Havoc: Mayhem Series #4

by Jamie Shaw

  “AAAAAYYYAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

  The water bottle flies from my hand and through the air, and Danica’s voice yells “WHAT THE FUCK!” as it whizzes past her head.

  “Dani?”

  “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?”

  Her eyes are even wider than mine, slicing back and forth between me and where my water bottle shattered one of our living room table lamps into a million tiny pieces.

  “I thought . . . I thought you were a robber . . .”

  “So you threw a water bottle at me?!” When I just stand there like an idiot, she yells, “Did you even call the cops before you tried to murder me?”

  That probably would’ve been the smart thing to do, so . . . “No . . .”

  Instead, I sprung into the hallway like a five-foot-tall, Aquafina-sponsored assassin, complete with heart-print pajama pants and a puppy face printed on my T-shirt. I push my wild hair out of my eyes. “Sorry.”

  “Whatever,” Danica scoffs, nudging her way past me. “You are so lucky you didn’t hit me.”

  “Why were you making so much noise?” I ask with adrenaline still fueling my racecar heart as I follow her back to her room. She attempts to slam her door, but it meets my open palms and I continue following her.

  She doesn’t bother going into her closet before she starts stripping off her clothes.

  “Because I’m pissed!” she answers as she skillfully unzips her golden top, yanks it over her head, and hurls it at her bed.

  “Why?” I ask, watching as she kicks a purple heel into her closet and disappears in after it.

  “Because when I asked Mike to come inside tonight, do you know what he said?”

  “What?”

  Danica reappears barefoot, her pink toenails matching the thin cami she now has on with the fuchsia skirt she wore out tonight. “He said he has to wake up early!” She throws her hands in the air. “What the hell kind of excuse is that?”

  “Maybe he really does . . .” I reason, but Danica jabs a finger at me.

  “No, Hailey. No. Mike’s changed.”

  “How?” She shimmies out of her skirt and kicks it into the wall before disappearing into her closet again.

  “Like tonight, I told him he should get the lobster risotto, but he wouldn’t. I told him how good it was, but he didn’t even care!”

  “That’s it?” I ask, and Danica practically teleports back out of her closet, her face a mask of anger.

  “That’s it?”

  “I mean . . . maybe he just doesn’t like risotto. Mike doesn’t really seem like a risotto kind of guy.”

  “How would you know?” Danica sneers. “You don’t even know him.” She stares me down, her eyes narrowing. “Just because he buys you some shitty little flowers because he feels sorry for you doesn’t mean you know anything, Hailey.”

  “I was just trying to help . . .”

  “Yeah, well, you can help by paying for that three-hundred-dollar lamp you just broke, but like that’s ever going to happen.”

  It’s a low blow, and she knows it, but of course I don’t think of any good comebacks until I’m lying in bed later that night.

  Yeah, well, not everyone has a rich daddy like you, Dani.

  That’s what I should have said. But then she probably would’ve replied with something even meaner. Or worse, maybe she would have told said rich daddy about how I tried to murder her, and then she’d kick me out and he’d stop paying for my school and I’d have to move back to the same little farm in the same little town and live the same little life my parents did, just like their parents did before them.

  It’s not that I didn’t like growing up on the farm. I did. I got to feed baby cows and play hide-and-seek in cornfields and run barefoot through the mud. But the world has got to be bigger than cows and cornfields and mud. My world has got to be bigger than cows and cornfields and mud.

  After spending another twenty minutes imagining the blow-out argument between Danica and me that never happened, I give up on sleep, roll out of bed, and pad over to my desk, sinking into the canvas camping chair I use as an office chair. My computer screen lights my room as I crisscross my legs in my lap and let out a heavy breath, the shattered lamp and Danica’s words weighing on me.

  I’ll pay for the lamp. Even if it’s ten years from now, I’ll pay for it. But right now, I just want to forget it. I want to forget the suffocating feeling of living in a glass house across enemy lines. I want to forget that I sleep just one wall away from someone who can’t stand the way I dress or talk or act or look or breathe.

