“Sometimes you have to love someone enough to let them go,” is what I’d said.
I yank on my arm again, so hard that for a moment my heart stops, and a strange sensation shoots from my fingertips to my brain. Pretty sure I just broke something. I ignore it.
We followed Bernadette home the entire way. We watched over her. No way in hell I’d leave my girl alone in the dark in a bra and panties. So even if she didn’t know it, we kept her safe. And then I fucked her. All night long. Over and over.
Another violent wrenching of my arm, and a scream tears from me that I can’t stop. Doesn’t matter though because I heard both David and Tom drive away. The fact that there’s nobody here to guard me means that Ophelia doesn’t have enough money to keep any of her hired thugs on retainer. She’s working with scraps right now. We have to keep her cash flow down if we’re going to win.
My muscles tense for another go, but my mind drifts back to a different night.
“I’m scared, Aaron,” Bernie said, curling her fingers through mine. We put our foreheads together, just naked and breathing.
“If you’re scared, we don’t have to do this,” I told her, and I meant it. If all I cared about was sex, I’d be my father. He’d screw anything that moved; it made my mother suicidal.
“Not of the sex,” she’d whispered, nuzzling against me. “I’m afraid that if we do this, we’ll get too close to each other. If I give you my heart, will you make me bleed?”
And she did give me her heart. And I did make her bleed.
I imagine if I were to die here tonight, Bernie would struggle to recover.
I can’t and won’t do that to her again.
With another scream, I wrench my arm against the cuffs, and something pops. For a second there, I must black out because the next thing I know, my arm is free and sitting bloody and limp on the bed beside me. “If I give you my heart, will you make me bleed?” My brain conjures Bernie’s face up and holds it there as I lift my eyes to see what I’ve managed to break—besides my arm or wrist or what-the-fuck-ever.
The bed frame is still nearly intact, but the spindle I’ve been yanking on has popped out of the horizontal piece above it. Looks like there was a peg on the end that I’ve managed to snap off. At great cost, I might add. Whoever built this goddamn bed deserves a medal; this thing is sturdy as shit.
My breathing is ragged as I try and fail to lift my arm. My right shoulder is screaming in pain, but if I don’t get moving then all of this is for naught. I’ll have hurt myself for no reason at all. It takes me a couple of tries, but my lips move on the syllables of one beautiful word. Bernadette. I know it isn’t healthy to live for one person and one person alone, but … I clench my stomach muscles in anticipation of the pain as I lift my arm up, a ragged sob tearing from my lips that I’m just glad nobody’s around to hear.
I bend my right leg as much as I can, straining my fingers for my bootlace. With another sob, I drop back onto the bed, soaked in sweat and bleeding at the wrist. I’ve really done it, truly and utterly fucked my arm up. And still, my gunshot wound isn’t fully healed either. I’m going to end up scarred and in constant pain like Callum.
Still, small price to pay to get out of this mess.
I try again. And again. And again. Just when I’m starting to think that the goddamn shoelace is out of my reach, my throbbing fingers snag it, and I’m able to grab hold. Fortunately for me, the style at Prescott High is to wear your bootlaces undone. I’ve done it for years. The tongue of this pair is particularly loose, the shoes well-worn, the leather pliable and broken from use. I get the lace in my hand and then collapse again to rest, staring up at the black and white buffalo plaid canopy above my head.
Get out of here, start running, don’t stop until you find Havoc.
My right arm is shaking so badly that I can barely lift it to my lips, using my teeth to pull the metal end of the aglet off to reveal the small square-shaped key inside. Oscar found these things online almost two years ago, and we’ve been wearing them in our shoes ever since.
Never thought I’d really have to use them though.
It takes me three attempts to get the key into the lock on the handcuff, but then there’s this blessed release and I’m groaning as the pressure on my joints finally releases, and I collapse into the bed with my upper body free.
I’m coming, baby, I think as I struggle to sit up, feeling that awful pain in my leg again. Yep, I’ve got a fracture of some sort, and I’m going to have to walk on the damn thing. This should be fun.
I struggle with the ropes for longer than I should, using my left hand almost exclusively while my right one bleeds and trembles. I do my best not to look at it.
