“I’ve never been to a gala where someone was trying to kill me,” I say and then pause, gesturing at Victor with the length of a makeup brush. He watches me shadow my lids with smoky color, drinking in the sight like it’s his most favorite view in the world, like he could climb Everest and the view wouldn’t be half as good as this. “Well, I mean, if you don’t count Snow Day.”
Vic snorts.
“Don’t call that rachet ass shit a gala. Anyway, this isn’t my first wealthy-asshole party, I’ll be honest. When I was little and cute, Ophelia would sometimes parade me around in front of her friends.” Vic looks away sharply for a moment and makes a sound of disbelief under his breath. “Considering her current business interests, I’m just glad I got out of there before I was rented out.” He nods his chin at me, indicating the robe. “Is the dress under that? Or your naked body?” The way he smiles at me, I can tell he’d be fine with either option.
“Why?” I ask, setting the brush down on the little plastic table that I’ve commandeered as a makeshift vanity. I’m wearing the dress, but I didn’t want to get any makeup on it. Still, is it better if Vic thinks I’m naked? “You want to make us late for the party, I’m guessing?”
“I don’t give a shit what time we go to the party,” he purrs, stepping forward as I turn to face him. He holds out a hand and I take it, standing up in bare feet as the sun begins to dip toward the horizon. Luckily, my makeup is just about done. I’m most excited about my new lipstick, a shade that’s titled Nothingness. Now, I’m not exactly sure what the color of nothingness really is, but this company’s take reminds me of deep holes in the ground with just a bit of brown earth for color.
Holes dug to hide bodies, for example.
Carefully, almost reverently, Victor slips the tie from around my waist and lets it slither from his hand to the ground. The robe gapes open and the red and black dress makes her debut appearance.
“I’m simultaneously disappointed and excited,” he admits, sliding his hands inside the robe and resting them against my hips. “You want that crown I bought for you?” he asks, but I shake my head.
“I still haven’t earned it,” I admit, and instead of feeding me platitudes like Aaron or Callum, Vic nods and steps back. He’s said his piece, and that’s that. “Save it for the right time.”
“Only you will know when the right time is,” he says as I bend down to grab the box of heels, sitting down on the plastic lawn chair to put them on. I look up at his face, and he gives me a sardonic smile. “Bernie, this is all about you. Only you know when you’re ready.”
I look away from him and back down at the shoes, at the shiny black patent leather, and the red soles that match my new hair color. When I’m finished putting them on, I glance back up and Vic is gone. For just a brief moment there, I’m alone.
I haven’t been alone since forever ago, it seems.
It hits me all of a sudden how vastly different my life is. Some would argue for the better, some would argue for the worse.
None of them could possibly understand.
Hael appears in the back door, wearing the bloodred bow tie I picked out for all the boys to wear. The rest of his outfit—from the button-down to the jacket to the slacks—is all black. I chose the color specifically because I read an article online about how midnight blue tuxes are preferred for events like this. The reason is, the waitstaff is likely to be wearing black. “If you’re not a fan of being asked to top off a guest’s champagne, the writer of this article strongly suggests you not wear black …”
As if being mistaken for a working-class person is the worst possible thing that could happen to someone.
So.
Black.
The color of crows, of the waitstaff’s uniforms, of coffin-tipped nails, of rotten bodies and funerals.
It was the right choice.
Lifting my eyes to Hael’s honey-almond ones, I see that we don’t really know each other at all. We’re ghosts from one another’s past, dragged into a feeling of romance by something even more basic, more desperate.
Obsession.
It oozes over the both of us, this metaphysical aura, as he steps forward and I stand up. Not sure what it is about those simple moments, what makes the way he moves mean so much more than it should. My hands slide behind Hael’s neck as he leans down and presses his lips to mine. He’s so fucking hot that I feel myself lifting up on my toes to be closer to that wicked mouth.
Hael Harbin has likely kissed a hundred girls with this mouth. Two hundred. More. I have no idea. The way he touches me tells me he’s got plenty of sense memory when it comes to women, like he could write a course on how to do it right. There’s just something about that sweet coconut oil scent that helps cut the grittiness of the motor oil. I know he’s been working on the Caddy for me, whenever he gets the chance.