  I click the icon to Deadzone Four and lay my cheek on my desk as it loads, my line of sight falling on a glass vase filled with the sunflowers, daisies, and wildflowers that remind me of home, just like Mike hoped they would.

  Why didn’t I throw this at Danica? my mind chastises. I thought there was a robber here to murder me, and I passed up a heavy glass vase for a freaking half-empty water bottle?

  I turn my forehead into the wood laminate desk, feeling like an idiot. I’m an idiot for throwing a water bottle. I’m an idiot for not calling the cops before busting into the hallway. I’m an idiot for the way my stomach flipped when Mike gave me the sunflowers. And I’m an even bigger idiot for the way it does it again when I lift my eyes to see that his username is active on my friend list.

  You don’t even know him. Just because he buys you some shitty little flowers because he feels sorry for you doesn’t mean you know anything, Hailey.

  I don’t know why those words hurt so much, but they do. And I don’t know why the one person I want to talk to right now is the one person I shouldn’t, but here I am, staring at his name on my screen.

  Danica was wrong about me not knowing him. In the week since I met Mike Madden, I’ve learned some things. I know he loves his job. I know he sucks at sniping. I know his mom is some kind of stain-removing guru. I know he’s great with twelve-year-old kids. I know he’s thoughtful and funny and kind.

  I know he loves Danica. I know he never got over her, because he told me so. I know that he bought her a dozen roses redder than any roses I’ve ever seen.

  Hey.

  His message appears on my screen while I’m lost in my thoughts, and my stomach does that flipping thing again that’s really starting to annoy me.

  I stare at the message for a long time before typing something back.

  Hey.

  What are you doing up?

  Breaking 300 dollar lamps.

  I press my fingers into my eyes, wondering how I’m going to pay that damn lamp off and wondering why the hell I brought it up. To Mike.

  When a new message pops up, I pull my fingers away and read it.

  Sounds like an expensive hobby.

  A small, unbidden smile sneaks onto my face, and I type back, It’s a long story.

  I’ve got time.

  I start to type back, I thought you had to wake up early? But then I delete it and sit there staring at my screen. Just an accident, I finally type. What about you? Why are you up?

  Because I’m talking to you.

  I sit there for a long time having no idea how to respond to that, until a second message pops up.

  If I ask you something, will you be honest with me?

  That doesn’t sound ominous at all, I nervously type back.

  Will you?

  It takes me a minute, but I finally type back, Yes.

  And five seconds later, my phone rings.

  “Hey,” I answer, and Mike’s voice makes my heart trip in my chest.

  “Hey.”

  “Sooo . . .” I nervously roll the ball of my mouse down and down and down.

  “This feels like a really awkward question.”

  “Probably would’ve been easier to ask it through a text,” I suggest, and Mike chuckles.

  “You’re probably right.” A long pause, and then a heavy sigh. “Just remember what you said about telling me the truth, okay?”

  “I don’t lie, Mike.” />
  “I know. That’s why I’m asking you, even though I know I shouldn’t.” Nervousness twists my insides as my finger goes double-time on the mouse, and finally Mike says, “Why is Danica with me?” When I don’t respond right away, he says, “I know I’m an asshole for asking you, since you’re cousins, but there’s no one else I can ask.”

  “What about her?” I counter. “Why don’t you ask her?”

  “Because I don’t trust her like I trust you.”

  “Then why are you with her?” The words sound more confrontational than I mean them to, but there they are, a challenge that floats between us—how could someone like him be with someone like her?

  It’s the million-dollar question—one I’ve had no right to ask. But it’s late, and I’m tired, and he’s asking me to gossip about my own family. He’s asking me to take his side.

  “Because I don’t want to spend another seven years thinking about her,” Mike answers, and my face pulls with disgust.

  “So you’re just trying to get her out of your system?”

  “No!” Mike rushes to say. “No. Jesus, Hailey, do you really think I’m that much of an asshole?”

