Victory at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys Book 5)

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Victory at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys Book 5) Page 38

by C. M. Stunich


  “He actively encourages me to fuck four other dudes,” I remind her as we step outside into the warm afternoon sunshine. Vera thinks about that for a moment and then sighs.

  “Okay, okay, you’ve got me with that one. Now, you spoiled ass Oak Valley Prep ho, come with me and get your southside on for the love of god. Spend too much time at that palace and you’ll forget your roots.”

  I let Vera lead me down the sidewalk with the boys following behind. What I don’t tell her is that I could never forget my roots. The origins of my story are wrapped around my heart in thorns, briars that make me bleed even as I make new memories and roses bloom. No, forgetting is not nor ever will be an option.

  Some people have material things to fill the endless void in their hearts; in Prescott, we make bonds. That’s how we fill that dark void up until it’s overflowing.

  When we get to Tiff’s house and look back, I see all five boys slip into skeleton masks and my mouth quirks into a smile. How they do shit like that, coordinated like a group of dancers, I’ll never quite understand.

  Vera grabs my hand and drags me into the tiny rundown shotgun house at the edge of the train tracks.

  That night, I experience the most normal teenage Prescott party that I have ever been to in my life. No GMP members, no shootings, no dead teens, no stranglings, no bodies buried alive. Just … alcohol and weed and loud music from tinny speakers and dancing with five interchangeable boys in skeleton masks.

  At the end of the night, one of them slips a mask on my face, carries my tired ass out to the car and drives me home. I only wake up once more, when I’ve been tucked carefully into bed and surrounded by five warm, hard bodies.

  That’s when I finally grab onto and hold something I’ve always wanted: normalcy.

  And we are close. We are so motherfucking close, I can taste it.

  The thing is, someone—Aaron, actually—once told me this: you chose to dig in deep, just for a little taste of vengeance. It won't be as sweet as you think, cupcake. In fact … you'll find it leaves the taste of ash in your mouth; it's almost obscene.

  Ash … That isn’t what I’m actually tasting, is it?

  Because things can never be too rosy for too long, a few weeks after Tiff’s party, I’m sitting in the living room with Aaron while the two of us try to puzzle out some of our homework together. We could ask Vic or Oscar or even Cal for help—and we probably will—but not yet. We’re both too stubborn to give in that easily.

  Instead, we’ve been sitting here for almost two hours working on the same set of math problems. At least we have that in common, me and Aaron, our shitty ass remedial math course. Also, since neither of us is used to all this fancy ass iPad learning and shit, we try writing the problems down on a piece of paper like a proper 90s kid and actually manage to solve a few.

  Hael lounges across from us, reading on his phone. He and Aaron think they’re slick, that I haven’t noticed that they’ve both downloaded some reverse harem novels to dig into. And by reverse harem, I mean books that feature one main female chick with at least three dedicated dudes.

  Basically, my life.

  Although I’m not sure how many readers would want to jump into this shit-filled pond—even with all the hot-ass man candy and the rope tying and the orgies and the multiple orgasms and … oh, wait. Never mind. I’d jump my ass into this shit just for the boys.

  “Fuck,” Hael blurts suddenly, and I flick my gaze up to find him staring at his phone, eyes wide, blood draining from his face. “Shit, shit, shit. I have to go.” He shoves up to his feet and, since he’s only wearing boxers, grabs the first pair of pants he can find which just so happen to be Callum’s.

  Hael snatches the clean black boardshorts from a folded pile on the chair near the breakfast bar and yanks them on while Victor emerges from the hall and narrows his eyes on his friend.

  “What’s going on?” he asks, and it’s only partially a question. Mostly, it’s an order: tell me. Now.

  “My mom …” Hael starts, and that’s all he needs to say. We don’t waste any time in dragging on jackets and slipping feet into shoes. In less than a minute, we’re all standing in the elevator while Hael drags his fingers through his bloodred hair. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he’s murmuring as he stares down at a text on his phone screen.

  Aide moi!

  I don’t have to speak French to guess what that one means: help me.

  Then, underneath it, just a single word.

  Martin.