“Fuck yes,” I murmur, kicking the last of the ropes away and swinging my feet to the ground. The first time I try to stand, I end up on my knees, cursing and leaning over to brace my left hand against the ground. My entire body hurts, but I make myself crawl toward the door anyway, using the jamb to drag myself to my feet.
If Tom or David or—god forbid—Kali shows up here and finds me, I’m done. I won’t get another chance to escape. So even though it hurts, even though each step is agony, and my right arm hangs limply by my side, I make myself go down the stairs, the same stairs where Kali rolled her boyfriend’s body just hours prior.
There’s still a bit of a bloodstain on the trim.
I ignore it, limping down the steps at a slow but steady pace and finding myself in a great room with vaulted ceilings, a ritzy-rustic kitchen (money just can’t buy authenticity, now can it?), and a living room filled with plaid sofas. It looks like a Black Bear Diner—that is, a rustic chain restaurant—threw up all over the fucking place.
I look at it for a minute, scowl, and then flip the place the bird. On my way out the front door, however, I find a barbecue with lighter fluid next to it. Whoever used it last left a lighter and a pack of cigarettes on the side of the barbecue, too, like they were just asking for this place to be lit up.
Huh.
I don’t really have the time to spare, but maybe if I leave a distraction behind, it’ll help throw anyone who comes here off my trail. After all, I can’t exactly move at a brisk clip.
“Light it up,” I murmur, taking the lighter fluid inside the house and squirting it all over the plush sofas, bearskin rugs, and leather recliners. I put a cigarette between my lips, light it, and then take a drag before putting the crackling cherry against the lighter fluid. There’s a whooshing sound as the flames lick across the sofa, starting a small but pleasant blaze. It’s not all fantastical or movie-worthy or anything, but there is no doubt in my mind: this cabin is going to fucking burn. “Good riddance.”
I turn and limp out the door, taking the lighter and the pack of cigarettes with me.
Bernadette Blackbird
Logan Charter is surrounded by his goons in the back corner of the room. There are whiny little Fuller High and Oak Valley Prep girls everywhere, using their long pinky nails to offer the boys bumps of coke.
“They’re snorting up a goddamn snowstorm over there,” Hael murmurs as we create a half circle around the Charter Crew. Not just the five of us, of course, but like a lot of the Havoc Crew members I’ve never met. I recognize a few from seeing them howl in the hallway, but I never bothered to learn their names. I understand it’s best I keep my distance; the mafia don doesn’t mix with their hired help.
“Good,” Vic says, watching Logan like a wolf stalking prey in the snowy woods. “Cocaine makes you ballsy and reckless. That’s what we need tonight.” With a derisive snort and a deep exhale, Victor moves forward through the crowd and heads straight toward Logan Charter. “Logan,” he calls, and I swear, the entire room settles into a distant murmur as people lower their voices and turn to watch. Kind of difficult to start a war with all these fucking cops around, but I’m assuming Victor knows what he’s doing.
“What the fuck do you want?” Logan asks, favoring his left leg as he turns and moves forward to meet
Vic. Kyler is nowhere to be seen. Unsurprising, considering he just lost another brother at the racetrack. One by one, we’re picking them off. Doesn’t feel very satisfying tonight since we’re down one, too.
“Don’t stress,” Hael tells me, turning his head slightly to look down at me. I wonder what he sees when he stares at me, some tell I’m giving off that I don’t even realize, like Callum and his hood or Vic and his chin rubbing. “We got this, Blackbird.”
I try to force a smile, but it doesn’t come. My lips won’t part. Instead, my fingers itch for a cigarette, but I keep them still, my hands hanging at my sides as I watch Vic and Logan face off in the middle of the gymnasium. Above their heads is a giant net filled with balloons. They should probably be in Prescott High’s colors—some idiot decided once upon a time that we should be green and red—but they’re actually in Oak Valley Prep’s blue, gray, and silver.