  I immediately regret my gut reaction, because no, I don’t think he’s an asshole at all. “No. I’m sorry.”

  Mike’s heavy sigh sinks under my skin. “I’m giving us a shot because I don’t want to spend the rest of my life wondering, you know? But I can’t read her anymore. She’s not being real with me, and I’m not sure if it’s just because she’s nervous and wants to impress me, or . . .”

  “Or what?”

  Mike hesitates, and I know he’s drumming his fingers on something. “Or if she’s no better than every other groupie.”

  The truth is, I don’t know either. I know that his growing fame is what put him on her radar, but I also know that they have history, which involves feelings, which I know Danica must have, even if she doesn’t show them. I remember how nostalgic she got when she told me about the flowers he used to put in her locker in high school. And I saw how genuinely flustered she was when she was getting ready for their date tonight. But was that because she wanted to impress Mike? Or was that because she wanted to impress the rock star?

  “I don’t know, Mike,” I confess. “I’m the last person in the world who should be giving out relationship advice.”

  “Why?” he asks, and I can think of, oh, a thousand different reasons. “You’ve been in relationships, right?”

  “Yeah, I’ve had boyfriends . . .” I say, and Mike picks up on the things I’m leaving unsaid.

  “But?”

  “But . . . I don’t spark.”

  “You don’t what?”

  “Spark,” I say as I think about banging my head against the desk. I stare at it and scratch my fingers through my bed-tangled curls. “I don’t spark.”

  “What does that mean?”

  This time, I actually do scoot my chair back to let my forehead thump against the desk. I squeeze my eyes shut against the dark as I reluctantly answer Mike. “You know, like the sparks you’re supposed to feel when you kiss someone.” I groan internally. I could drop dead right now and it would be better than continuing this conversation.

  “Maybe you’ve just never been with a good kisser,” Mike says, and I’m surprised my burning face doesn’t light the damn desk on fire.

  “I’m pretty sure they’ve been good.”

  “You just haven’t met the right guy yet.”

  “Can we go back to talking about your messed-up love life instead of mine?”

  Mike chuckles, and I unglue my forehead from the desk. “You never answered my question,” he says, and I finally try to tell him why Danica would be with him.

  “Probably because you’re smart and funny and sweet and talented and—I don’t know, Mike. Why wouldn’t she be with you?”

  A long beat passes before a soft chuckle drifts through the phone.

  “What?” I ask.

  “I was just thinking.”

  “Thinking what?”

  “I should call you more often.”

  Rolling my eyes at his reaction to the ego boost I just gave him, I pad toward my bed and crawl under the covers. “I’m going to bed now.”

  “But I want to hear more about how awesome I am.”

  “Goodnight, Mike.”

  “Don’t you want to play Deadzone?”

  “I’m already back in bed.”

  “Play with me tomorrow then?” he asks, and I snuggle the covers up to my neck.

  “Okay.”

  “Okay.” I close my eyes at the smile in his voice. “Sweet dreams, Hailey.”

  “Sweet dreams, Mike.”

  That night, I dream the sweet dreams Mike wished me. I dream them in spite of broken three-hundred-dollar lamps and in spite of angry cousins sleeping down the hall. I dream them because Mike told me to, and because the last thing I think about before I fall asleep is the way he looks when he smiles.

  Chapter 9

  “It’s too risky,” I caution, my brows knit with concern.

  Mike’s voice stays calm, collected. “We knew that going into this.”

  “We’ll get caught.”

  “Maybe.”

  “What if they see us?”

  “What if they don’t?”

  My fingers fidget with nervous anticipation. “This is dangerous . . .”

  “It could be worth it, Hailey.”

  “Oh my God,” Luke groans through my headset. “Will you two stop being so dramatic? Are we raiding this place or not?”

  Mike and I both laugh, and I switch out my Deadzone player’s weapon, opting for an M1014 semiautomatic shotgun instead of my trusty M16 assault rifle. My fingers flex before settling back against my keyboard. Alone in my room, I say, “Okay, but I’m pretty sure we’re all going to die.”

