Havoc at Prescott High

by Stunich, C. M.

  My hands fists in the front of Vic's black wifebeater, and all the blood in my body rushes to my head, making me dizzy. Victor's kiss is exquisite torture, a moment torn from the timeline of my life that I can never get back. It both hurts and excites me, all at once.

  I offered my body to get my revenge.

  I didn't expect to get anything else along with it, but it feels like I'm getting more than I bargained for. Much, much more.

  His tongue takes over everything, leaving me aching, reaching, wanting more. Heat sears between our slanted lips as I arch my back and press into him. It only lasts a few seconds, but it could go on for an eternity, and I wouldn't know how to process it.

  Vic releases me suddenly, and I stumble back. I don’t mean to; it just happens. I can’t seem to find my feet or my breath. Lifting my eyes up, I meet his, as dark as obsidian, as endless as the night sky without the stars. He looks at me then with that cold, business-like expression burning away all the passion of the moment before.

  “Tonight, we’re going to do some bad shit, Bernadette. Do you understand that?”

  “I understand,” I say, and Vic nods, looking back out across the overgrown parking lot toward the city. He laughs, this dark sort of chuckle that promises bullshit. The thing that makes that sound so scary is that he damn well means to deliver it.

  “Let’s go fuck up some prep school brats.”

  He turns and walks away, leaving me to follow along behind him. Guess he’s used to that, snapping his fingers and getting people to follow. Even scary motherfuckers like Hael and Oscar do what Vic says.

  To me, he seems like the mildest of the Havoc Boys.

  But then, like I said, that laugh promises bullshit, doesn’t it? And Victor Channing, he’s fucking full of it.

  Oak Valley Preparatory Academy is almost two hours outside of town with its own front gate, security force, and cameras. How we’re going to get on campus at all is questionable, not to mention exact some sort of revenge on Donald.

  Just standing here, I feel a wave of pain hit me, the sight of the school a trigger for what I’m sure must be PTSD or something. What are the key points again? Avoidance of specific triggers? Check. A physical reaction to said triggers? Check. Nightmares? Check.

  “How do we get in?” I ask, shoving that pain down with everything I have, and taking a deep breath. Fighting the emotions back like that leaves me empty and numb, but it’s better than feeling sick and scared. I’ll take it. Licking my lips, I work to channel that numbness into rage. It’s the only thing that’s kept me safe all these years.

  “Simple,” Oscar says, tapping something on his iPad. With a whirring death rattle, the generator outside the security office goes quiet, and the lights flick off. With a curse, the night guard comes outside to scan the darkness with his flashlight, not noticing six kids standing in the shadows behind him.

  Callum and Vic exchange a look, and the leader of the Havoc Boys gives a curt nod. Like a fucking ninja, Cal flips his hood up, flashes me this cocksure smile, and then moves up behind the guard, hitting him in the back of the head with a goddamn baseball bat.

  The man drops to the ground with a groan as my heart begins to pound. This is for real, isn’t it? There was a reason Vic asked me if I wanted to go, and a reason why Aaron didn’t want me here. I glance his way and find him glaring back at me. He’s not happy about any of this. Maybe he should’ve thought about that before betraying me for his fucking gang?

  “Is that guy dead?” I ask, feeling this light, panicky feeling take over me. Vic just stares back at me, completely dead in the face.

  “What would you do if he was?”

  “Vic, come on, knock it off,” Aaron growls as Callum comes back over to us, swinging the bat up and onto his shoulder. He reaches up to tug at the tuft of blond hair that sticks out of his hood.

  “Nah, he isn’t dead. He’ll have one hell of a hangover in the morning, but a small price to pay for getting us free entry into this den of assholes.” Callum smiles at me and then bends down to snag the guy’s keys, unlocking the small gate embedded in the ten-foot fence and letting it swing open with a creak.

  “Here,” Hael says, passing over a black ski mask and letting his fingers caress mine more than necessary. “Put this on.” He yanks one over his red hair as I bite my lip, watching the other guys transform themselves into faceless monsters. My throat tightens up, but I follow along with them, drenching myself in anonymity.