“Who wants to bet that Mitch is dead?” Oscar muses, holding his iPad against his chest as he stands just behind and to the left of me. I glance back and our eyes meet, a million unspoken things filtering between us. It’s hard for him, I think, to continue to be a complete asshole when Aaron’s missing. When there’s a possibility we could never see him again. When there’s a chance, however small, that he could be dead. “If he weren’t, Kali wouldn’t be playing with cops, and Vic wouldn’t be talking to Logan right now.”
I turn back to the scene in front of me, but really, as much as I dislike Mitch and find him to be a pathetic imitation of Victor, it’s obvious now that he was the only choice for leader in this group. Logan is like a distant star compared to the sun that is Victor Channing-Blackbird.
My lips almost twitch as I rub my thumb against my wedding ring, but any joy I might’ve felt at the idea that Vic has been legally named Victor Blackbird in the Oregon legal system is diminished by the eclipse that is Aaron’s disappearance.
I can’t hear whatever it is that Victor’s saying because he’s leaned in and put his lips near Logan’s ear. That’s when somebody releases the balloon net about two hours too early, and the DJ cranks up some horrible song—I think it’s the WHATS POPPIN remix by Jack Harlow which, in my opinion, could really use an apostrophe.
Victor grabs Logan by the back of the neck, dragging him toward the door as he flails around and shouts at the top of his lungs. His words are lost in the blur of balloons, the dimming of the overhead lights, and the colored spotlights sweeping across the crowd as Prescott students start to dance, dragging their middle-class and one-percenter cousins into the fray.
We know how to create distractions here at Prescott High, right?
Cops? What cops?
I grab one of the unnamed Charter girls by her hair, yanking so hard that she falls on her ass, and then I drag her toward the exit, too. Pretty sure she’s Logan’s sidepiece. His girlfriend is already after Vic, trying to free her man from his iron grip. We enter the hallway as a group, each of us pulling at least one Charter Crew dickhead along with us. I say at least, because Callum and Hael have two each.
The doors slam closed behind us and a couple Havoc Crew girls use a key to unlock the janitor’s closet, grabbing an old pipe and shoving it through the handle of the door, effectively locking it.
I’d take more interest in them if I weren’t struggling with the bitch on the ground.
“Fuck you, you cunt!” she’s squalling, and even though we have no personal beef, I’m in a mood. I slam her head into the ground the same way I did Billie Charter, and then climb on top of her in my pretty pink skirt with the glittery appliques. My nails, however, are still a glorious matte black with coffin tips.
Seems appropriate.
“Wait, wait, wait!” Logan chokes out when Vic releases him. The other Charter brother stumbles back into a locker, hand around his throat. His girlfriend throws herself against his side, but he’s more focused on the bitch trapped between my thighs.
I backhand her across the face, spattering blood, and pause as Logan lets out a roar of rage. His girlfriend bristles, but she must be aware of Logan’s arrangement with … well, whoever this raven-haired chick is because she doesn’t seem surprised.
Vic lifts his hand, and I pause, sitting back but keeping my thighs clenched tight to keep the girl from squirming away.
The other Havoc Boys release their charges, and we form a stand-off right there in the hallway.
“Where is Mitch?” Victor asks, but Logan is so focused on the bleeding girl underneath me that he isn’t paying attention. Cal pulls a knife from his boot and rushes forward, grabbing Logan’s girlfriend and yanking her away from him. He places the knife against her throat, drawing a single drop of blood, just the way Aaron did with Ophelia. If only … Killing her at the beach house would’ve been risky as fuck, but then, would Aaron be here with us if we had?
“Pick a girl,” Cal growls out, his husky voice low and dangerous. “Which one do you like best, Logan?”
“Listen, I don’t know where my brother is,” Logan says, holding up both hands as his eyes dart between the two women. “He was supposed to be here already.”
“Where was he when you last spoke with him?” Victor asks as the girl underneath me starts to struggle again, and he nods. I hit her in the face, and she screams. I stay my hand and wait, looking up at Logan with one powdered brow quirked. Have to say, my brows are on fucking point tonight.
