Biting my lower lip, I stand up and peep in the bathroom door to make sure that Heather’s still situated in the tub, playing with her toys and reminding me that I not only have a reason to stay, but a reason to fight.
If I make this deal, Neil Pence will pay. I don’t know how, but the Havoc Boys have a certain finesse to their cruelty. It’ll be something good, something worthy of my sister, Pen, and of Heather, and of me …
It’s Saturday night, and I’ve already had plenty of time to think.
I’ll do it.
It doesn’t matter what happens to me, doesn’t matter what Vic or his cronies have in store. I’ll be their plaything. Who cares? I was in love with Aaron once, I’ve been lusting after Vic since … forever. They’re all undeniably gorgeous, if a little cruel for my tastes.
Fuck.
Am I really going to do this? I’ve fought my entire life to keep my body to myself. And trust me, men have tried. Men like the Thing. Men like my temporary foster brother. Men like Principal Vaughn.
But then I hear the front door open, and the Thing’s voice booms from downstairs, sending a shiver down my spine.
There’s nothing worse than him, the ultimate villain in my horror story.
A cop, the son of a well-respected judge, the brother of a prosecutor.
Untouchable, impossible, the epitome of evil.
Whatever it takes to bring him down, I’ll do it.
Even if it means getting in bed with Havoc.
I march into Prescott High on Monday ready to make a deal, but I’m already running late, and the school is on lockdown. I have to check in at the office, wait for the gates to be unlocked, and scurry to my first class. I’ve forgotten that we’re having an active shooter drill, so I spend the next few hours learning how to find random objects around the room and use them as weapons.
My first period teacher isn’t pleased when I suggest ramming a pencil up the shooter’s ass from behind. But at least he doesn’t have to hide his disgust with me for long because the lunch bell rings, and I’m off, searching the campus for Havoc.
“They’re out back by the dumpsters smoking,” Stacey Langford suggests, taking pity on me when she sees me searching the halls. She’s barely spoken a dozen words to me since she got shipped here during sophomore year. I figure she’s just afraid I’ll include her in whatever deal I make with Havoc, and she’ll get her ass kicked. As far as queen bees go, she’s not so bad. The bullying thing isn’t really her angle.
“Thanks.”
I head outside and find five boys in black, smoking cigarettes and sitting around some hot rod car that looks far too fancy for the dirty parking lot. Must belong to Hael. He’s got a serious hard-on for vintage rides.
“Nice car,” I say, and he snorts at me, flicking his cigarette in my direction and standing up with this cocky swagger that makes me grit my teeth. In another school, another life, he’d be the king of the elite, some badass ruling over the high school in preparation for a life of luxury. But that sense of entitlement must’ve been hard-earned because I know Hael Harbin doesn’t have a cent to his name. One time, right after my mother lost the house my dad had bought for her, we spent the night in the same homeless shelter.
“Nice car?” He leans against the roof and taps the cherry red door with his tattooed knuckles, honey-brown eyes glittering. He smells like fresh leather, coconut, and motor oil, a much different scent than Vic. My eyes flick that direction and find him watching me carefully, probably waiting for my answer. He doesn’t think I’ll accept. Well, fuck him. Him and his idiot friends came up with this whole ‘Havoc’ thing. Name the job, hear the price, pay up. I’m going to fulfill my end of the bargain, and for three years now, the Havoc Boys have been fulfilling theirs. “This is a ’67 Camaro. It’s a fucking collectible.”
“That’s not a ’67 grille,” I say, gesturing at the front end. “It’s too wide. A ’68 maybe, but not a ’67.” Hael gapes at me for a moment, and then smirks. Hopefully he’s impressed, but really, I don’t know shit about cars. I overheard him talking to a buddy in shop on my way to the bathroom last week.
“Smart chick,” he says, and then looks me over, his eyes sweeping me in a calculating sort of way. Unlike Vic, he doesn’t get any deeper than my exterior, doesn’t delve into my soul with a pair of flint-like eyes. Instead, his gaze takes in my tight leather pants, and black Harley tank with interest. “So, which do you prefer? The Camaro or the bike?” He gestures back at Vic’s ride with his thumb, and I give the shiny Harley a cursory glance. For such poor boys, they sure have nice rides.