  At night, Oak Valley Prep is beyond creepy, a soft white fog drifting across the campus. It looks ominous, towering over us like a brick castle, one complete with torture chamber. Trust me, I know they've got one: I was there. It was called Donald’s Dorm Room at the time. Still is.

  A shiver takes over me that I can't quite suppress, this cold chill that Vic takes note of, flint-like eyes scanning over me. For such a 'bad boy', he doesn't seem interested in fucking girls against their will. Maybe he doesn't get off by shoving his dick in some poor chick's mouth when she doesn’t want it? Maybe Vic is a real man, after all?

  But then I remember the coldness in his gaze when he locked me in that closet, how hoarse my voice was from screaming, how little he cared.

  No, he truly is a monster, just of a different breed.

  “Show us the way,” he says, holding out an inked hand. I nod and turn, knowing the Havoc crew will be close behind me. They're never far apart, these boys. It occurs to me that we're all here because nobody loved us enough, nobody cared. The boys, they created their own family. And me, I just stumbled into it.

  “In there,” I say, remembering the night Donald brought me back here, how he smirked, and I giggled. How he pushed me up against this wall and kissed me breathless. He was good at that—probably still is—but being a good kisser doesn't make up for the fact that he's a rapist, too. Or at least a wannabe one.

  Hael hands Callum a crowbar, but before he can even try to use it, I step forward and grab the handle. It swings open and the boys exchange looks in the dark behind me.

  “Posh school, a different sort of hoodlum. They probably think the front gate security is enough.” I step inside and find an elaborate hallway with wood floors, brick walls, and stuffy paintings of old white dudes. More than likely, rich old, white dudes. My lip wrinkles—because who the fuck actually likes misogynistic, money-hoarding dinosaurs?—and I step aside to let the others in.

  We head straight for the curving staircase to our left and up, to the hallway where Don’s bedroom is located. I notice that we're all fairly good at keeping quiet, a throwback to dark childhoods and blending into shadows. It's a hard-won skill, but it comes in handy as we slip down the hall and pause in front of room 219. Don’s room. The room he invited his friends to, to have a taste of southside whore. My mouth fills with bile, and my eyes close. My whole life, I feel like I've been running from men and their greedy hands, their hungry cocks.

  And to escape them? To punish the ones that'd already done me wrong? I sprinted into the arms of the enemy. We'll see how this works out, won't we?

  Donald Asher, the rich dickhead I dated because, for some stupid, silly reason, I thought he would be better. Hah. Anyway, his door is locked. I guess monsters always know where to look for their brethren in the dark.

  Kneeling down in front of Don’s door, Callum pulls a lock picking kit from his bag, and I get the idea that he's the master of breaking and entering amongst the Havoc Boys.

  In two flicks of a fucking lamb's tail, the lock is disengaging with a click, and the door is swinging inward.

  My pulse is racing so fast I have to seriously consider if I might pass out.

  “We got this,” Aaron whispers as he moves around me, that distinctive rose and sandalwood smell of his wafting in the cool air. Like some sort of SWAT unit, all the boys but Oscar move into the room on tiptoes.

  “This should be interesting,” Oscar murmurs, gray eyes glimmering in a stray shaft of moonlight, his mouth in some semblance of a smile, albeit one that sti
ngs like acid. The lenses of his glasses—I notice he’s wearing a completely new pair tonight—catch the light as he glances briefly over at me, tucks his iPad against his side, and then holds a single hand out to indicate that I should enter the room.

  With a deep breath, I do.

  As soon as I enter that room and smell that awful cologne, memories come flooding back, and I have to bite my tongue to keep from screaming.

  Donald is lying peacefully in his bed, his snoring eliminated by some special surgery that his father's company funded the research for and now sells to the public for exorbitant prices. Oscar carefully closes and locks the door behind us, giving Victor the nod he's been waiting for.

  “Wake him up,” Vic commands, and Hael flashes a sharp, cocky grin through the bottom hole of his ski mask.

  “My pleasure,” he purrs, putting his hands around Don's neck. The asshole's brown eyes fly open, and his lips part to scream. But whatever Hael is doing is keeping him quiet. “Struggle too hard, and I'll snap your neck.”

  “And keep your mouth shut,” Aaron adds, stepping naturally into his own role. Vic remains cold and emotionless, the untouchable leader of the bunch. His ebon eyes slide to mine.

