Havoc at Prescott High

Home > Other > Havoc at Prescott High > Page 10
Havoc at Prescott High Page 10

by Stunich, C. M.


  Victor chuckles, but it’s a dry, dark laugh. Humorless. He lights up another cigarette and holds it between his fingers. Today, some bitch yelled at him for smoking out front of the school. He flashed white teeth at her, told her to shove her anti-smoking propaganda bullshit down her throat, and then flicked the still burning ember of his cig into the backseat of her fancy gas-guzzling SUV, singeing the leather.

  She gaped at him, knocking over her diet soda in an attempt to save her precious upholstery.

  “The aspartame sweetener in that drink is a known carcinogen. Hell, it’ll probably kill you before my cigarettes do me, but you don’t see me shoving that shit down your throat. Get fucked and have a nice day.”

  Clearly, he’s in a mood.

  I almost … like it.

  “Let be me real honest with you right now, Bern,” he says, making my name into something foreign, hot to the touch. I shiver. “I’m not afraid of Pamela Pence.” Vic scoffs her name like the sound’s dirtied his tongue, dulled some of that hot ember to ash. “She can snap if she wants, I don’t give a good goddamn.”

  “It’s not her I’m afraid of,” I say. Lie. Some dark, little part of me will always be afraid of my mother, will always be that little girl crying because mama’s manicured nails dig too deep, pinch too hard. Go sit on Daddy’s lap, she’d command as I pulled away with what little strength I had. He’s not my daddy, I’d scream back, and then I’d be forced there anyway, onto the lap of a pervert whose touch lingered too long, whose smile cut too deep … I choke a little, and Vic notices.

  He notices goddamn everything.

  “The cop,” he says, his voice hollow.

  I nod.

  We don’t talk for a while, and I find myself glancing over his shoulder in the direction of the house, searching for any sign of his father. That guy gives me the serious fucking creeps. Why Vic stays here is beyond me.

  I decide to ask.

  There are no secrets in Havoc right?

  Bunch of bullshit, surely, but if they’re willing to play the façade in my favor, I’ll take it.

  “Why are you still living here?” I ask, and when Vic’s gaze passes up to mine, it’s like watching the moon eclipse the sun, cutting off all the light but somehow making it more beautiful in the process. “You could have your own place. Shit, you could live with Aaron if you wanted. Really, anywhere away from your father would be an improvement.”

  “It’s all part of the deal,” he says, reaching out to take my hand, fingering that ring on my finger for the first time. He looks at for a while, really looks at it, until I can’t take the tautness in the air between us and snatch my hand back. “In order for me to get my inheritance, I have to live with my father until I graduate.” His face darkens, storm clouds sliding across an expression that’s already too dark, too mysterious, too steeped in shadow. “Get married. Stay married for one year.”

  That’s the part that really surprises me.

  I have to resist the urge to hit him.

  My teeth grit in frustration.

  “You never told me we had to stay married for a year.”

  Victor’s eyes darken and narrow, and he slides that tormenting gaze my direction. Just trying to maintain eye contact with the man exhausts me. He’s both a complex storm of emotions, and the complete and utter void of a blue, cloudless sky, all at once. Difficult to read, impossible to predict.

  “We’ll stay married for life if that’s what it takes,” he snaps out, losing that practiced cool for just a fraction of a section. With a deep inhale, and an emptying exhale, I feel his taut muscles loosen beneath me, the anger in him draining out with a single breath. I can’t even imagine, having that sort of control. My heart flutters, and my fingers curl reflexively. I might be sitting on his lap, but Victor Channing and I are both stupidly similar and worlds apart.

  Conundrums. Hypocrisies.

  That’s us.

  “Did you think this deal had an expiration date?” he asks finally, and I frown.

  “I’m not big on thinking ahead at all,” I admit. It’s true. My life has never been the sort where I could stop and smell the roses, wonder what might happen tomorrow, or what could happen in the future because I’m always worried about now, surviving this exact second and hoping in the darkest recesses of my heart that there might actually be another. Of course, I don’t say any of that out loud.