It’s easy to deduce that they either stole them or, more likely, stole the money or parts to make them happen.
Havoc’s control isn’t limited to Prescott High. I know they have a network of assholes that run the city. It’s a little scary, if you think about it, these seventeen and eighteen-year-old boys running their gang. If they’re this bad now, what’s going to happen in five years? Or ten? That is, if they even make it that long. Like me, I assume they all live life under the assumption they’ve got an expiration date in the not-so-near future.
“I didn’t come to talk cars or bikes,” I say, glancing over at Vic, Callum, Oscar, and Aaron, all perched on the back steps where the food trucks make the weekly deliveries to the cafeteria. “Actually, I—”
“No,” Vic says, that one word spoken so quietly it barely breaks the sudden gust of wind across the lot. But it’s powerful enough to halt any further conversation in its tracks. “I said take the week.” He looks right at me, and I can see this is yet another test.
“You’ll do what I say when I say it.”
Fuck.
Aaron glares at me from green-gold eyes, smoking his cigarette and biting back whatever caustic, awful thing it is he wants to say to me. Bet Vic told him to keep his mouth shut.
As I stand there, I feel them looking at me, all five of them with different expectations, different wants. I should be scared to be out here alone with them, but as of right now, I’m a potential client. They won’t hurt me, not yet.
“Get lost, Bernadette,” Vic says, leaning back on the steps, his expression the most difficult one to read. Hael looks like he wants to bend me over the hood of his car; Oscar looks like he wants to do my fucking taxes; Callum has a much darker, scarier expression on his face. But it’s Aaron who looks like he might want to kill me. “Come find me on Friday to let me know your decision. Until then, stay lost, would you?”
Slowly, I back away and head inside, seething with anger.
And even though I try to hide it, a shiver takes over my entire body. As I sweep past, I know that even Stacey and her girls can see it.
Despite my bravado, I really am terrified, aren’t I?
But am I scared of Havoc? Or scared of what I might become if I give into them?
Vic is sitting in his front yard when I bike over on Friday, my boots crunching across the gravel as I climb off and head his direction. He barely glances my way, but I can see the tense set of his shoulders. If I were a threat, he'd neutralize me without a second thought.
“Bernie, what brings you to this side of the city?” he asks, slowly blowing smoke from between his full lips. He's lounging in a plastic chair on the front lawn of his father's run-down little farmhouse. I remember this place well; I spent a whole week in one of its closets.
“I'll do it.” The words scrape past my throat, like hot coals burning their way up my esophagus. My hands are shaking, but inside, I'm nothing but white-hot rage. I need this, and I hate Vic for making me crawl all the way over here to tell him that.
“Yeah?” He exhales smoke, his violet hair catching the sunlight. Vic just barely glances over his shoulder at me, the tattoos on his neck crinkling with the motion. “Then get over here and sit on my lap.”
My mouth purses. I don't like being told what to do.
“If you want this, you'll be our plaything.”
I must be fucking mad. And yet, the only things that mot
ivate me are my sister … and my vengeance. I don't care about anything anymore, not even myself.
Moving forward, I squeeze between two overgrown bushes and toss my ratty backpack on the ground.
Vic's dark eyes follow me as I walk over and straddle his lap. The expression of triumph on his face is like an arrow to the heart, but my heart turned to stone a long time ago. I don't feel it at all.
My body likes his though, so much so that when I adjust myself and feel his hard, muscular form beneath me, I feel my breath catch.
Vic continues to smoke his joint, the sweet skunk-y smell of weed wafting around me. Pot smoke is so much denser that cigarette smoke, and I swear, it rolls off the lips like nothing else. I'm mesmerized, watching him. He puts one, big hand casually on my hip, studying me with a much sharper, much more intelligent gaze than I'd have ever pegged him for.