Probably checking on his mother, too. Weird shit might be happening, but I haven’t forgotten that his father’s a convicted murderer who beats his mom on the regular.
“Would it be wrong if I fucked you against the fence and scared the shit out of the neighbors?” He leans in, fingering some blood-tipped blond strands of hair that’ve escaped from the loose chignon I’ve decided on. “Ruined those pretty panties of yours.” Hael pushes the tight dress up my legs, moving the mesh cutout from my thighs to my crotch. My panties underneath are as red as my hair.
“Wrong?” I echo, because the word just sounds funny to me now. What does wrong mean anyway? And how do you know if something is right? “We kill people, Hael.”
His eyes crinkle up at the edges in a way that tells me that, if he makes it long enough to become an old man, his skin will be permanently marked in those spots. The chances of that happening, however, are slim. People look at age, at wrinkles and white hair, as an inevitable curse. In reality, it’s pure luck to get that far in life. Most of us don’t make it nearly that long.
“Yeah?” he asks, that cocksureness of his fixed firmly in place. He even has the audacity to cock his head to one side and give me a crooked, little smirk that promises he’s up to no good. “So?”
Without another word, Hael lifts me up and my legs go around his waist. My lipstick stains his neck when I kiss it, marking him. There won’t be a woman at that gala tonight that doesn’t notice the shape of my mouth pressed into his skin.
“We’re late,” Oscar says, appearing in the doorway. Both Hael and I glance over, and Hael groans dramatically.
“Dude, give us five minutes.” I snort at that, but Hael just grins. “What? I’m not ashamed of it. I want to come in you so bad, just so I can look at you in that stuffy fucking art gallery and know your panties are soaked with my cum.”
“The limo is here,” Oscar tells him, looking sharp as hell in the black-on-black tux. It’s not much different than what he usually wears, but it’s expensive as fuck. I found out why his suits all look so good by the way—he takes them in himself. The first time I saw him sitting with a needle and thread in his hand, I thought he was getting ready to sew somebody’s mouth shut. That was far more believable than thinking he might actually be doing something as domestic as sewing. “It’s not like you two don’t fuck each other enough.”
“Based on what you’re saying,” I start as Hael pulls away, and I have to resist the urge to grab his arm and drag him back. “Someone might think you were jealous.”
“A jelly motherfucking doughnut,” Hael teases, but I notice that he makes a point to stay out of Oscar’s orbit as he passes by.
The two of us stare at each other, and I shiver as Oscar’s eyes make a sweep of my body.
When his silver eyes meet mine again, I can see a rare glint of approval in them.
“You look the part of the billionaire’s wife,” he tells me, and I blink a few times to adjust my brain to that statement.
“The what?” I ask, and Oscar smiles.
“You heard me,” he says, lifting his chin up and sliding his inked fingers into the pockets of his slacks. �
�That’s how big this money pot is, didn’t you know?”
I just stare at him, the wind teasing my cheeks with icy fingers.
“Vic said it wasn’t a life-changing amount …” I start and Oscar laughs. The sound is enough to startle me.
“Please, Bernadette. He said it wasn’t enough to change the world. You’re smarter than that.” Oscar taps the side of his head with a wicked finger. “Read between the lines. Do you really think Ophelia would care about an account full of pocket change?” He holds out his hand, but I’m too stunned to take it.
Billion … What does that number even mean? And why would a person ever need that much money to begin with? I almost choke on the idea.
“That’s a lot of money,” I hazard, and Oscar nods.
“It is. Especially for Prescott trash.” He sneers when he says it, and then snaps his fingers, breaking me out of my reverie. “I imagine Victor didn’t specify an amount for this very reason. Don’t make me regret telling you.”
I shake my head to clear it, but I’ll admit, I’m having trouble keeping my feet.
A billion dollars? Or more than that?
Jesus fucking Christ.
“What did his grandmother do?” I choke out, and Oscar smiles.
