution around every corner.

  Especially after what happened to Bernie.

  Pain seizes me, and I have to brace myself on the table to remember how to breathe. Bernie, lying prone on the ground, bloody bubbles at her lips, the surgeon coming out and removing the mask from her face …

  I look back up as Ashley grabs onto my arm.

  “Let’s go!” she whines as Oscar gives her a patronizing look and Cal shrugs into a hoodie. Even if Vic is taking his bike, we’ll need at least the Bronco and the Camaro. Or, I guess, we could take the Caddy …

  “Alright, alright.” I encourage Kara and Ashley out the front door and then pause beside Heather as she checks her hair in the mirror one last time. A smile teases the edges of my mouth, made out of bitterness mixed with joy. How can things be so bad one minute, and then so good the next? How could Bernadette have been shot? How could she have died?

  I exhale again, squeezing my hands into fists at my sides and then forcing myself to relax them.

  “You ready now?” I ask as Heather finally turns back to me. She nods, and I shoo her ass right out the door, too, heading up the stairs to open the door to my bedroom—a place so inextricably entwined with memories of Bernadette that I could never see it and not think of her.

  Never.

  Not in a million years …

  Bernadette Blackbird

  Graduation day …

  There are so many ways to end a story like mine. If I were to try, I would do it like this.

  Born of vengeance and hardened by hate

  Every act of revenge a cry for love

  Desperate to keep believing

  Kisses that scorch my skin and leave forever marks

  A desperate sort of havoc, a broken chaos, a mayhem that crawls beneath your skin and makes you bleed

  Anarchy that ensues inside a twisted heart

  Only true victory comes with acceptance and mournful goodbyes

  Only true victory comes with love

  I die that day. I do. Hard for me to believe it, too. Especially the peaceful part. Because after everything I’ve been through, I assumed that when I finally lost control of my body, I would find myself on a rapid descent to some sort of hellish existence. Instead, all I feel is joy because I made those last few moments count. I smile because I know my boys are there with me. It seems too soon to say goodbye, but some part of me understands that I’ll see them again, somewhere, sometime, someplace.

  Because love like ours doesn’t die along with a body.

  You really think Havoc’s love is so fragile?

  Fuck no.

  So when the doctors—this beyond brilliant group of women at Joseph General that I never gave proper credit to—get my heart to start beating properly again, I come to with a sharp shock of recognition. This, Bernadette, this is where you’re meant to be right now.

  My eyes roll in my head, and the people around me are blurry enough that they may as well be angels.

  “We’ve got a fucking pulse!” one of them screams, which is just about the most Prescott thing you could ever say in an ER. That’s the last thing I remember before I fall back asleep. Not sure if my lips are smiling for real, or if I’m just smiling in my soul.

  But it’s there.

  And it’s painted in the bright red color of victory.

  Aaron Fadler

  Two months after graduation day … again.

  Lying there on my bed, earbuds tucked in, her phone on her belly, is Bernadette Savannah Blackbird.

  A smile teases the edges of my mouth, and I close my eyes, remembering the words that fell from that surgeon’s lips like a miracle I felt beyond unworthy to receive, like a supplicant at the feet of an all-powerful god.

  “Mr. Channing, she’s alive.”

  Of course, the surgeon said many other things after that, but I got caught on that word and couldn’t seem to pull myself away from it. Alive. She’s alive.

  Bernie pulls out the left earbud and glances over at me with a brow raised. Even though the master bedroom technically belongs to all of us—her and Vic most of all maybe, but still—if she needs to think or she needs a moment, Bernadette always comes up here.

  “We’re ready,” I say, and then I move into the room to offer my hand. Bernie reaches out and takes it, and even if she isn’t entirely back to her old self physically speaking, well, her mouth and her sass were in full force even back in the hospital.

  “Finally wrangled the brats up, huh?” she queries as she falls into my arms and I look down at her with every ounce of love and affection brimming inside of me. It’s almost too much sometimes, like it feels as if all of that desire and want will overflow and flood the world. That’s how much I love her, so much that I could bury the world beneath a blanket of that feeling.

  “Brats officially wrangled,” I say, dropping my mouth to hers for a kiss, one that tastes like the very first we shared. It zings across my mouth at the same time that it cuts straight through me, bleeding any insecurities or vulnerabilities that I have right out onto the floor. This is perfect, this is exactly where I need to be right now, in this place where each kiss tastes like the first one all over again. “We’re going to hit Wesley’s on the way back, so … everybody’s going.”

  “Oh, uh-huh,” Bernie says as she buries her face against my chest, her hands clinging to my shirt. “That’s why everyone’s going? For French fries and shakes? It has nothing to do with the fact that I got shot and you guys are obsessed with trying to take care of me?”