  Vic just stares at me for a moment and then runs his huge hand over his face.

  “What?” I ask, because all of his non-verbal communication says he’s not very happy with me. The way his hand drops from my waist, the way his fingers curl around the end of the chair arm. “You asked me to be Havoc’s … girl.” I choke on the word a little and feel my body start to shake with that old, familiar anger. “Did you expect me to be happy to be here? Was that part of the deal, too? Because if it was, I didn’t hear it.”

  His face tightens up, but he manages to maintain that ironclad control.

  “You’re lashing out with anger in an unfamiliar situation, I get it. Been there, done that. Learn to leash it up and set it loose when you decide, and you’ll find it much more satisfying to control the rage instead of letting it control you.”

  “What are you, a fucking shrink or something?” I snap, grabbing up the pack of cigarettes and removing one with shaking fingers. Vic holds up a lighter as I slip it between my lips, igniting the tip.

  “We didn’t ask you to be Havoc’s girl, we used to be a Havoc Girl. Big difference, Bernadette.” Vic pushes me off his lap without warning, and even though he doesn’t push hard, I end up stumbling, sprawling into the grass and losing my cigarette in the process. He leans down to look at me, like some sort of king perched up on a throne, and I find myself scowling. “Blood in, blood out.”

  “You keep saying that!” I shout back, pushing to my feet and wondering if I could take him on, too, beat his ass like I did Oscar, wrap my hands around his throat. It’d probably feel good, wouldn’t it? To take revenge on him the way I’m asking him to do to everyone else in my life who fucked up along the way. “I should’ve added your name to your own list, sicced you on yourself.”

  He laughs at me then, and I find that I really am a slave to my anger. When Vic stands up, I throw myself forward without thinking, slamming into him. He doesn’t budge. It’s like ramming my shoulder into a brick wall.

  A hot, muscular, scary sort of brick wall.

  Victor grabs me by the arms and pushes me back, slamming me into the trunk of the tree the way he did his father last week. He doesn’t hurt me the way I know he could, but the force is enough to knock the air from my lungs.

  So now I’m panting, shaking, standing there and looking into eyes so black they may as well be endless pools to drown myself in.

  “Keep a hold of that anger and use it elsewhere. We’ll find you an outlet.” Victor doesn’t release me, his fingers tightening ever so slightly, his ripe mouth turned down in a frown. “When we asked you to be a Havoc Girl, Bernadette, it meant you became one of us. There is no expiration date on this deal.”

  “And if I try to leave someday?” I hear myself ask, not quite believing there ever will be a someday. No matter what Vic says, I feel like my life does have an expiration date. I might not like it, but that’s just the way this harsh, ugly world works.

  “Bernadette, don’t try me,” Victor says, and then he releases me, stalking over to pick up my still burning cigarette from the dry grass. He swipes out some stray embers with his boot and tucks the smoke between his lips. “How long have you been standing there?” he asks, and I lift my head to find all four remaining Havoc Boys standing near the driveway.

  “Long enough,” Oscar says, gray eyes sliding over to mine briefly. The way he smiles, that expression could very well haunt my nightmares. Instead, I turn my now burning face down to look at the ring on my finger. I’ve been taking it off at home because if Mom sees it, she’ll have a total meltdown. She never did like the idea of me having a boyfrie
nd. And she really wouldn’t like the idea of me having a piece of jewelry that’s nicer that hers.

  I squint at the ring as Hael’s irritating, cocky laughter rings out.

  “If throwing a girl against a tree is your version of foreplay, no wonder Bernadette isn’t interested in you,” he says as a shadow passes over me, and I lift my face to find Vic staring at me again.

  “It’s real,” he tells me, reaching out to take my hand and study it for a moment. “All of it.” His fingers burn where they touch me, searing straight into my soul. Our eyes meet, and I find it ridiculously hard to breathe. “Worth about … thirty grand, if I remember correctly.” My eyes widen, but I don’t say anything as he withdraws his hand and turns to face the others.

