“Fucking pervert,” I murmur, pushing up off the door. “Penelope!” I call out, noticing her backpack on the floor near the front door. I can’t think about Havoc, or creepy Principal Vaughn, not here. Because this place is as much of a battleground as school—if not more so. “Pen!” I call again, popping into the kitchen for a glass of water. I’m starving, but there’s no food here, and I’m not likely to get any tonight.
Sometimes, the Thing will take us all out for a surprise dinner, but it’s rare, and I’ve noticed that Penelope always looks so empty on those nights. Besides, just sitting at a table with that monster is torture. Frankly, I’d rather starve.
When I don’t hear anything from my sister, I head upstairs.
Pen’s door is locked when I try the handle, but I figure she’s just listening to music and head into the room I share with Heather. Sitting down on the edge of my bed, I clutch the glass of water in my hands and play a game I’m well-familiar with, one where I try to see if I can cry without making a sound, and if I can keep my tears from filling the glass.
I’ll always regret that, sitting there and crying while Pen was dying.
The logical part of me knows that she was dead long before that, because she never went to school that day. I was just too busy running from Havoc to notice.
After a while, I set the water glass aside and use one of the bobby pins from my hair to pick Pen’s lock. It shouldn’t be so easy, like it isn’t fair she doesn’t have any privacy. I’ve seen her get in throw down brawls with our mom over having a deadbolt, but poor Pen’s never had her wish granted.
The knob gives a satisfying click, and I push the door in.
Pen is sleeping on the bed, wrapped up in her blankets, like it’s not the middle of the day with bright sunshine streaming in through the window. Her room smells strange, not like it usually does, like bleach and the sweet lilac scent of our laundry detergent. She cleans it constantly, scrubs every surface, washes her sheets three times a week.
I’ve always thought it a strange tic, for someone who keeps such a messy backpack and locker.
I wrinkle my nose, ignoring the sounds of children playing in the backyard of our neighbor’s duplex. Despite the smell, I don’t rush to Penelope’s side. Maybe something in me knew that that day, everything would change for me.
Because I wasn’t born Bernadette the bitch, the badass, the leather-wearing cynic with a fondness for sarcasm and a mean right hook. I used to cry over little things. Big things, too, obviously, but little things constantly. The world held promise before that day, like I could find a future waiting in the stars for me, no matter how distant or dim it might seem.
I sit down at Penelope’s desk. She’s left her phone plugged in, and when I touch it, I find that it’s unlocked. Definitely unusual for her. She craves privacy, wherever she can get it. There’s a note there, open and written with a discarded stylus.
“I’m so sorry, Bernadette. Out of everyone, you and Heather are the ones I owe the world to. But I can’t take it anymore. When I try to run, he chases. When I tell the truth, she calls me a liar. I can only take so many dark showers, stay awake so many nights. No matter what they say to you, always remember that I loved you both.”
I lift my head up from the phone screen to stare at the blanket mound on the bed.
Slowly, carefully, I set Pen’s phone aside and stand up.
This isn’t what you think it is, Bernie, I tell myself, my hands shaking as I stand there in a pink plaid skirt and a white cardigan, twisting my fingers together and doing my best to keep breathing. My head feels disconnected, and my heart thunders like a mad thing.
“Penelope?” I ask, but there’s no answer.
Closing my eyes, I try to listen for the sound of her breathing, but the fucking kids outside are too loud. Storming over to the window, I lean out and shout down at them to shut the hell up before I slam it closed. Spinning around, I close my eyes and perch my ass on the windowsill.
For several more minutes, I just sit there. Because the longer I do, the longer I can pretend that everything is okay. Like, if I don’t check her, then I can’t find anything wrong, and if I can’t find anything wrong, then she’ll be alright.
Finally, I open my eyes and look down to see her face, still and waxy and perfect. Trapped forever in a single state, draped in youthful skin and silken hair.
I choke on my own saliva as I fall to my knees in front of her.
I don’t have to touch my sister to know that she’s dead.
