Victory at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys Book 5)

by C. M. Stunich

  “Still can’t curse right,” Hael whistles, shaking his head. “Twat? You English or something? Say dickhead. Douchebag. Anything else.” He flashes a big white all-American grin on me before turning his attention to Callum. “But okay. You don’t want a three-way with me. What say you, buddy? Threesome?”

  Cal chuckles darkly, crouching on the table despite the creaking sound it makes. He extracts a doughnut from the box and lifts it to that perfect mouth of his.

  “I’d be down,” he says, shifting his attention over to Oscar. I praise his equanimity as he lifts his gray gaze to Cal’s blue one, as if he isn’t also thinking about threesomes. How could he not be? With all of us in agreement about the current state of our relationship, that opens up a hell of a lot of possibilities. Different combinations. I wonder if any of the guys has ever thought about touching another member of Havoc? “What about you, O?”

  Oscar just stares back at Callum before shifting his gaze to mine and then dropping it right back to the screen of his iPad. I take his sudden, desperate silence to mean yes.

  “Christ,” Vic murmurs, rolling his eyes as he gets a doughnut for himself, too. “Bunch of perverts. If you’re going out, do it now. We can’t be late to that funeral.” Victor gives me a look that says he knows how important Stacey and her legacy are to Prescott High. It would be seen as unbelievably rude and entirely anti-Prescott if he didn’t honor the passing of an alpha female from the southside.

  “Let’s hit it, Blackbird,” Hael says, snatching the Eldorado keys off the table. He’s even added a lucky pink rabbit’s foot to the damn thing. “Slip into those buttery leather pants of yours and meet me outside.”

  “On it,” I say, snatching a doughnut for myself as Aaron reaches out to grab my wrist.

  “I’d do it,” he says as Hael gapes from behind him and then laughs some more. Doesn’t stop Aaron from saying what he wants to say. That’s just how he is: if he feels a certain way about something, he isn’t going to let it go. “Have a threesome … or whatever with you again. Anything. For the way we’ve treated you, it’s the least of what you deserve.”

  Aaron releases my arm and takes off as Hael chortles with laughter and Callum snickers. He storms past them, flipping them off over his shoulder before he slips outside and slams the door behind him.

  “And you?” I ask Oscar, because I already know what Vic would say. He’d do it, probably will do it, but isn’t a huge fan of sharing me. And that’s the way I like him, so I’m cool with it. “While you’re at it answering tough questions: when can I start calling you O? It’s cute; I like it.”

  “Mm, let’s start with the second answer: never. It should be Mr. Montauk to you.” My turn to snort, but I at least get a tight smile out of him before he shakes his head and pushes his glasses up again. “We’ll see on the first.”

  “Oh, come on, O, it’s not like you didn’t fuck me in a casket at the funeral home. That has to account for something?” I call as he takes off, heading for the stairs to, undoubtedly, put a suit on for the funeral.

  Hael and Callum end up doubled over in laughter in the kitchen, and it occurs to me how fucked-up our life is … but also how much I love it.

  And how I’d really and truly do anything I could to protect it.

  Stacey Langford’s funeral is a wild, colorful affair, attended by girls in miniskirts and sequins, their faces painted in full Prescott glory. Lipstick colors with names like Sordid Affair and Cop Killer grace the mouths of some of the baddest bitches to ever set foot in the dump we call Prescott Senior High School.

  Even Scarlett motherfucking Force is there.

  I just stare at her two-toned hair from across the park, taking note of the three hulking dudes who seem glued to her side.

  Another woman with a harem who just so happens to hail from the same shitbox high school as me. I’m impressed. Guess we breed ‘em strong in the southside, huh? Part of me wants to sidle over to her, ask her advice, see how it works in the real world when you’re dating and fucking and loving more than one man with a ferocity that frightens you

  I rub at my temple with two fingers as Vera, Stacey’s second-in-command, moves over to stand beside me. Not six feet in front of me is the white casket with the pink lining that Oscar and I, uh, ‘picked out’ at the funeral home. The lid is closed on Stacey and her ruined face. Even now, standing on the lawn of Prescott Valley Cemetery, I can shut my eyes and see it all playing out in vibrant, punishing color.