  “We’ve got a problem,” he announces as Aaron glowers and Callum tucks himself into a chair, knees up, dumping an entire bag of snacks on the ground in front of him. He picks up a bag of chips and goes to town, eyes flashing from inside that hood of his. He gives me a wink and a smile, which I ignore. My brain is running on overdrive right now. Vic has a thirty-thousand-dollar ring that he’s never sold? I stare at it again, and I can’t quite make myself believe that there’s some sentimental attachment to the damn thing. I mean, he did say it was his grandmother’s, but I have a hard time believing that someone like Victor Channing gives a crap about his dead granny.

  So what then?

  Does he realize that I could run down to any pawn shop in town, sell the stupid thing, and take off with my little sister in tow? Sure, thirty grand wouldn’t last forever, but it’d last long enough for me to get us away from here, buy a cheap car and start driving.

  We could make a new life in another state, start her at a new school, and the Thing would never find us. Sure, his family has resources, but how hard would they really look?

  “Yeah, and what’s the problem?” Hael asks, slumping into a broken lounger and making its rusted frame creak with his muscular weight. He’s every girl’s bad boy wet dream, with his mischievous brown eyes, bloodred hair, and tattoos. He’s even got the face of a demon on his chest with the words Hot Rod on either side. In short, he’s the bad boy equivalent of a jock-y douche. And yet … I can almost see the appeal.

  “Vaughn pulled me into his office on Monday,” Vic begins, and my ears perk up. We all know that part of the story, of course, but the why has been saved until later. Until now. I move over next to Callum’s chair as he lifts up another snack bag.

  “Lap?” he inquires, and then flashes that stupid Disney-prince-hiding-a-villain-grin. “Peanuts?” I narrow my eyes, but I’m not afraid of Callum; I’m not afraid of any of these assholes. I sit down hard on his lap and snatch the food, noticing Vic’s eyes skimming over the pair of us. His jaw tightens as he turns away.

  Aaron sits in the chair farthest away from me, his gaze on the garage door and most definitely not on Vic. Or me. Definitely not on me.

  “He said he’d gotten a call from my mother, about the drugs I was hiding in my locker.”

  “You hide drugs in your locker?” I blurt, and Vic gives me a long, studying sort of look.

  In retrospect, it was a stupid question. Of course he doesn’t. Only an idiot would hide their drugs in a Prescott High locker, what with the random searches, police presence, and sniffer dogs. And no matter what else they might be, the Havoc Boys are not stupid.

  “That was why Ron Cartwright was hovering in the hall then?” Hael guesses, and then he brays another of his stupid laughs. “What a dumb shit. He didn’t think we’d notice? Cal and I will pay him a visit next week.”

  I don’t even have to wonder what pay him a visit means. Ron Cartwright is going to get his balls shoved up his own ass. Vic nods, acknowledging Hael’s words, and then continues.

  “I planted the shit back in his locker, and then sent the admins on a wild goose chase.” Vic rubs at his chin, a sign that he’s thinking. His dark purple tee is stained with sweat on the lower back, even though it’s not particularly hot out. That’s when I realize that the armpits of my own shirt are wet, and I’m still shaking. What is it that’s going on between us?

  “You double-double crossed him,” I say, and they all turn to look at me like they’re surprised to hear me speak. Guess they’re not quite used to it, a woman in their midst. Maybe I’m not the only one who’s shocked to realize that it’s been several weeks of this shit, and I haven’t ended up in anyone’s bed. Isn’t that why I’m here? “Brilliant. So now what? Your mom’s trying to sabotage you?”

  “She’s tried before,” he offers, not like it’s much of a surprise. But then his dark eyes find mine, and a slight smile—a very slight smile—edges his lips. “But I think seeing you frightened her. This is getting real; she might not actually end up with my grandmother’s money after all.”

  “How much is the inheritance anyway?” I ask, not even bothering for nonchalance. I’m interested, especially since Vic mentioned we’d all get a cut. I don’t believe it for half a second, but oh well. The fantasy is nice enough.