“Hey, Penny?” I whisper, calling her by a name that I haven’t used since Dad died. “Where did you go?” Reaching out, I pull the blankets back and find her clutching one of her stuffed animals, dressed in her favorite pj’s. There’s a bottle of Pamela’s pills on the nightstand, but I hardly register that. I just remember sitting there and watching her chest, waiting for that rhythmic rise and fall, that predictable constant.
It never comes.
After a while, I climb into bed beside her, looking into her face, committing it to memory.
I don’t remember crying, but when I finally get up the courage to grab Pen’s phone and dial 911, I look back to see the sheets soaked where I rested my head.
“My big sister was murdered,” is what I tell the operator on the end of the line.
Despite their findings to the contrary, I know better.
Penelope might’ve taken those pills, but she didn’t want to die.
Someone drove her to it, and I know exactly who that person was.
I still do.
And I’m willing to sell my soul to the devil to watch him suffer. That’s how important his pain is to me; I need to see him bleed.
Two and a half years later, I find my chance in Havoc.
The next morning, I wake up on Aaron’s bed, wrapped in his scent, decimated by memories. My eyes find this spot on the door where we accidentally dented it with my head. Yep, my fucking head. Aaron and I tumbled against the door in a frenzy, hands tearing at each other's clothes, adrenaline pumping through our bodies.
Youthful rage and desire, all mixed into one. I stand up and put my fingers against the dent before opening the door, fully expecting to find Vic looming over me, staring down at me with those crow-black eyes of his. Instead, I find an empty hall, the distant giggles of the girls drifting to me from a cracked door at the other end.
Relief surges through me and I slump against the wall with my right shoulder, closing my eyes and listening to the sounds of play, sounds that I left behind a long, long time ago. It feels like it's been centuries since I was a child.
The Thing stole that from me, my innocence and my childhood.
My sister.
Gritting my teeth, I open my eyes and then push up off the wall, moving down the hallway to open Kara's door. The three girls are sitting around an iPad, watching a TikTok video about eye shadow. They look up guiltily as I pause in the door, leaning against the jamb.
I feel exhausted, emotionally and physically.
Between the Halloween party, the Thing's visit, and Aaron's near death … I'm dead on my feet. Add in the video and I'm about half-ready to crack, steal one of Oscar's guns, and go take care of my stepdad myself.
“We were just looking,” Heather says, pausing the video, like wanting to learn how to put sparkly eye shadow on is the devil's work. It's Mom's fault that she feels like this. Pamela has never kept her jealousy or distaste hidden from us, calling me and Pen whores and sluts for dressing up and wearing makeup. She’s scared Heather out of having any interest in fashion or makeup or fitness. Or at least, I thought she had.
“If you guys can stay up here for a little while, and keep the door closed, I'll take you to get some makeup later. If you're really good,” I tease, crouching down next to them and pressing play on the video, “then I'll show you how to put it on, Bernadette style.”
I reach out and cup the side of Heather's head, giving her a kiss on the forehead, even as she wrinkles her nose at me and
sticks out her tongue. I'm glad she thinks something as simple as a kiss from her big sister is icky; that's how I used to feel. It means she believes I'll be here forever.
I intend to be, even if it means putting my faith back in Havoc.
When I made the decision to call out that word, to bring their dark wrath down on me, I knew what I was getting into, knew I was climbing into bed with demons so they might fight my devils. Lesser of two evils, that's all they've ever been. Somehow, I let myself be tricked into believing that my childhood fantasies about the boys might actually come to fruition. I lost my mind in a pretty black wedding gown, tattooed hands, and sultry smiles.
“We'll stay upstairs,” Heather agrees, eyes sparkling at the idea of some colorful new eye shadow. She won't pick pink like Pen, that's for sure. More than likely, she'll choose something I'd like. Purple. Teal. Black.
“Good girls,” I say, giving Kara a kiss, too. Ashley is still a little shy when I'm around, clutching a stuffed narwhal and leaning away from me, so I don't bother her. Nobody should have affection forced on them, not even children. Even when it seems innocent—go sit on your new daddy's lap, Bernadette—it might not be.