“Her father owned a company that manufactured rifles and ammunition. She inherited the money. Then she left it to Victor because her daughter is a miscreant.” I finally take his hand, and our eyes meet as our fingers come together with a rush of heat.
“Oscar …” I start, but then Aaron appears in the doorway with a slight limp and a hardened expression on his face that says he most definitely is not looking forward to seeing Ophelia tonight. I finally managed to get him to tell me the whole story, how he woke up in a trunk, how he saw Ophelia shoot Mitch. All of it.
So I get it, why he looks downright fucking murderous.
“Hey Bernie,” he begins, swiping a hand over his face. “Smoke a joint with me before we leave? I’m afraid that if I don’t chill the fuck out, I won’t be able to keep my hands off of Ophelia’s throat.”
I nod and Oscar releases my hand like he’s been struck by the poisonous fangs of a snake. I want to know why he hates to be touched so much. I deserve to know. Because we belong to each other. When he looks back at me, I can tell he knows it, too.
“You’re such a stubborn fuck,” I murmur as he turns and heads for the door like his feet are on fire, sweeping past Aaron and back into the house.
“And patience, tame to sufferance, bide each check,” is his reply, and I roll my eyes. Apparently, we’re going to work our way through Shakespeare’s entire sonnet, albeit out of order.
“Did you know that Victor had more than a billion dollars on the line?” I whisper to Aaron as he slips the joint and lighter from his pocket.
He gives me a look that says he most definitely did.
“Motherfucker,” I curse as Aaron lights up, takes a drag, and passes the joint to me.
“He’s not satisfied with just that, you know,” he tells me, and the sentence sounds very much like a warning. “He wants more. He’ll always want more.”
I smoke the joint for a moment and then hand it back.
No wonder Ophelia’s so eager to get her hands on that money.
There are people in this world who’d drown their own children to have a fortune like that—literally—and not lose any sleep over it.
“It won’t mean shit if we don’t survive long enough to get it,” I reply absently, my mind already spinning. One year of marriage. That’s what we have to get through first. Standing here in this overpriced dress, it feels like an eternity.
But it’s nothing a little violence can’t help with it.
If Ophelia is dead, she can’t exactly hurt us, now can she?
As the sleek, black length of the limo pulls up to the curb in front of the art gallery, the six of us slip into our masks together the way we always do. The driver lets us out, doing a double take when he sees what we’re wearing.
Guess we’re the only people at this masquerade wearing the maws of grinning dead things, huh?
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Hael murmurs as the six of us climb the insanely wide steps of the gallery, heading toward its soaring glass walls and its mono-pitched metal roof. There’s an outdoor art installation, some colored paper lanterns suspended at different heights by metal poles. It bathes the otherwise austere exterior of the building in color. “This place is swanky. You sure we won’t catch fire when we walk in the doors? Like sinners on hallowed ground.”
Vic gives his best friend a grim smile as he threads his arm through mine and waits for the valet to open the doors for us.
“Believe it not, we’re probably the holiest motherfuckers invited to this party tonight.” Victor hands over the invitation he received from Ophelia—likely because the security guards are eyeing our skeleton masks like they’re made of horse shit—and we’re welcomed in with polite smiles and fearful eyes.
As the doors open wide, sensual jazz music leaks out into the cool December air around us. The traffic isn’t too bad, but the distant murmur of cars in the distance keeps this spot grounded. As soon as we go in, and the doors close behind us, we’ll be stuck here, trapped in a different world.
“We’ve got this,” Callum murmurs, and Aaron nods, meeting my eyes one, last time before I look from him to Oscar. His steely gaze gives me nothing, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve already cracked his shell; I just need to hit it a few more times before it peels away and shows me what’s really underneath.
“Once you invite a vampire in, you can’t rescind your invitation,” Vic says mildly, and then he’s striding forward with me by his side. I swear on the devil’s tits, every person in that room turns to look at us. I mean, I’m not surprised. Everything from my dress to the boys’ cufflinks to the red bow ties is intended to grab the attention of the affluent crowd. Havoc never does anything in half-measures, after all.