  “I’ll protect you,” Mike offers, and I roll my eyes at my screen with a grin on my face.

  “I’m a better shot than you.”

  “Are not,” he argues, and I start to object, but my little brother beats me to it.

  “Yeah, she is, dude.”

  “Traitor,” Mike accuses, and at the sound of my brother’s laugh, I smile.

  “Okay, are we really doing this?” I ask, and Luke starts the countdown.

  “One . . . Two . . .”

  “Shit!” Mike barks as a torrent of shots are fired. All hell breaks loose, and the three of us scramble in different directions, firing on the enemy team as we run for our lives. I race away from their hideout, through the streets of the post-apocalyptic city, and duck inside a decrepit building. Rats squeak through my surround-sound headphones.

  “Where is everyone?” I ask into my mic as I find a good stakeout position and switch the gun in my hands to a Remington 870. Luke, Mike, and I are in team mode, so I know our enemies can’t hear me as I try to figure out our next plan.

  “I’m with Luke,” Mike says, and my brother’s voice is in serious gamer mode when it sounds over the chat.

  “Do you think we lost them?”

  “You definitely lost them,” I answer, my finger hovering over the trigger key.

  “How do you know?”

  I shoot the idiot who runs in blind through the doorway of my building, and then I toss a grenade outside and race up the broken stairs as gunfire begins splintering the rotted wood exterior. “Because their whole team is outside my building. I’m surrounded.”

  “Where are you?” Mike asks, and after I describe my location, he asks Luke, “Should we try to save her?”

  “What do you think?” my brother replies, his tone grave.

  “I don’t know, man,” Mike says. “She makes fun of me a lot.”

  I chuckle as I crouch down and shoulder my grenade launcher. It’s my last grenade, but the enemy team doesn’t need to know that.

  “Yeah,” Luke agrees. “And she told me she was going to give me a noogie next time she sees me.”

  “I’m your sister!” I argue
as I continue watching the bottom of the stairs. “What about all those weekends I took you to the movies?”

  “You made me watch a musical,” Luke complains, and I launch my grenade when the enemy team sends one of their men on a suicide mission up the stairs.

  “That was one time!” I argue over the sound of the explosion blasting in my headphones. “And it was an accident! How was I supposed to know that Crocosaur vs. Sharkopus was a musical?”

  “Uh, a little something called the Internet?”

  “Dude,” Mike interrupts. “Crocosaur vs. Sharkopus was awesome.”

  “See!” I bark as I sneak down the dark hallway stretching away from the top of the stairwell. My fatigues-wearing player holds my final big-bang shotgun at the ready.

  “What about that scene where the crocosaur launches off the cliff and the sharkopus impales it on a tentacle?” Mike challenges. “That scene was the sickest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “It was pretty cool . . .” Luke reluctantly admits as an enemy player bends down to pick up the rare knife I intentionally discarded. I shoot him in the head, race over to collect his weapons and my knife, and slip back into my stakeout position—a hole in the rotted wall.

  “I wish I had a sister cool enough to take me to movies like that,” Mike says, and I smile at my computer screen.

  “Okay,” Luke finally agrees. “I guess we’ll save her.”

  “Hailey,” Mike says, the smooth tone of his voice doing weird things to my stomach. “Remember when I said I’d protect you?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You might want to back away from the windows.”

  I have a second and a half to race from my hiding spot, into an open room on the opposite side of the hallway, when the entire front face of the building explodes. “Holy shit!” I gasp, realizing that Mike and Luke must have been converging on my location the whole time they were pretending to weigh their options.

  The players from the opposite team—the ones who weren’t taken out by Mike and Luke’s twin rocket launchers—race up my stairwell in a panic, and I fire my M16 like Tony freaking Montana, mowing them all down. Their player counter goes from six to three to one to zero, and then a medal stamps onto my screen, boosting my player to a new level of game play.