  “Let the boy talk, and if he screams, you know what to do.”

  “Got it.” Hael loosens his grip ever so slightly, and Donald begins to choke dramatically, causing Callum to chuckle.

  “What the fuck are you doing in my room?” Don demands, the whites of his eyes a dead giveaway to his fear. Honestly, I wouldn't have been surprised to find he'd pissed himself the way Kyler did. When he finishes scanning our group however, something changes. Rage twists his relatively handsome expression into something truly ugly. “What is this, some sort of shakedown? If you all leave my room right now, I'll consider dropping the breaking and entering and assault charges you're facing.”

  This time, it's Vic who laughs. The sound is low and dark, truly terrifying.

  “You think you have room to negotiate here?” he asks, and the sound of his voice strikes fear into my heart. Regardless of that fiery kiss on the rooftop, I'm terrified of Victor Channing. “Truss him up like a pig and take him out to the roof.”

  “You wouldn't fucking dare,” Donald snarls, but Oscar is already reaching for the coil of purple rope Cal’s got slung over his shoulder. When the rich asshole goes to shout, Aaron clamps a hand over his mouth and leans in.

  “Last chance before we choke you to death.”

  “I'd do it, too,” Hael says, all smooth and cocky. He's like … the jock-y football player from a good school, but reversed. Same shit-eating grins, over-confidence, and healthy swagger, but wrapped in tattoos and pain instead of money and a letterman jacket. “And I'd enjoy it. Nothing I love more than showing a rich asshole that he doesn't own the world.”

  Aaron releases Don's mouth, and Oscar makes quick work of tying him up. Next thing I know, the other guys are dragging Don through the window.

  “What the hell?” I murmur, grabbing Oscar's arm. The way he looks down at my hand on the fabric of his suit jacket, I get the idea that I better let go and quick. “This is like a fucking repeat of what you did to me.”

  “No, not even close. Consider it … an ode.” Oscar climbs out, and I’m expected to follow behind. Hands shaking, I do, and find myself watching as Oscar ties a rope around Donald’s neck.

  They’re going to hang him?! I wonder, heart racing so fast that I feel dizzy. Right here, like this? I mean, I wouldn’t put it past them to commit murder, but … this is insane.

  “Donald Asher,” Vic says, squatting down beside him as the boy who thinks he owns the world gets a nice, sharp taste of brutal reality. “Do you know why you’re here?”

  “I can pay,” Don simpers, his voice a broken, weak thing, so unbelievably pathetic that my lip curls. I can’t believe I actually dated this guy. But I was so desperate to escape my life, to get as far away from Aaron as I could, that it seemed like a good idea at the time. “Whatever you want, just name the price.”

  Victor laughs, and the sound is truly nightmarish, an ephemeral darkness that blots out the brilliant moon. He reaches out and strokes Don’s dark hair from his forehead, almost mockingly.

  “You think we give a shit about money?” Vic asks, tilting his head to one side, studying his subject. “Do you think that’s what motivates us?”

  “Everyone likes freedom,” Don whispers, shaking violently. I smell an acrid scent on the wind that takes me a minute to place: he really has pissed his pants. Not that I blame him. I mean, when the Havoc Boys dragged me from my bed in the middle of the night, I didn’t wet myself. But then, I guess I’m made of tougher stuff. “Money can buy you freedom. I’ve got cash, hidden in the safe. If you let me up, we’ll go get it together, and then you can—”

  Victor grabs a handful of Don’s hair and yanks his head back as Aaron finishes tying off the noose.

  “You’re insulting my intelligence, Don,” he says, looking him dead in the eye. “We’re not here for money. Whatever you could give us, it’d be a pittance to you. You wouldn’t suffer, and that’s the most important thing here.” Vic sighs, like he’s frustrated at having to explain himself to this pathetic cretin. Meanwhile, I’m fairly certain I’m simultaneously having a PTSD attack and also enjoying the show. A deep, sick sense of satisfaction curls through me, and that’s when I know I’m truly evil, as evil as all the rest of them, my perpetrators and the Havoc Boys combined.

  They’ve twisted me, warped me, made me in their likeness.