  “You Stacey Langford?”

  “Who the fuck wants to—”

  Bullet, brain, body slumping to the floor.

  I bite my lower lip, tasting the sweet waxiness of a lipstick color called Honey Buns. It quite literally tastes like beeswax and soft summer afternoons spent by the creek.

  “Fucking tragic, isn’t it?” Vera asks, her shaved red hair buzzed into a series of designs, one of which just so happens to be a capital ‘S’. The way her makeup and nails are done reminds me of last year’s winter formal, when she got busted stealing a dress and ended up attending the dance in her ragged-ass PE uniform.

  I force a tight smile.

  “I’m going to make it right, I promise,” I tell Vera, standing in an empty half-circle near the front of the crowd. Nobody dares jostles me or touches me, not with my boys slinking through the gathered mourners, taking note of the attendees, looking for anyone who doesn’t belong. Of course, there are two very obvious standouts in this group: Sara Young and John Constantine.

  They stand across from me, on the other side of a very deep hole, just past the gleaming surface of a casket that I fucked my boyfriend in. Some might call that disrespect, but I’m pretty sure Stacey Langford would approve.

  “Hope you know what you’re doing,” Vera tells me, pale eyes following my train of thought to the uptight federal agents and their prying eyes. “Bringing pigs to a Prescott funeral.”

  I let my attention shift from the VGTF officers and back to Vera.

  “Sara, at least, isn’t a bad person. Some part of her genuinely wants to help. I’m just … letting her see a different side of Prescott.” I shrug my shoulders, like this is no big fucking deal. In reality, it’s a huge one. Because despite everything, despite all my bullshit and my bravado, I still want to believe that there’s good in the world and that Sara Young might—might—be a small part of that.

  “So she doesn’t bust your boyfriends you mean?” Vera asks with a chuckle, taking a swig from a pink flask and then handing it over to me. I accept it, tossing the drink back and trying not to cringe at the harsh, bitter grating of cheap vodka. Shit, give me a lighter and I could breathe flames the way Hael did at the Halloween party. It was only three months ago, but it may as well have been a lifetime with everything that’s happened in-between.

  “Something like that,” I agree as the boys find their way to me, as they always do, the dogs of war slipped loose and returning to their mistress as faithfully as if they’d been leashed. My mouth twitches, but I make sure to keep that thought to myself. They wouldn’t like to hear it.

  “Coast is clear,” Aaron says, pausing beside me, his gaze drifting over to Vera. I bet he’s thinking about Mason Miller, and the plausibility of using Stacey’s girls to get access to that fucker. We could order them to do it. Shit, we could get most any girl in this neighborhood to play whore for us. But … it wouldn’t be fair. If Mason is badass enough to take Cal on, then no girl in Prescott would stand a chance.

  No girl except for …

  I pull a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of my pink leather Havoc jacket, slamming the bottom of it against the flat of my hand. Supposed to, like, pack the nicotine together back in the day before filters were invented. Now it’s just a ritualistic bunch of bullshit, but we all need to pretend we have our everyday spells and charms, like tapping your nails on the top of a soda can to get rid of the bubbles.

  “I need to go after Mason,” I say, and Vera turns to look at me, raising a pierced brow. It’s on-fleek for
real. Prescott royalty right here. “It has to be me.” I glance over at Aaron, but he’s already laughing.

  “No.” That’s more a response I’d expect from Victor, but my childhood sweetheart seems content with taking on a bit of a sour tone. Vera snorts and shakes her head, but she’s smart enough not to say anything. “Are you kidding?” Aaron glances over to where Vic is standing, his eyes on the casket and not on me. When he sees Aaron look his way, he adjusts his attention over to me.

  “What?”

  “Bernie wants to dress up like a whore to go after Mason,” Aaron tells him, willing to put aside their rivalry in order to keep me safe. That’s cute, isn’t it? My boys can shirk their jealousy and come together to act like overprotective douchebags. Vic snorts and shakes his head sharply, crossing muscular arms over his chest. He’s wearing a shirt that says Mare’s Nest on it. I can only imagine he had it made at the local t-shirt silkscreen place as a joke.

  The only person at this fucking funeral who’s wearing a suit is Oscar fucking Montauk.

