Mayhem at Prescott High

by Stunich, C. M.

  “You said you didn’t like that I let them touch me, after everything they’d done. Yet, you did it, too. You made love to me, Oscar. Don’t try to deny that. Trust me: I’ve been fucked plenty of times and that was not what we did.”

  He just keeps smirking at me, his expression stoic and distant, very fae-like. Oscar could curdle milk with that stare of his.

  “Sometimes men compliment women to get what they want, Bernadette. Don’t be so self-absorbed. As I said, not everything is about you—despite what the others might make you think. The sun doesn’t rise and set on your whim.” Oscar pushes up off the locker and slips out the back door, the same way he went before. That is, most definitely not to class.

  I hang back slightly to watch him, curious as to where he’s going.

  He ends up leaving through the hole in the fence behind the dumpster, passing by Hael’s Camaro as he stalks across the pavement and down the sidewalk. I keep pace, making sure I keep my eyes out for hiding places, in case he turns around.

  He doesn’t.

  But he does start to walk faster, to the point where I’m struggling to keep up with his long-legged strides and cursing under my breath. Eventually, I lose him near a busy market and end up having to turn and head back to the high school.

  About three blocks later, I feel the barrel of a gun press into the side of my head followed by a very audible click as a hammer is pulled back on a revolver.

  “Tsk-tsk, Bernadette,” Oscar says as I freeze in place, my eyes focused on the sidewalk in front of me. People pass by on the opposite side of the street, but nobody looks too closely at what we’re doing. Probably a smart choice on their parts. He grinds the gun in just a bit harder. “I could've blown your brains out; you aren't to follow anyone until I say otherwise.” Oscar withdraws the revolver and tucks it into his suit jacket. I glance his way, still struggling to get my panicked heartbeat under control; on the outside, I stay calm. “I’ll also be informing Victor that you left campus without alerting anyone as to your plans. Understand this is a fundamental safety and training issue that requires immediate resolution.”

  “Immediate resolution,” I echo with a snort, turning my head to look at him. He leans one shoulder against the brick wall on his right, crossing his legs at the ankles, arms crossed over his chest. I swear, even with the December breeze, I can smell cinnamon in the air. “You’re not a robot, so stop talking like one. We had messy, weird, awkward sex, Oscar Montauk. Like people sometimes do. Despite your ideas to the contrary, you’re still human.”

  “I am not human,” he says, but he doesn’t raise his voice or shift his position at all. That statement is dropped like straight fact. “I have not been human for years. Don’t make the mistake of thinking I am.”

  “You’re not human, but yet, you panicked and ran away from me. You’re still too cowardly to talk about it honestly. Fine. Victor said we should define our own relationships.” I shake my head and sigh, turning back toward Prescott High. I can see its brick exterior looming just a few blocks down the way. “I see that for you, a Havoc Girl is just another recruit to boss around and talk down to. Got it. Message received, Oscar.”

  I start off down the sidewalk when his long fingers wrap my wrist and yank me hard into the alley. He shoves me back against the brick wall and slams his palms down on either side of my head.

  “Stop poking and prodding at me, Bernadette,” he snarls, but clearly, he dragged me in here for a reason. Oscar closes his eyes for a moment, giving me a chance to study his face. He’s furious right now, his skin taut, mouth set in a thin line. But at who, or why, I’m not sure. He isn’t human, remember? He opens his eyes to look at me again, and I can’t help but admire the watercolor-like effect of his gray irises. If you really look at them, I guess they’re blue, but there’s very little pigment. “Can’t you just be happy with four unworthy cocks vying for your attention?”

  “My relationships with any of the other boys have nothing to do with my relationship to you,” I say, moving as if to duck beneath Oscar’s arm and leave. He stops me by putting his left hand on my throat and pushing me back into the wall. Before I can even think up what to say, he crushes his mouth to mine, kissing me with so much passion that my knees buckle slightly. My fingers dig into the brick wall behind me as Oscar’s left hand tightens slightly and then loosens, releasing me abruptly.

  “Come with me,” he says, standing up and then fleeing the alley before I can get a read on his facial expression. I jog to catch up and then force myself to match his pace. It’s a punishing one, but I could use the exercise.