“Once you say yes to Havoc, that's it. Kiss me and seal the deal. There's no going back after that.” Vic spins the joint around and offers it up to me, a bit of ash catching on the breeze that flows between us. Across the street, I can hear two of his neighbors shouting at one another, but over here, in the sun, it's not so bad. When you exist in the ugly, you learn to live in the beautiful. “But first, smoke with me a little.”
“I don't feel like getting high,” I say, reaching for his cigarettes. Vic's free hand, the one that was resting on my hip, snaps out and grips my wrist, stopping me.
“Don't you ever have any fun, Bernadette?” he purrs, his voice this viciously beautiful sound, like a predator on the hunt. But a smart predator, one that doesn't expend energy unless absolutely necessary, one that stalks. I shiver, even though I can feel the sun on my back, even with the hot, hot heat of Victor's body between my thighs. I'm not shivering because I'm cold; we both know that.
“No, actually, I don't,” I say, but Vic doesn't release my wrist. He stays right where he is, waiting, holding the joint between us. Our eyes are locked, my green ones on his endless black, sharp as obsidian.
“Take the joint, Bern, and chill out a little.” His words, they're not a request. Narrowing my eyes, I take the joint and inhale, watching the cherry crackle down the length of the paper. My lips and tongue tingle as I exhale, blowing that thick, hot smoke. There's no helping the coughing, but Vic laughs at me anyway. There's no pleasure in the sound either, just a cold, cruel analysis of the situation.
He has me by the balls, and he knows it.
The weed hits me quick, sweeping over my body and making my hands and feet tingle. I exhale without even realizing it, like I'm taking my first real breath in a long, long time.
“Ahh, there we go,” Vic says as I take another drag, passing the joint back to him. He stabs it out in an ashtray, and then grips my hips with two, big, inked hands and then quirks a cocksure little smile that would have me feeling all kinds of pissed off if I wasn't high. “Now, kiss me and show me you really want this.” I lean forward, but Vic stops me, grabbing my chin in tight fingers. His frown is all sorts of cold hell. “Don't half-ass this, Bernadette. A deal's a deal, and we take our shit very seriously.”
“Don't you think I know that?” I snap back at him, and his fingers tighten on my chin. It hurts, but I don't want Vic to see how much, so I keep my expression stoic.
“You are going to mewl beneath me,” he says, his voice neutral but threaded with a darkness that makes my throat feel tight. I'm playing with fire here, but I don't care if I get burned. I want the whole world to turn to ash. “I've been wanting to fuck you since ninth grade.”
“Pervert,” I grind out, but only because I don't want him to notice how hard my nipples are beneath my tank top. Vic smirks at me and releases my chin, leaning back in the chair.
“It must hurt you, to sit on the lap of the guy that made your life a living hell. It must just tear you up on the inside, a strong girl like you. Submitting isn't exactly your forte, if I remember correctly.”
“Why don't you just shut the fuck up, so we can get this over with? I haven't agreed to anything yet. Are you trying to get me to walk away from this deal?”
“I'm preparing you. It's a service I don't offer most of my clients. Be grateful, Bernadette.” Victor's face shuts down, and I see the full scope of his brutality. If I push this, if I kiss him and take this deal, I'll end up in his bed. My enemies will end up in the ground; my sister will be safe.
It's all I've ever wanted anyway. Well, the last half of it.
There's no need to drag this out any further: I made my decision this summer, and I'm sticking to it. My own inked fingers curl around his neck, and I try not to think too hard about this. It's just a kiss; I've had other kisses before.
But when I lower my lips to Vic's, and that hot slash of his mouth brushes up against mine, heat slices through me. He puts one of his big hands on the back of my neck and holds me there, his tongue sliding into my mouth and taking over. His kiss is a demand for more, the sealing of a deal, like some kind of fucked-up reverse fairy tale. This time, I'm not kissing the prince to become the princess, I'm tonguing the villain to guarantee the destruction of others.
Watching their downfall should be satisfying, cathartic in a way.
It's hard to think about that though when Vic is holding me so still, kissing me so deep, his cock lengthening beneath me. I can feel it through the black basketball shorts he's got on.
“Fuck me,” he commands, pulling back just enough so that his lips brush mine when he talks. My heart is pounding, but I knew this was coming. I said I'd be their plaything, didn't I? I knew what I was agreeing to.