  Hael looks like he’s about to crack as he storms up to the student valet in just such a way that I feel compelled to grab his arm. My fingers curl around his taut bicep, but I don’t dig my nails into his skin the way my mother once did to me.

  “Hael.” It’s all I have to say. He stops short and grits his teeth, casting this look down on me with his beautiful brown eyes that very clearly echoes his mother’s words.

  “Aide moi,” he breathes, and I reach down to curl my fingers through his as Victor deals with the valet instead, instructing him to bring the Camaro and the Bronco around. Meanwhile, I curl my body against Hael’s chest, burying my head in the crook of his neck and pressing light kisses there that have him shuddering and relaxing against me. He releases my hand and bands his arms around me, holding me close while Aaron, Oscar, and Callum wait beside us.

  Once the Camaro is brought around, and Hael finally releases me, his expression is no less rife with violence, but he’s got back some semblance of control. Together, we get into the Camaro while the rest of the boys use the Bronco, Aaron at the wheel.

  It’s like, after that night at Vic’s grandmother’s house—our future house, you know, if we don’t end up dead—everything’s changed. The boys behave better around one another, and my connection is stronger to them than ever.

  That’s how I know I need to rest my hand on Hael’s leg as he drives, how I know I should push my fingers up beneath the edge of the shorts so I can touch his skin. He shivers, hands clenching around the wheel as we make the drive from Oak Valley Prep to the Four Corners neighborhood. It’s a stark study in classism; you can practically see the stratified layers of wealth being stripped away during the drive.

  “If he’s hurt her …” Hael begins, and then he shakes his head, swiping a hand down his face.

  He doesn’t have to have to say anything more. I know what he wants. I know what he’s wanted for a long, long time.

  It’s the same thing Victor wants for Ophelia, that I wanted for Pamela, that Oscar dreams about with his dead father. Vengeance. Payback. Some restitution for wrongs committed.

  Unfortunately, we still have a squad car on our ass. That, and Sara Young isn’t the type of person that lets things go. For now, we’ve earned her forgiveness and begrudging acceptance, but that’s only because the cards have fallen in just such a way that it looks like Havoc is almost entirely innocent of any wrongdoing.

  The violence at Prescott High, that was self-defense. The bodies on Tom’s land are related to Ophelia and Neil and the GMP. Pamela killed Kali along with Penelope. It all fits together just right, but if we’re not careful, if we mess up even one time, in even one, small, seemingly insignificant way, then Sara and Constantine will nail us to the cross.

  So as much as Hael wants to hurt his father today, as much as I want to hurt the man myself, we can’t do anything of the sort. There is no way to get rid of that man with two cops sitting outside the house, and not have it traced back to us. We could claim self-defense maybe, but is it worth the risk?

  We pull onto the lawn, right into those fading tire tracks that I took note of the first day I saw this place. The only thing that’s changed now is that those tracks are much less deep since Hael doesn’t live here anymore. I know it’s been hard on his mother. He’s said as much. But it’s also so much better for her son to be with us at Oak Valley.

  “Maman!” Hael shouts, using his key to unlock the front door and shoving his way in.

  Right away, it becomes apparent t
hat something is wrong. Food burns in a pan on the stove, making the air cloudy with thick, gray smoke, and furniture is upturned in haphazard patterns that speak to violence and mindless rage. I even spot a streak of blood on the wall near the kitchen.

  The other boys are right behind us, but I leave them to deal with the burning food as Hael storms down the hallway toward his parents’ room. His hands are clenched into fists, his teeth gritted so tightly that it looks like he could very well crack that pretty porcelain.

  He throws open the door at the end of the hallway to find his mother in bed with her dress pushed up, his father on top of her. There’s no stopping him when he goes for Martin Harbin, ripping the man off the bed with a strong grip on the back of his neck.

  “Hael!” Marie calls out, scrambling off the bed and pushing her dress back in place. Her makeup is smeared; it’s obvious she’s been crying. She also has a fresh bruise blooming on her cheek, a split lip, and finger-shaped bruises on her upper arms. “Hael, stop!”

  But he isn’t stopping. Hael has officially lost his shit. He throws his father’s head into the mirror above the dresser, shattering the glass as Martin scrabbles at the hand latched onto the back of his neck.