  “Where are we going?” I ask, but he just glances briefly down at me and says nothing else. He’s so goddamn verbose and loquacious when there’s business to discuss. Bring up feelings and he shuts the fuck down. I decide that wherever we’re going, I should get some answers, at the very least, so I stick with it.

  I’m rewarded with a small white house with red awnings on the windows and porch. It has that well-kept vintage look, even though it’s pretty obvious that the homeowners don’t have a ton of money. I mean, they wouldn’t live in the very heart of South Prescott if they did.

  Oscar sweeps up the front walk and then removes a key from the pocket of his suit jacket, unlocking the door and then holding both it and the screen door open with his back. He gestures me in and, with my curiosity riding high, I do.

  “Is that you, Oscar?” a voice calls from the kitchen, and I notice him shift me a look of warning.

  “It’s me,” he confirms, shutting the door and locking it. It smells like fried potatoes and green onions in here. “I brought a guest with me.”

  A woman comes out of the kitchen, smiling at me and holding a soda in her right hand. She has on tight jeans and a loose black tank top. I’d peg her in her early thirties. She looks a bit young to be Oscar’s mother, but then I do know girls who got knocked-up at fourteen and fifteen, so I guess anything’s possible. Then again, I also know for a fact that Oscar’s parents are both dead.

  “Bernadette, this is my foster mother, Rebecca,” Oscar says, his gray eyes shifting from her to me. “Bernadette and I fuck on occasion.”

  “Oh, stop that,” she chastises, smirking. “You’re his girlfriend then.” She looks positively gleeful at the idea. Rebecca takes a sip of her soda and chuckles, curly hair frothing around her shoulders, makeup well-done and very distinctly South Prescott. We like heavy lips and heavy eyes—day or night. Black or at least very dark liner, falsies, little to no blush. Classic.

  “We’ll be in my room if you need anything. Please do your best to knock.” Oscar moves down the hall and I follow after.

  “I’m making potato pancakes, in case you want any,” she calls out, her question clearly directed at Oscar’s rapidly retreating back. She smiles at me again. “You can call me Becca. If you need anything, just holler.” She disappears back into the kitchen as I move down the hall and out a back door to a small deck. There seems to be an addition on the side of the garage that has its own entrance. When I step inside, I find Oscar Montauk’s bedroom.

  This is fucking weird.

  The space is small with jewel-toned purple walls and a double bed with black blankets and sheets. There are a few obscure paintings on the wall, like maybe Oscar did them himself or something. Other than that, I see a dresser with some personal items atop it and a bookshelf crammed full of thrillers and true crime novels, and that’s it.

  In short, the room tells me virtually nothing.

  Oscar slams the door shut behind me, cutting off all of the natural light; every window in that room has its blinds down and curtains pulled tightly shut. It takes me a minute for my eyes to adjust, but Oscar seems to know exactly what he’s doing, crouching down and pulling a clear bin out from under his bed.

  “Why are we here?” I ask, slightly confused. This is the Peters’ place? This is where Alyssa’s been staying? How did Oscar come to live here? I know his parents passed away, and that there was some scandal to
it, but a lot of the information about the case was never made public. I remember the time it happened though, the way his face changed and never went back. I want to say we were around thirteen at the time.

  “I have a meeting with Coraleigh today,” he says, pulling the top off the bin and tossing it onto the surface of his immaculately kept desk. “Ophelia is putting pressure on her to deflect to her side; she says she can protect her. I want to make sure she understands that isn’t the case.”

  Oscar withdraws a long length of pale pink rope from the bin and then twists it around his hands, testing out its strength. He smiles. He said he was a master of knots; I can only wonder what his plans are for that. Will he hang Leigh up like we did Donald? Or something worse?

  “Why even bother coming to school at all?” I ask, since neither of us even made it to first period.

  “To see you, obviously,” he says, completely deadpan. It could be a joke, sure, but almost … not? I can’t decide either way. I lean my back against Oscar’s door, biting my lower lip as I try to puzzle him out, when he turns over his shoulder to look at me, the rope still wound around his long, inked fingers.