“Picking Kali up,” Logan explains, gesturing wildly and then glancing over at the other five boys in the hall with him, like he’s sizing up their chances. Technically, we’re outnumbered eight to five. But there’s no contest here and we all know it. “But now she’s talking to cops, and … Jesus. I don’t know what’s going on. Aren’t you satisfied yet? You killed Danny, and you killed Timmy, and—”
“Mitch was supposed to pick up Kali yet she’s here, and he isn’t?” Victor clarifies, and Logan makes a sound of frustration, glancing back at his boys again. They have yet to make a move, but Hael is ready. I can feel him tensed and waiting beside me. Oscar is as cool and calm as always.
“That’s what I said, ain’t it?” Logan snaps, looking between the girls again. “He isn’t answering his phone; I don’t know what else you want me to say.”
“Mm.” Vic rubs his chin for a moment and then turns that intense stare of his down to me. “Keep the girl for leverage. Let the rest of them go.” I get his logic—we’re on campus, surrounded by cops—but still, the order stings a bit.
I’m ready to end this shit. Fuck, I’ve been ready since day one.
But I can’t blow everything we’ve worked for by being rash. I stand up and drag the girl to her knees by her hair as Logan steps forward and Victor levels him with a look.
“Do not test me tonight, Charter.”
“Don’t test you?!” he chokes out as I put the girl in a chokehold, ignoring her nails as she rakes them down by arms and makes me bleed. I can barely feel it. I have one task tonight, and that’s to find Aaron. Literally nothing else matters. By proxy, Kali will die, but that’s just a bonus. “You killed Timmy. You killed Danny. First chance you get you’re going to off me, too. So, what the hell do I have to lose?”
“Uh, your girl?” Hael suggests, slipping a knife out from his back pocket. Well, shit, I guess Callum Park isn’t the only boy in our group that can slip weapons past security with ease. He unsheathes the blade and puts the end of it against the raven-haired girl’s belly. She goes completely still; she must understand we’re not posturing here.
Nah, tonight Havoc is playing for keeps.
“Fuck me, fuck, fuck, fuck,” Logan groans, shoving the heels of his hands against his forehead as he paces in a tight circle. The other Charter boys do nothing. Actually, I stand corrected. As we stand there, one of them turns and takes off running down the hallway.
Nobody stops him.
We’re not about slaughter here at Prescott High: we’re about submission.
“Anyone else want to walk away from this and live?” Victor
asks, sliding his hands into his pockets and smiling. If I could only use one word to describe the expression on his face, it would be this: delicious. I want to lick it off and consume it. Bet it’d taste like dark things, murder, and fucking. “It’s over, Logan. Your brother and Kali have gotten mixed up in something they cannot finish.” Vic takes a step forward and Logan shrinks back. “I’m going to give you two choices here: submit and spill info. Or defy us and spill blood.”
“You have thirty seconds to decide,” Oscar adds, turning his iPad around so Logan can stare at the ticking of a countdown clock. Hael presses the blade harder into the girl’s stomach and Logan just collapses.
Callum moves forward to grab him, and the rest of the Charter Crew boys take off down the hallway after the first dissenter.
Do I believe that they’re really done fucking with us? Mm. Depends. Where is Mitch? Because an army without a general is like a chicken without a head.
“What do you want to know?” Logan groans as Callum shoves him back against the bank of lockers. His girlfriend is still here, despite the fact that I’m holding Logan’s side girl hostage. She seems determined to stay, hovering off to one side.
There’s a story here, but it isn’t one I’m interested in. No, in this tale, I am the main character.
“What do you know about Neil Pence?” Victor asks, hands still in his pockets, like he’s getting ready to take a stroll instead of, you know, interrogating someone.
“Neil …” It takes Logan a second to figure out who that is, but when he does, his eyes light up with recognition. “Yeah, the cop, right? Bernadette’s dad?”
“Stepdad,” I correct automatically, releasing my hold on the girl just enough that I can be sure she’s actually breathing. I have no idea who she is, and I’m not killing a girl I don’t even know.
“He came to us, man. Said he could help us bury bodies and shit …” Logan eyes Callum with no small amount of fear. Good for him. He can sense that the smiling blond with the blue eyes and lush mouth is twice as likely to snap his neck as the redhead with the knife. Good instincts. “He knows some dude at the morgue who helps him dispose of them.”
Anarchy at Prescott High Page 3