  “I wouldn’t just say obsessed,” I begin, stroking my fingers through her hair and trying my best to hide the smile that lights on my lips. “I’d say fanatical. Or zealous. Something like that.”

  Bernadette laughs, and I swear, it’s the prettiest sound I’ve ever heard in my entire life.

  “Fine. Hot-blooded, impassioned, ardent, blazing, demonstratively charged men.” She gives me another kiss but on the cheek this time, and then pulls away to head for the door, dressed in a pair of my old sweats and a t-shirt that says something political on it. Bernie stuffs her feet into boots as I follow her down the staircase and through the living room, out the front door and toward the waiting vehicles.

  Toward a future that looks brighter and brighter with every goddamn step we take.

  Even though she’s supposed to take it easy, Bernie snatches the Caddy’s keys from Hael’s fingers, opens the door and climbs in. She starts a song—“Dirty” by grandson—and presses the button that brings the top down.


  A warm august breeze teases her hair into a flurry around her face as she slips on a pair of sunglasses and glances over her shoulder at the three little girls in the backseat.

  “You ready?” she asks as Vic gets on his bike, and Hael gets in his Camaro. Oscar and Callum look at me for a moment before joining Hael. A smile teases the edges of my lips as Bernie cranks up the volume and I move around the hood of the car, giving the Bronco a fond pat as I pass by and climb into the passenger side of the Caddy.

  “Let’s roll,” Bernie says, sliding a piece of gum between her lips and giving it a sassy pop before she pulls out of the driveway with the girls raising their arms and squealing in excitement. The wind’s going to mess up their hair, but let’s be honest, I did a crap job anyway.

  I lean by head back against the seat and laugh as Bernadette sends us flying down the street, the Camaro and the Harley following along behind us. An entourage of Havoc for a little kid’s birthday party. Sounds about right.

  Because, Havoc, well, we don’t do anything in half-measures.

  Bernadette Blackbird

  Three months later …

  The bonfire is so tall that it kisses the sky; made up of old cardboard and bits of scrap wood fished from local dumpsters, it is clearly and proudly a Prescott High creation. I’m standing in front of it wearing my pink leather Havoc jacket while I wait for the boys to join me.

  You’re here, Bernadette Blackbird, I think with a slight twitch of the lips. It’s been one year since Victor and I got married on this very property, property that we now own. Property that we can start renovating now that Vic’s achieved every milestone his Grandma Ruby laid out for him.

  Shit, just surviving the past year was impressive enough. And then to end up here? In love? As a family? It wasn’t just havoc at Prescott High. It was chaos. It was mayhem. It was anarchy. It was pure victory. And we survived fucking all of it.

  I slip a pack of cigarettes from the back pocket of my leather pants and put one to my lips.

  “Need a light?” Hael Harbin asks, and I turn to look at him, standing beside me with a lighter in his hands. He offers it up and I lean forward, leaving the cigarette between my lips as I look into eyes the color of bitter chocolate. Some bites are a little sweeter than others, but don’t mistake this shit for a Milky Way.

  “I was going to see how close I could get to the bonfire before my smoke caught or my hair went up in flames.” I pull in a sharp inhale, my lips painted that same beautiful red, the shade that tastes like freedom and new beginnings, but I could just be waxing poetic. The color is called Victory, after all.

  “No more risks this year, Bernadette. You’ve already had enough narrow escapes as it is.” His voice trails off, and I just know that he’s thinking about it again, those last, few awful moments before his father shot me. Before he killed him. Before I died and then came back to life under the hands of some very skilled doctors.

  “Don’t do it,” I whisper, leaning into him and letting him band his arms around my waist. “Stop blaming yourself. I already told you: the only way you’re getting my forgiveness for that moment is to stop asking for it and to stop feeling guilty.”

  “I know,” he murmurs with a groan, nuzzling against the side of my head. “I’m trying, but it isn’t easy.”

  I think about Ms. Keating’s words on the last day of school—nothing worth having ever is—and I smile. She’s been awesome lately, Breonna has. Not only has she acted as a babysitter whenever we’ve needed one, but when I was tucked up in the master bedroom at Aaron’s house, convalescing and stoned off my ass to get through the pain, she brought me plenty of treats. Apparently, her mother was a Ghanaian immigrant and she learned to cook from her. I’ve eaten things in the past few months that I’ve never heard of in my entire life.

  But it was nice, like taking a trip while I was confined to a bed.

  I have a feeling Breonna and I will be friends for a long while.

  Well, her and Vera—which isn’t a surprise—and maybe even Sara Young.