  “Come here, Bernadette,” he commands. Oscar turns toward me and my heart jumps in my chest. I can't decide if I should be turned on or if I should run.

  “What?” I ask, looking at the rope in his hands. I'm so shocked by the seemingly sudden turn of events that it takes me a hell of a lot longer to figure out that the pink rope in his hands is for me and not for Leigh. I take a small step away from him, putting my back against his bedroom door. “I thought you said you had a meeting with Leigh?”

  “It's a flexible meeting,” Oscar continues, turning around and snapping the silky looking rope in his tattooed hands. “And you seem hell-bent on chasing me to the ends of the earth, so here we are. Are you afraid of me?”

  Those words of his … they are very clearly a challenge.

  I look back at him, holding that rope in his hands, knowing what he did to Donald, knowing what he did to the Kushners. There wasn't even a hint of regret in his eyes when he pulled the trigger on his revolver. Oscar Montauk does not operate under the same moral rules as the rest of society. Then again, neither do I.

  Trust, Bernie, I tell myself, pressing my fingertips into the door for leverage. You said you'd trust the Havoc Boys. What's so different about this? If I want Oscar, then I have to accept him with every broken piece of his soul, the way he has to do for me.

  “I'm not afraid of you,” I tell him, and he narrows his gray eyes on me. It's obvious that he didn't expect such an answer. “Should I be?” I cock my head to one side, remembering the feel of his fingers on my throat. There was violence in his touch, sure, but it was restrained and well-leashed, and clearly not directed at me. Despite his reaction toward me, I could tell that the only person he was angry with was himself. Instead, it was passion I felt in his fingers when he touched me. Passion that he's obviously terrified to embrace. “I am not human,” he said.

  Fucker.

  He has no idea how human his face was on the night we spent together. No goddamn clue. I wet my lips, tasting the waxy texture of my lipstick.

  “We should message Vic to let him know we aren't coming back to school,” I say, and Oscar clenches his teeth.

  “Already done,” he says, but not like he truly expected me to stay. “Shall I tell him we're about to fuck, too?”

  I swallow the tight lump in my throat.

  “We don't owe Victor an explanation anymore,” I say, feeling this flicker inside my chest. This is the way things were always supposed to be. Not Oscar being a dick obviously, but … me and the boys. They have always been mine. Always. “What are you planning on doing with that rope?” I nod my chin in the direction of it as Oscar scowls.

  This is going to be a shitstorm. He has more intimacy issues than me and Hael and Aaron and Callum combined. Oddly enough, I don't think Victor has those sorts of problems. He's always seemed more than willing to admit his feelings to me.

  “Punish you,” Oscar says simply, like this is the obvious response. “Now, get naked and get on the bed on your knees; put your back to me.” My eyes are just now adjusting to the semi-darkness of the room, and I have no problem seeing his face. Seeing and reading it are two different problems, however. Oscar's motivations remain carefully packed away and hidden from the world.

  “You sound like a serial killer,” I joke, moving forward and pausing so that we're standing toe to toe. Oscar looks down at me as I slip out of my pink leather Havoc jacket and toss it onto his floor. His eyes find the pulse point in my throat, watching as it flutters like a trapped bird.

  I slip my top off next, putting the black Harley tank top aside. Another gift from Victor. All I've got on now is the very first black lace bra that he got me. Oscar seems to recognize it, but says nothing, makes no move to touch me. I reach back and unhook my bra, letting it fall down my arms and drop to the floor.

  “Bernadette, you have huge fucking tits. You must be kidding me? You were intended to read between the lines.”

  I know he likes my breasts, maybe more so than any of the other guys. Yet, he makes no move to touch them. My skin prickles with need, but I'm not about to throw myself at him like a cat in heat. This is a careful dance between two hard-as-nails personalities; it was never going to be easy.

  But nothing worth having ever is, am I right?

  Sitting down on the edge of Oscar's bed, I get a strange feeling in my belly and do my best not to smile. Sure, my life hasn't been what it might've or should've been, but that doesn't mean being in the bedroom of a boy I've been crushing on for a decade doesn't affect me.