With a groan, I shove to my feet, feeling like an old lady as my joints protest. All that running I did yesterday has shown me exactly how out of shape I really am. Add in the bruised knees from my many falls, and I’m practically limping.
I head down the stairs, fully expecting a confrontation with the guys. Instead, I find Aaron, slumped over on the couch, shirtless and bandaged and sleeping. I pad over to stand in front of him, watching his eyelids flicker as he dreams, wondering if they're more nightmares than anything else. He doesn't stir, not even when I reach out and brush some auburn hair back from his sweaty forehead.
“You still love him.”
I turn my head to find Vic, leaning against the arch that leads into the kitchen, his inked-up arms crossed over his equally inked-up chest. My breath comes out in a rush as my body comes to life, my heartbeat racing, my skin flushing with heat. Nobody ever said we were lacking chemistry. It's trust, apparently, that's missing here.
And when I was just starting to believe their bullshit, too.
“You're a Havoc Girl now, and we don't keep secrets from each other.”
“You must've gotten a good laugh out of all this,” I say, stepping back from Aaron and turning to face the leader of the Havoc Boys dead-on. Vic stares back at me, his arms a mosaic of color, his face a study in masculine architecture. Whatever dark god created him, they should be proud. He oozes sexuality and confidence, danger, violence. He's the perfect alpha male, the perfect leader.
He's also a liar.
“A good laugh?” Vic asks, cocking a dark brow. “Out of what? You seeing your sister raped on film? No. I never wanted that.”
“If you didn't want that, you should've told me sooner. You should've let me make that choice,” I growl, pointing to my chest as I grit my teeth and feel my lust quickly being replaced with anger. “After all your bullshit, all your reassurances, you and the others, you're exactly what I thought you would be.”
“And that is?” Vic asks, uncrossing his arms and moving toward me. He keeps a healthy distance between us—smart move on his part—but it still feels too close. He's always too close to me, always digging beneath my skin and into my soul with those depthless eyes of his. Unending. Infinite. Eternal. Victor Channing will outlast an apocalypse, I'm sure of it.
“Monsters,” I clarify, exhaling sharply and then moving past him to get into the kitchen. I forgot to eat yesterday and I'm starving. When I open the fridge, I find leftovers from a taco dinner: cooked ground beef in a Tupperware container, chopped green onions and shredded cheese, all of it wrapped up and carefully put away. Havoc is far more domestic than they first appear, and you know what? That makes them even scarier. There's nothing they can't do, no chasm they can't cross.
“Hael cooked for the girls last night,” Vic explains, without my even having to ask. “He's surprisingly good at it.” He lets out a low chuckle and shakes his head, stepping back into the archway and blocking me into the kitchen. I'd say I didn't think he meant to do that, that he's just big and muscular and the space is small, but I don't believe that for a second.
Nothing Vic ever does is by accident.
“Must be all those morning-after breakfasts he cooks for his one-night stands,” I quip, despite the fact that tacos aren't exactly a breakfast food. When I suck in a deep breath, I can smell the weed curing in the bathroom around the corner, just past the laundry room. There are joints all over this house; I just need to find some, light up, and try to calm my head.
“Bernadette, I need you to listen to me,” Vic says, but I ignore him, getting out the leftovers, and opening a fresh pack of flour tortillas. I turn the gas stove on and then throw a tortilla directly onto the burner. It cooks fast that way, and there's no oil involved. Win-win. Victor watches me as I pretend he doesn't exist. Pretend being the key word. I could never truly forget about Vic, no matter how hard I tried. Shit, I'm wearing the guy's family heirloom on my finger. “We never meant to keep that video from you. I'd always intended on showing you, but it got lost in the hustle and bustle of everything else. There's so much, Bernadette. So damn much. We're taking this one step at a time.”
“Why does it seem like everyone else in Havoc wanted me gone?” I ask, lifting my eyes up to look at Vic. He repositions himself on the opposite side of the peninsula, putting his palms atop the counter and leaning in to look at me. “But not you. According to every other asshole in Havoc, my being here was your idea.”