  “What a roomy casket,” the man in question remarks, curling his fingers over one of my shoulders. “And you are not parading around as an undercover hooker.”

  “Like there’s anything wrong with that,” Vera shoots back, giving me a look from beneath heavily shadowed blue lids. Challenging me. That’s what she’s doing. You gonna let these boys run you, bitch? “All you need to get a private audience with Mason Miller is a wet pussy and a smile. You were the one that told me you had those things in spades.”

  “No offense, Bernie,” Cal whispers huskily, shaking his head as he takes a seat in one of the metal folding chairs surrounding the grave. There are six of them, silently reserved for Havoc. No signage needed. Only an idiot would sit in one of those chairs. Like, for example, Sara and Constantine. I just sigh and cross my arms over my chest as they move the two end seats over to the knoll behind the casket. “But if I couldn’t beat Mason, you won’t be able to. It’s far too dangerous.”

  “So, what was the plan then?” Vera counters, stepping up in front of me and blocking the view of Stacey’s casket. “You send one of my girls in and let her die in pursuit of your little gang war? That’s some bullshit right there.”

  “She’s right,” I say as Hael whistles and lets his big body slump into the chair next to Cal. “I can’t expect a girl under my protection to take on a task that’s too dangerous for me.”

  “Blackbird, listen to me,” Hael says, leaning forward and putting his elbows on his knees. He stares at me in earnest from eyes the color of honey and almonds. “You got the jump on me at the after-party. That shit, it ain’t happening again.”

  I take a step forward and then crouch down beside the hole where Stacey’s body will soon be buried.

  Taking out Mason means dismantling the first brick that makes up the GMP. Then Maxwell. Ophelia. I grit my teeth as I reach out and grab a handful of dirt, tossing it into the hole and watching as the shadows of the earth swallow it up.

  When I stand back up and turn, I see that the majority of the crowd is watching us while they wait for the service to begin. Luckily, when I glance over my shoulder at the two VGTF officers, I see them engaged in a whispered conversation.

  I look back at the boys, all five of them staring at me like they can barely resist touching me, holding me, tucking me under their chin to keep safe. And shit if I don’t like it. In the same vein, it also pisses me off. It’s possible to be a bitchy forward-thinking feminist while enjoying a little straight male possession. Definitely not mutually exclusive concepts.

  “I’m going after Mason,” I say, and Aaron frowns hard while Vic laughs.

  “No, you are not,” he says as I turn to Vera, meeting her pale eyes with my emerald tinted ones.

  “Ignore them. They’re just alpha-maleing around. You know how I can make contact with this prick?”

  Vera glances toward the high priestess as the woman claps her hands to get the group’s attention. Pretty sure Stacey wasn’t religious at all but having a modern day witch preside over her funeral seems about right.

  “There’s James Barrasso’s funeral,” Vera suggests, ignoring the men in my life. Stacey’s girls never did appreciate being ordered around by people with dicks. They’d much rather deal with other women. Can’t say I blame them.

  “We know all about the funeral, thank you,” Oscar purrs, looking down his nose at Vera. “Hundreds of mourners, an open cemetery, private security. Complete waste of our time.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Vera quips back, popping her hip in that uniquely tragic Prescott style. I love that she’s wearing a cropped pink shirt that says Hot Girl in forty-degree weather. That’s Fahrenheit, by the way. I don’t know shit about Celsius. This is urban America, yo, not fucking Europe or some shit. “Do you know about the reception Maxwell is having at Kay’s?”

  “Reception?” Victor echoes, exchanging a look with Oscar. Swear to fuck, put the two of them together, and they think they know goddamn everything. “And where the fuck is Kay’s?”

  Vera just laughs and shakes her head, focusing her attention on me.

  “They all must have huge dicks for you to put up with that crap,” she tells me, confident enough in my hold of Havoc’s leashes to prevent any clapback from her snide commentary. “Kay’s—we usually call it KKKay’s because the GMP is racist AF—is a gang-owned strip club near West Burnside Street in Portland. Mason has already ordered a bunch of call girls to attend. He’ll do what he always does: pick a girl and take her upstairs to his bedroom. That’s how often he’s at the club, enough to have a private room.”