  When Oscar isn't at Aaron's, he lays his head here. Since he was thirteen years old, he's been laying his head here. His energy is stamped all over this room; I feel like I'm drowning in it. I hear when you first go under, it's a struggle, then the water rushes your lungs and it's nothing but pain. After that … quiet bliss and an easy slip into the next world.

  Yep.

  Oscar Montauk is like drowning.

  I take my boots and socks off, not bothering to hurry. There is no rushing this. My eyes lift up to find Oscar's, but he hasn't moved; his expression hasn't changed. He's stoic and quiet and dark as the night sky without stars.

  Unbuttoning my leather pants (a different pair since Vic ruined my favorite), I slip them down my hips and reveal the fact that I was never wearing panties at all. Underwear lines and all that.

  Now that I'm nude, I feel completely vulnerable in front of this man, the same way I did on Aaron's couch that night. The way Oscar's staring at me doesn't change, but I get the impression that he's close to breaking and revealing something important to me.

  I climb onto the bed and turn around, perching on my knees.

  “Hands behind your back,” he tells me, his words stitched with darkness and lust and endless, rolling desire. “Wrists together.”

  Holy shit.

  As much as I know I can trust the boys, this is a whole new level. Sex has been leveled at me as a weapon my entire life. My sister died because of sex. Sometimes it's hard to separate the hatred I have for my perpetrators and my feelings about the act itself. Letting Oscar tie me up puts this on a whole new level; it leaves me nearly helpless and trapped in his bedroom.

  With a long exhale, I do as he's asked.

  Oscar's long fingers tickle my skin in a pleasant way as he applies the rope, twisting and weaving it around my arms with just enough pressure that I find it comforting, like he's holding me in his arms. My body begins to shake as he puts his mouth up against my ear.

  “Do you know what shibari is?” he asks me, nipping the shell of my ear and making me gasp in surprise.

  “Tying someone up with ropes …” I hazard, which I'm sure isn't the correct answer at all. Just had to get a bit of snippiness in there before things take a carnal turn.

  “Wrong.” Oscar yanks on the ropes holding my arms together, and I cry out. I'm g
lad we're outside of the main house, so Rebecca can't hear us. “In shibari, there needs to be an emotional connection between the person tying the ropes, and the one being tied up. If there isn't, then it's simply Western bondage.” He scowls and puts his head up against the side of mine. My eyes close against the touch as my heart pounds.

  Oscar steps aside, moving around to look at me from the front. When I try to adjust my arms, they won't move, but they also don't hurt either. The ropes aren't too tight; they feel more like a long-lasting caress than some sort of BDSM punishment. I look up at him in his suit and evergreen tie, gray eyes focused on my face in just such a way that I have to resist the urge to squirm.

  Bernadette Blackbird does not fucking squirm. Gross.

  “You're not going to like me after this,” Oscar says, reaching out an inked hand and cupping the side of my face. His fingers and hands rank up there with the most beautiful things I've ever seen. His fingers are long and wicked, the hands of an idle devil, and his tattoos look to be poured from the inkwell of a mad god. When he touches me, his hand is surprisingly warm. “But I can't help myself. Despite what you might think, I do not have Victor's control.”

  I keep my eyes closed for a moment, but when I open them, I find Oscar with his jacket off, tie loose, and slacks undone. He holds his inked and pierced cock in that gorgeous hand of his, stroking his fingers along its length.

  “Sex is such a strange concept, don't you think?” he asks, his voice as smooth as that thirty-five-thousand-dollar cognac we drank at the Vincents' place. It goes down nice and easy, making my belly burn with the taste. Fuck, fuck, fuck. The tension in that room is so thick that I'm surprised it doesn't fog up the asshole's glasses.

  “I think it's a double-edged sword, a perfectly awful execution of the soul in the wrong hands … and a melding of souls in a different set.”

  “Which set of hands do you think I have, Bernadette?” Oscar asks me, slicking his thumb over the tip of his cock and making it shiny with pre-ejac.

  “The hands of the devil,” I whisper back, closing my eyes. Oscar grabs me by the hair and yanks my head back, leaning down to put his mouth near mine. I can practically taste him, a strange poison that reminds me of night-blooming flowers and pain. He doesn't kiss me though, just laughs against my lips and pulls my hair a little harder.