  We’ve had a lot of time to spend together, with all the questioning and shit she put me through as soon as I well enough to answer. Still, whatever happened on campus that day, it was undeniably in self-defense. You can’t attack a bunch of high school kids with assault rifles and not find fault in their attackers. Still, in order to get out of any charges for our own illegal weapons, we had to offer her affidavits to use in court about what, exactly, transpired from the time Heather went missing to the time I was shot.

  Regardless, I can’t be mad at Sara Young. She’s brought charges against Neil’s father and brother and against all the rich, entitled assholes involved in either the trafficking ring or the money laundering through Trinity’s mother’s foundation.

  Trinity … All I know is that her father kicked her mother out of the house. For now, Trinity is still living with him, but I’ve heard rumors that she’s no longer in his will. Gossip still travels well through Springfield. Doesn’t matter if it originates in Fuller or Prescott or one of the Oak neighborhoods; we always know and we always hear. Because we are Havoc, and this fucking town belongs to us.

  “Between Brittany and my dad,” Hael breathes, but we both know how Brittany’s life is going. As in, not well. Rich Pratt took a scholarship opportunity in Florida, so he’s long-gone. And Britt had to explain to daddy Forrest that she had more than one potential baby daddy. Her friend Jennifer—via Vera’s grapevine of social networking—told us that she’s started working in her mother’s bookstore in downtown Fuller. Maybe being surrounded by all those words and all those worlds will make some sort of difference in her life? Either way, not our problem.

  “We could just as easily say between Ophelia and Pamela … Hael, family takes turns cleaning up each other’s messes. That’s what we do. We belong to each other, so your problems are my problems, and my—”

  Hael turns my head toward him and kisses me from over my shoulder, leaving me breathless and wanting, the way the boys always do. We’re insatiable, wild, little heathens with weekly bacchanalian affairs. Once we move into this house—and away from the sometimes too-watchful eye of Marie who’s been staying with us—they’ll probably be more like every other day affairs. Or maybe every day, at least for a while.

  We kiss until the other boys join us, fanning out around the fire in the front yard of the old Gothic house, the one that Ruby cherished, the one that she left to her daughter because even when she knew that Ophelia was a snake, she couldn’t resist trying to take care of her one last time.

  Aaron and Oscar take a seat on the old bench we dragged across the lawn while Cal crouches on a rock. Hael and I stay where we are while Victor presides over us like an alpha wolf regarding his pack.

  “There’s a letter,” he says, showing us the envelope that his lawyer handed him during our meeting on Monday. He hasn’t touched it since, but it’s been sitting there on the table for days, brooding and silent and holding all its careful secrets inside of pressed floral paper. “I should probably read it.”

  He stares at it like he’d rather just throw it in the fire and watch it burn, but his curiosity gets the better of him and he finally opens it up. The page unfolds in his hands and then Victor gets caught reading his Grandmother Ruby’s words.

  “Victor,” he begins, as my skin ripples with chills and I think of Penelope’s last letter to me, the one that she left in her journal and that Sara Young gave to me even though she didn’t have to. I’ve read it so many times that even though it’s tear-stained now, I can still remember exactly what it said. Besides, I took about a hundred pictures of it with my phone and uploaded it to the cloud first, just in case. “We are not always given the things we want. Oftentimes we are not even given the things we need. Your mother was given everything she ever wanted, needed, craved, desired, coveted, or lusted after.

  “I don’t know if that’s why she turned into a person I no longer recognized, one that seemed to forget how to feel or care or cher
ish. But that’s why I’m doing this, why I’m leaving everything to you.

  “But only on these conditions.

  “I want you to learn to persevere. I want you to learn—period. I want you to stay true. I want you to be honest. Mostly, I want you to learn to love. Because love is the most powerful force in the known universe. It defies logic, and it makes fools out of us all, but it also gives us a reason to keep going, even when everything is dark and the world feels like it’s caving in.

  “I love you, Victor, and this is why I’m leaving you the world.”

  Victor stops reading and then drops the letter by his side.

  Hael releases me then, so I can go to Vic, and he takes me into his strong arms and holds me close, so tightly that I know he’s feeling every emotion in the book, even if he doesn’t want to admit it.

  “The world …” he says after a long moment, breathing into my hair. Victor pushes me back slightly so that he can take my face between his big hands and kiss me until I forget that I’m human, until I become nothing but a spirit and a heart and a well of emotion that soars and tumbles. “She left me the world.” He looks into my face and then lifts his gaze up to study the boys—his boys, our boys—before turning his attention back to me. “And now I’m giving it to you.”

  I know he means the money and the opportunities and control of the very city we all love to hate and hate to love.

  But in his ebon eyes—yes, Mr. Darkwood lived, okay?—that’s where I really see it.

  The world.

  “I’m giving it to you,” he repeats, and then he kisses me, and I know without a doubt that he doesn’t just mean me. He means all of us. The six of us.