  I swallow hard, but I don’t look away or close my eyes.

  “And do you really believe that we believe that you’d let us go? No, a monster like you knows that as soon as you have the upper hand, you take it.” Vic smiles, but it’s not a pretty expression. The way his mouth looks right now, I can hardly believe that just a short while ago, he was burning me with it, searing me with heat. “As soon as we left, you’d have a private army on our asses.” Vic pats him on the cheek and stands up. “Besides, you know too much already. Do you really think you’re walking away from this?”

  “What the hell is this all about? I didn’t do anything,” Don whispers, wiggling like a caterpillar in his bindings, eyes flicking nervously toward the edge of the roof. At some point, we’re going to be heard out here, and the gig will be up. But I stand there, and I make myself trust in Havoc. They weave cruelty, pain, and revenge like fibers in the dark, soothing cloth of reality.

  “You’ve never hurt anyone?” Aaron clarifies, the blind rage in his voice making me do a double take. Whereas Vic sounds calm, cool, collected, my ex is giving off the impression that he actually cares. I mean, if he did, he wouldn’t have dumped me and turned on me in an instant, right? “In your short, miserable life, you’ve been nothing but a goddamn angel? You are a demon, Don, and you’ll die like a dog.”

  “Takes one to know one,” Don bites out with one, last burst of sass, and Vic chuckles.

  “Undo the ropes,” he says, and Oscar nods, moving to untie the silken purple bindings on Don’s wrists and ankles. Donald calms down for a moment, but only until he realizes that when Vic said to untie the ropes, he didn’t mean all of them. “Did you know that our friend here is a master at these silk ropes? He can tie them without leaving a mark. And what’s funny is that once the hubbub dies down, nobody will remember the spoiled, rich prep school kid who hung himself from the tree outside his window.”

  “N—” Don starts to shout, but Hael’s already tossed the rope around the limb of the tree and pulled the knot tight. In the span of an instant, before I can even think to protest or wonder if I would at all, Vic is kicking Donald down the sloping roof and … off.

  The branch groans, and the rope creaks, but all I can hear is the thumping of my heart as I clamp my hands over my ears.

  “Bernadette,” Vic says, putting his hands on my wrists and pulling them away from my ears. “Pay attention.”

  With a sick, lurching sensation in my stomach, I mo
ve toward the edge of the roof, guided by his hand, and find that the silk purple rope tying Don's throat has come undone.

  He's lying on the ground groaning, unable to get up but most certainly not dead.

  My eyes flick up to Oscar's gray ones, so devoid of emotion, so goddamn scary.

  “I'm a master of knots,” is all he says in that Lucullan smooth voice of his.

  I'm at a loss for words, something that doesn't happen to me often anymore. The Havoc Boys have just given Donald Asher the sensation of dying without actually having done anything at all.

  The way they locked me in that closet or chased me in the woods.

  That's a special sort of cruelty, isn't it?

  One that leaves no trace.

  “Let's get down there before the little creep wakes up,” Hael says with a smirk, not at all disturbed by what he's just done. Is it fucked-up that I'm not either? That I feel like Donald got less than he deserved?

  We head inside and down the stairs to find Don struggling to get up, choking and shaking, his pants stained with urine.

  “Darling,” Vic says to me as he puts his boot on the back of Don's neck and pushes him to the ground. “I want you to go back out the gate and wait for us in the trees. Callum'll go with you.”

  “Wait, what?” I ask, snapping my face up from Don's sweaty one. “This is my request; I get to watch.”

  “Not if I say you don't.” Vic's face is hard when he lifts his attention up to me, and I feel myself bristling. He's testing me again, giving me another chance to prove myself.

  What choice do I have?

  So with one, final look at Don, I head back toward the front gates, and the slumped security officer, the mysterious Callum Park on my heels.

  “What are they going to do to him?” I ask, feeling my heartrate pick up, my palms sweat. I'm ready for this. Vic knows it. He sent me away on purpose, a punishment for last week.

  Callum shrugs, dressed in his sleeveless hoodie and shorts, a pair of boots on his feet. He leans back against the brick half-wall, and the black iron posts that adorn it, curling his fingers around the bars. His blues eyes are bright inside the holes of the ski mask.