  “Alright, princess,” Vic says from behind me, giving me a slight shove in the lower back. “Get your man under control.”

  Fuck.

  Hael drags Martin out a back door and onto a small, shaky deck. The wood is clearly rotting from underneath, and it feels like our weight might well topple the whole thing into the dirt. Fortunately, even if that is the case, we’re only about three feet off the ground.

  There’s a flimsy fence, half-collapsed and drowning in blackberries that surrounds the property, but surely the cops can hear the commotion from their stakeout spot? This isn’t going to last long. I can’t let it, much as I might want to.

  We will get Martin Harbin someday soon, but it cannot be here, and it cannot be today.

  Hael drags his father down the three steps into the yard proper, and then he throws the man onto a cracked cement patio littered with old but serviceable furniture. Marie keeps things as well as she can, considering her lack of funds and her husband’s abuse. She really does try.

  Martin ends up on his back on the ground where Hael kicks him so hard in the ribs that I hear bones crack. Oh shit. Victor follows us out of the house in such a casual manner that I know he’s forcing himself to hold back, tucking his hands into his pockets and watching with eyes the color of a raven’s feathers.

  Marie scrambles down the steps just ahead of him and then grabs me by the arm, pleading with me in French. I don’t understand a word she’s saying, of course, but Hael snaps something back at her in such a growly, domineering way that I swear he’s speaking some demonic tongue instead of the language of love.

  “Make him stop,” Marie whimpers, digging her nails into my arm, her green eyes blazing with unspoken pleas.

  “Hael,” I start, pushing Marie back gently and circling around so that I can lay my hand on his arm. “I need you to push pause for a minute.”

  The other Havoc boys crowd out the door, filing down the steps to create a half-circle around us. Hael ignores them, pulling a pistol from his waistband and leveling it on his father.

  Every single person in that yard goes still.

  “You have fucked-up one too many times,” Hael warns his father, his sweet brown eyes dark with years of torment and hate. Martin struggles to sit up, blood pouring from numerous cuts on his cheeks and forehead, bits of mirrored glass in his hair. He coughs once and then groans, curling over to clutch at his side.

  “If you’re going to do it, then do it,” Martin sneers, head still bowed in pain. “Fucking pussy.”

  Hael’s finger tenses on the trigger, but if he pulls it, the cops will most assuredly hear a gunshot. There won’t be any getting out of this. And I’m not losing one of my boys to prison.

  “Hael,” I breathe, tensing my fingers gently against his upper arm. He shivers and tries to pull away from me, but I follow him, refusing to let up on the light pressure of my fingertips against his sweat-slicked skin. His bloodred hair catches the spring sunshine and makes it glimmer like rubies. That fauxhawk of his always seemed so stupid to me before, like he was trying too hard to be cool. But now that I know Hael as intimately as I know myself, I understand that he just is cool. He doesn’t have to try; it’s in his blood. He wears his hair that way because he likes it. “I know you’re angry right now—”

  He gives a caustic laugh, interrupting me.

  “Nah, I’m not just angry, I am fed the fuck up.” He steps forward and grinds the end of the gun into his father’s forehead. “You just can’t stop hurting people, can you? Marie loves you. I don’t understand why. For the fucking life of me, I just …” He glances over at his mother like she’s an alien to him, like he loves her but could never understand her.

  What I want to tell him but don’t, not at that moment, is that love is the most irrational thing there is. Everybody wants it, craves it; everybody chases it. Sometimes, they chase it so hard that they think they’ve found it when all they really have is something awful and broken and ugly. But you can’t convince someone out of love; they have to realize it for themselves.

  And Marie … She’s collapsed to her knees now, her hands covering her face. The way Hael looks at her, I know that he’d do anything for her. He’d sacrifice the world to save his mother. Except … then his eyes shift to me and I know that I’m the exception to that rule. Me, and the Havoc Boys. His attention moves from me to Victor, to the other boys, back to Martin.

  “She loves you, and you won’t stop hurting her. One day, you’re going to kill her.”