  There must be something in my gaze that tells Vera I’m not about to back down from the boys and their overprotective stares. As soon as we get home, I’m restarting this argument, setting it on fire and refusing to leave until I’m on my way to playing undercover hooker.

  “Listen …” she starts, exhaling sharply and reaching up to run a hand over her shaved head. “I’ve been thinking about this since you came to my auntie’s place. I want to help avenge Stacey. Letting you do it by yourself seems … cowardly somehow. But I’m also not willing to send in any of my girls. I’ll make you a deal: I’ll go if you go.”

  “It’s a deal,” I say, reaching out a hand and then shivering as Victor slides his palm over mine, drawing my hand away from Vera’s outstretched one. She snaps her gum at him and narrows her eyes to slits.

  “No,” he repeats, and the wicked heat in his voice causes several other people in the crowd to step back as he glares down at Vera with crow-black eyes. “And this is non-negotiable.” My other hand shoots out and snatches Vera’s before Vic can stop me.

  “Deal,” I agree, and then I tear away from Vic to go sit with Sara Young. In fact, I move one of the metal chairs right beside her and get comfy. I purposely avoid the stares of the boys as the service begins and the crowd moves in to observe the proceedings.

  After this is over, I’m going to get it.

  But that’s okay.

  Because I already have a plan forming, one that involves the feds, the strip club, and Mason Miller. Cruel subtleties, that’s Havoc’s signature. I’m ready to sign this shit in blood.

  Hael Harbin

  Blood trickles over my split lip as I run a hand across my jaw, smearing crimson and letting out a low, dangerous laugh that Martin Harbin does not take seriously enough. Swear to god, if I didn’t have fucking pigs watching my house in their shiny police cruisers, I would kill this motherfucker today.

  “You want to hit me again?” I ask, standing up straight as blood drips to the front of my white wifebeater. Ironic, considering I’d rather grind up my father into hamburger meat than beat my wife. Well … Victor’s wife. For now. At some point, I’m marrying that girl—whether it’s legal or not. Shit, if this country ever gets its head out of its Puritan-rooted ass and puts polyamory on the ballot, I’ll vote that shit in and take Mrs. Harbin down the aisle.

  Because there won’t ever be a differen
t Mrs. Harbin.

  I’ve known that for a long time now.

  “Do you?” I repeat when Martin doesn’t answer, scoffing at me as he sits down to take off his muddied boots. “Punch your son until he’s black-and-blue all over? You used to love that, seeing me cower. Well, guess what, cowboy, I’m a hell of a lot bigger than you now.”

  “Shut your fucking mouth, you little punk,” Martin barks out at me, his confidence level boosted by the presence of the cops outside. With Havoc walking such a thin line, I really can’t afford anymore physical altercations with my old man. That Sara chick is just looking for an excuse to bring one of us in.

  “Don’t you dare hit my son!” Marie shouts, clinging to my arm, tears streaming down her face. Her green eyes dart around the room, searching for enemies that aren’t there. She’s never been properly diagnosed, but we’re guessing she’s a paranoid schizophrenic. “On en a après moi,” she murmurs again, and my heart breaks all over again. I lay my hand over hers and stare Martin down as he throws one of his muddy boots against the wall, spattering it with brown.

  All of this—my mother’s slowly swelling right eye, the fight between me and my father, the blood streaming down from his nose—over muddy boot prints. Marie just finished mopping the floor and this motherfucker comes in with his dirty work boots on.

  “Est-ce que tu peux enlever tes bottes dans l'entrée s'il te plait?”

  That’s what she asked him: can you please take your boots off at the door?

  “Your son is nothing but a punk,” Martin murmurs, lighting up a cigarette—despite the fact that he knows Marie hates smoking inside the house. This … is why I try to respect my mother’s wishes, even the ones I don’t agree with. This woman’s been through enough: she deserves some fucking respect. “There are cops outside for a reason, right? The fuck you do, son?”

  Martin laughs as he stands up, cigarette dangling from his mouth as he looks me over. It’s a menthol, and the smell of it makes me sick. I stare down at him, a good six inches taller than this piece of shit. Guess the universe does work in small favors, huh?