My hands come down and curl under the hem of my shirt, pulling it over my head and tossing it aside. I'm still wearing my bra, but that doesn't stop Victor from sliding his hand up my side and searing me with heat. His tattooed fingers knead the heavy flesh of my breast through the black lace.
We're still sitting in the front yard, but whatever. I'm sure the people in this neighborhood have seen worse.
Vic reaches around behind me to unhook my bra … and then a man comes out of the house, wearing a stained wifebeater and smoking a cigarette.
“Don't fuck your whores in front of my house, you little bastard,” the man snarls, stumbling toward us. Vic tenses up, but he doesn't move from where he is. He does, however, let me go so I can stumble up and grab my shirt from the lawn, slipping it back over my head.
“Get your ass back inside, old man, you're an embarrassment.” Victor waits while the guy makes his way over, sneering at me in a way that has me bristling. I've been looked at by older men that way for far too long, and I won't put up with it anymore.
If I have to choose between victim and aggressor, I'll pick the latter every time. My life as an innocent has long since slipped from my grasp.
“Get over here girl, and I'll show you how a real man fucks.” The old guy with the thinning hair grabs his dick and runs his tongue across his lower lip, making me feel sick to my stomach. My hatred for Victor Channing is only outshone by my lust for him, but this guy … he's repulsive, exactly the sort I've always hated.
Vic moves from his chair in such a fast, fluid motion that he's just a blur. His tattooed hand wraps the other man's throat, and he walks him backward until the creep's being slammed against the trunk of a tree. Victor gets right in the asshole's face, the expression on his one of murder.
“I told you not to touch my girls.” Slam. He pulls the guy—who I'm assuming must be his father—away from the tree, only to slam his back into it again. “Don't talk to my girls.” Slam, slam, slam. “Don't even look at them.”
Victor releases the man, who crumples to the ground right away, choking and grabbing at his throat, before stepping back. Vic glances my way, running his inked fingers over his violet hair, his mouth in such a severe frown that I'd be worried if I were his dad.
“Go home, Bernadette,” he says, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket before removing one and lighting up. “Don't be late to school on Monday.”
/> “I wouldn't dare,” I mock dryly, turning and grabbing my backpack and my bike before heading down the street. I can feel Vic's eyes on me all the way to the corner.
Prescott High is such a dump, this crumbling old stucco-sided building that my grandparents went to school in. It'd be charming and all that if, one: I didn't hate that side of my family, and two: there'd been any maintenance done on the building at all in the last fifty freaking years.
I smoke a whole cigarette in view of the front entrance, knowing the security guards on staff have worse to deal with than some defiant bitch smoking a shorty on school property.
“Good morning, darling,” Oscar says, appearing behind me like a specter. I turn slowly, finding his tall form dressed in a white button-down, jacket, and slacks. It all looks very fancy, despite the tattoos on his hands and knuckles. He lives in one of the most dangerous parts of town, too: South Prescott. I'm guessing he bought the suit with blood money. That, or stole it. He wears them a lot. “I hear you're one of us now.” The smile that steals across his lips is pure malicious intent. He pauses a moment to glance up at one of the security cameras near the front gate. “Welcome to Havoc.”
A huge explosion sounds from across the street, and Mr. Vaughn's car—this brand-new, pretentious as fuck Range Rover in a custom shade of pearl—goes up in a fireball. I'm all the way across the street, and I can feel the heat on my face.
“Holy shit!” My hands clamp over my mouth as the SUV is engulfed, students screaming, one of the campus cops racing across the road. Mr. Vaughn bolts down the steps in his off-white suit, his jaw slack, eyes reflecting the orange and red of the flames.
The first thing he does is dart his eyes my direction. Our gazes meet, and I smile.
“Don't look at me, although we both know you deserve it.” My mouth feels like it's smiling, but all I feel inside is sick, sad satisfaction. The principal rushes forward to grab a fire extinguisher from a passing staff member, and goes to town on the car with it while sirens sound in the distance.
Havoc at Prescott High Page 3