  “You don’t understand a thing about us, you gangbanging fuck-up,” Martin snarls, shoving up to his feet and stumbling until he knocks his shoulder against the tumbledown fence at the rear of the property. He leans against it for support, panting, as Hael keeps the gun trained on him.

  “You called me for help,” Hael tells his mom, and she starts off on him in French, yelling and screaming. “Why do you always call me for help if you’re not going to leave him? Why am I even here?”

  “Hael,” Marie pleads even though it’s pretty obvious that she has no idea what she’s pleading for. Instead of turning to his mother, Hael’s eyes find mine again. This time, when I put my hand on the gun and push it so that he’s aiming at the ground instead of his father, he lets me. “He isn’t a bad man, he just … you know how he gets when he drinks.” She stops talking, letting her head hang, red hair waving around her shoulders. Her heavily accented voice is melodious, but her words are beyond sad. She can’t be much older than Pamela, just another young Prescott mom who never got to be a child herself. I feel so fucking bad for her.

  “Are you going to kick him out?” Hael asks, turning to face his mom and slipping the gun back in his waistband. He curls his arm around my waist and drags me close, holding me to him like I’m his one and only lifeline in a storm. His eyes blaze as he stares his mother down. “You’re not, are you? You just wanted me to come and stop him from beating your ass, and then that’s it. I’m a referee and nothing more.”

  “You are my son,” Marie whispers, and then she repeats it in French, “Tu es mon Fils.”

  “Let me take you somewhere else,” Hael suggests, but this is an argument he’s had with his mother on the phone numerous times, begging her to stay somewhere else, at Aaron’s at the very least. It wouldn’t be entirely unheard of for the GMP to come for Hael’s mom. At this point, I think our tentative stalemate is the only thing that’s prevented them from moving on us. “We can find you somewhere better to stay, somewhere nicer than this shitbox.” There’s a long pause there where Hael holds his breath and his mother finally lifts her eyes up to look at his face. “Maman, please.”

  Marie looks over at Martin and then back at her son.

  “Je n'ai nulle part où aller,” she murmurs, and Hael makes a sound of frustration.
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  “She says there’s nowhere else for her to go,” he explains, cursing in French for a moment before sliding his hand over his face. He squeezes me even more tightly against him, and I put my palm over his heart, feeling it thunder inside his broad chest. “But Maman, there is. We have places for you to go. You don’t have to stay here; you don’t have to suffer like this.”

  Tension stretches between Hael and his mother, and I look over to see Vic’s normally stoic face soften slightly as he turns away. We understand what it’s like to be betrayed by a mother. Shit, we all do. Every single one of us has been betrayed by close family.

  Every single one.

  The ties binding our hearts seem to tighten and knot, drawing our souls closer together even as we stand in that janky ass yard in the middle of the second worst neighborhood in Springfield. There used to be a high school here, too, almost twenty years past, but it’s long since been shut down, so … Prescott High it is for Four Corners residents.

  “Okay,” Marie says after a moment, and Hael nearly startles in surprise.

  “What?” he asks, blinking furiously for a moment. “Quoi?”

  “I’ll go with you,” Marie reconfirms, lifting her chin. Her bruised and battered face speaks volumes; the tremble in her pale hands says even more. She’s afraid. But she’s more afraid of losing the last shred of her son’s respect than she is of Martin. “I will go.” She mumbles something else in French that I don’t quite hear.

  Hael tugs me forward and then releases me so that he can take his mother in his arms, tucking her tiny body under his chin as I stand close and Martin starts to scream obscenities from behind us.

  Shock of all shocks, we hear a knock on the door a moment later.

  Our police detail has heard the commotion.

  With a sigh, Hael exchanges a look with me and we lead Marie into the house. I’m the one to answer the door and explain the situation—but only after righting the coffee table and one of the chairs.

  The officers decide to wait on the porch for us as Victor guards the back door, keeping Martin out while we pack up some things for Marie. While Hael helps his mom, I peek into his room and see that he managed to pack up most of his things before the move to Oak Valley, including all those superhero comics and graphic novels. There are boxes here and there at the apartment, stacked in the third spare bedroom, but I never quite put together what might be in them.

 

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