“Mother,” Vic breathes, his eyes focused on a single figure in the room, as calculated and predatory as a cat discovering a mouse. The crowd of glittering urban nobles parts as we pass by, heading straight in Ophelia and Tom’s direction before one of the waiters moves over to us, offering up champagne. “No thanks. We brought our own.” Victor holds up one of the expensive liquor bottles we stole from Leigh’s house—pretty sure this one’s worth about eighty-grand—and then pops the top.
I swear to god, Ophelia’s eye twitches when she sees what her son’s doing.
“Southside trash in the Oak River Heights district,” he says as we approach his mother, and she gives her son an air kiss on either cheek. The rest of us, she ignores. Vic swigs the champagne and then passes it to me. “You must’ve had a fit at the very thought.”
“Victor,” Ophelia oozes, ignoring her son’s statement, the smile on her face reminiscent of a garrote. Her raven-colored hair is twisted into a precise knot at the base of her skull, and her skin shimmers with the faintest luminescence. If you were to compare our makeup styles, you might say I looked like a succubus while she appears as light as a pixie. She holds her mask in one hand, the glittering face of a jaguar made up of precious gemstones; it’s probably worth a fortune. “I’m so glad you could make it.”
“Oh, I bet you are,” Vic replies, just as smoothly. His eyes slip past his mother to land on Tom. The slimy weasel is wearing an elephant mask with tusks that I’m certain are real ivory. It makes me hate him even more. I bet he’s the type of dude who goes trophy hunting and then frames pictures of him with dead, exotic animals. The rarer, the better. Preferably near extinction.
I take two huge swallows of champagne before I hand the bottle to Callum. He isn’t looking at me though as he takes it. Instead, his eyes scan the room and the hideous collection of art on display. I kid you not, I’ve seen Heather paint prettier pictures with her fingers.
Ophelia finally deigns to give me her attention, studying my dress before lifting her gaze to take in the diamond necklace a
round my throat, the one that we stole from her at the beach house. Her fingers tighten almost imperceptibly on her champagne flute. The way she holds it reminds me of Pamela, of that awful night when Penelope admitted to stealing that dress.
“The question is,” Vic begins, maintaining a smile that’s eerily similar to his mother’s. If I thought he looked terrifying in the southside, dressed in ragged jeans and wifebeaters, he’s twice as scary in a tux. “Why did you want us here? You already failed to kill Aaron when you had him,” he whispers, leaning down near her diamond studded ear. She keeps smiling the entire time, lifting her hand now and again to wave at a passing acquaintance. “Now, you better start trying harder because the first chance I get, I’m going to kill you.”
“You can certainly try,” Ophelia purrs as Victor stands up straight and Cal passes the champagne over to Aaron. He looks right at Ophelia, but she doesn’t bother glancing his way. The dismissal makes me even more furious than if she’d told him to fuck all the way off. To Ophelia Mars, the only adversary in this room that matters is her son. That’s her mistake though, now isn’t it? “But first, I’d like you to meet someone.”
“Another of your pedophilic friends?” Vic suggests as I stand back, surveying the room and everyone in it. Nobody is looking at us anymore, but I can tell by the way they’re leaning in toward each other that everyone’s still talking.
I wonder if that’s a good thing, pausing to take a chocolate strawberry off of a waiter’s passing tray. The idea of poison crosses my mind, but I dismiss it just as quick. Too obvious. Too many people, too many cameras. I take a bite and the sweetness of the damn thing assaults my tongue.
“Any one of these people could afford to hire a professional hitman,” I murmur and Cal laughs.
“I am a professional hitman,” he whispers back as I glance his way and find him glorious and understated against a backdrop of idiotic idealization. The paintings really are a pile of crap, just tax shelters for the rich. Find a painter, call him a genius, buy his painting for several hundred thousand dollars, and then donate said painting to a museum. Voila, tax write-off. I take another bite of strawberry, but it doesn’t taste nearly so sweet as it did before.
Anarchy at Prescott High Page 17