  “Not enough to change the world, but enough to set us up for life.” Victor snaps his fingers in Oscar’s direction. “Find out where my mother’s staying currently.”

  “What are we going to do?” Aaron asks, speaking up for the first time. I’ve noticed that Vic relies on the other three more than him, even though it’s pretty damn obvious that Aaron is not only desperate for Victor’s approval, but also that he hates him.

  “I don’t know,” Vic says, pausing as a car comes crawling down the street. It’s hard to see who’s in it with the thick wall of foliage, but I notice that Oscar isn’t the only one that casually slips a gun from an unseen place on his body. Cal has one, too.

  The leader of the Havoc Boys turns to me.

  His eyes burn.

  As dark as they are, I shouldn’t be able to see fire in the shadows. And yet I do.

  My teeth clench.

  “You know how to multi-task, Bernadette?” he asks me, and I nod, feeling my lips dip into a frown. Multi-task? How about trying to finish homework, shower, and sleep while making sure your little sister doesn’t get raped by the man who fucked your older sister into an early grave? How about hating school so much you have tears rolling down your face at the thought of stepping into the hallway, but knowing you have to go because a degree might be your only escape? The bullying, the homework, the shitty home life. Oh, yeah, I know how to multi-task like the best of them.

  “Why?”

  “We’re used to fighting wars on multiple fronts,” Vic says, almost absently, his mind already moving onto the next subject. He looks me square in the face. “So, tell me about the fourth name on your list.”

  My jaw clenches, and I look away.

  Vic knows every person on that list because he's been around for so long, because the Havoc Boys have always been invading my life, one way or another. But he doesn't know about Donald Asher.

  Nobody but me does.

  I glance away, my eyes scanning the wall of foliage near the front of the property and wondering who the hell was in that car. One of the older men from the other night, one of the Ensbrook or Charter brothers, or someone else entirely?

  Is that what Vic meant, fighting wars on multiple fronts?

  And now, with my list, they'll be starting yet another one.

  My eyes flick to the other four boys, wondering how thin I’m stretching them with my request. They don’t seem bothered, and I know they have other accomplices who aren't quite so … public about their affiliation with Havoc, but still, I wonder.

  As I turn my attention back up to Vic's darkened gaze, I can see that he isn't playing around. What he said wasn't a suggestion, it was a command.

  “You'll do what I say when I say it.”

  But in this moment, I can’t imagine it, sitting here on the lawn with five men who are worse than strangers. Five men who were the little boys I'd gone to school with, watched from afar, worshipped. And then I'd finally, finally gotten one to mys
elf in the form of Aaron. The perfect boyfriend, the perfect lover … turned tattooed asshole because life wasn't fair. And I’m supposed to just blurt my secrets out in the open?

  “Later,” I say, mimicking Vic's reaction from the other day. His eyes narrow slightly, and I can tell I'm seriously getting under his skin.

  “No,” he says, and my brows go up. Oh really? We're going to test the strength of the leash already? My lips flatten into a line as he stares at me, a brooding thundercloud gathered behind dark irises. On the outside, though, everything is calm, still. “Now.”

  I rise to my feet and turn, heading for the house and intending to slip into the bathroom for a moment. What happened with Donald … the thought makes me sick, stirs up a dozen worse memories, two dozen. A lifetime of regret.

  I barely register what I'm doing until I've passed the bathroom and found myself halfway up a small staircase, my palm skimming the rough-worn banister. A few steps later and I'm on the second floor, standing outside a small bedroom.

  Vic's room.

  My hand tightens on the newel post as his smell wafts over me—that musky mix of tobacco and amber—and the back of my neck prickles with the awareness of someone coming up behind me.

  “Get in,” he says, and I hear the steps creak as he continues up them, forcing me to move out of the narrow foyer or end up brushing against him.

  Besides, my subconscious must've sent me up here for a reason, right?

  I step into Victor's room and shiver when the door slams shut behind me. There's a single bed in here, twin-sized, and a desk, a few random rock posters on the wall, and a locked closet.

 

‹ Prev