“Let’s talk about the video,” Vic says, redirecting the conversation and making me grit my teeth. “You're upset, understandably so. What you saw, no person should ever have to witness. But we didn't intentionally hide that from you, and we never lied.”
“You had the video for years and did nothing with it,” I repeat, feeling my eyes begin to sting, my lips quiver. I don't want to cry. I cried enough yesterday. But somehow, with my sister dead and gone, lost in the claws of a monster that makes Havoc look like good guys by comparison, it doesn't seem like I can truly cry enough. It'll never be enough, not when it comes to Pen. She was my older sister, my best friend, the only family I had that truly cared about me.
And now she's gone.
And I've sold my soul to see justice. My body. My heart. My dignity.
“I explained that to you yesterday,” Vic says softly. “And we did do something with it; Neil has known all along that we have that video. We leveraged it against him so that he’d keep his fucking hands off of you. We didn’t know Pen was going to die the next day. Nobody could’ve known that.” There's something about the tenderness in his voice that really gets me, cuts right through the flesh and bone of my body and delves into my soul. I'm bleeding again, just splashing crimson everywhere, and I don't know what to do about it.
That's what sets me off, how gentle and vulnerable he sounds.
No.
I'm not letting him or any of the others pull the wool over my eyes again.
I throw the tortilla on a plate and then lift my eyes up to meet Vic's.
“You're right,” I tell him, and he cocks a brow, seemingly pleased with himself. But if he thought things would be that easy, then he doesn't know Bernadette Blackbird for shit. “I do love him.”
“What?” Vic barks on the end of a harsh laugh. He's forgotten about his statement from just a few minutes ago.
“Aaron,” I repeat, putting another tortilla on the burner and shrugging my shoulders like it doesn't matter. But it does. It matters in innumerable ways, too many to count or quantify. It matters because that statement isn't just a way to make Vic hurt; it's an admission to myself. Seeing Aaron covered in blood, his face ashen, his lips pale, that was a wakeup call for me.
Nothing lasts forever.
And a lie you tell yourself can be just as damaging as one you tell to somebody else.
I l
ove Aaron Fadler, and I've never stopped loving him.
That doesn't mean I forgive him or that I want to get back together, but it's something.
“I love Aaron,” I repeat again, loving the way Vic's jaw clenches, the muscle in his neck ticking as his pulse picks up, fueled by jealous rage. I love it, too. And I'm not ashamed of that. I want him to hurt the way I'm hurting right now. See, told you we were both toxic.
“Why are you telling me this?” he asks me, his voice just this side of a snarl. If I weren’t certain he was in love with me, too, I'd be scared right now. I mean, if I had anything left to fear, that is.
“Because I want you to get out,” I tell him, flipping over the next tortilla and starting another. “I want you to leave so I can spend time with Aaron without you.” I'm being a petty bitch right now. I know I am, and I don't care. Why should I? The boys have wounded me in an irreparable way, shattered my fragile trust, twisted my reality.
“Is that so?” Vic growls, coming around the counter. My breath catches as he gets too close to me, pressing his body against my back, putting his big hands on my hips. I hate how much I love it, how much I crave him. “You want me to leave so you can fuck his crippled ass on the sofa?”
He thinks he's being cute here.
I'm most definitely not.
“That was the plan,” I lie. I'm not up to having sex with anyone right now. Aaron might not be the leader of this sordid club of assholes, but he knew about the video, too. They all did. “So take your hard-on away from my back and fuck all the way off with it.”
Vic's hands tighten on my hips, and I have to close my eyes to keep from reacting to that. If he gets even the slightest inkling of how much I want him, he'll push me, and I won't be able to say no.
A low, sinful laugh escapes Vic's lips, ruffling the hair on the back of my neck.
“You test my patience, Bernadette.”
“The feeling's mutual,” I quip back, putting the last tortilla on the plate. I'm trapped here, penned in by his arms, desperate to escape but also … desperate to stay. I close my eyes on the realization. You're in love with Victor, Bernadette. You have been for years. No matter how nasty he is, how cruel, how inhuman … it doesn't matter.
Chaos at Prescott High Page 7