Callum rescues the fruit from my fingers, pausing to lick the sticky juice from the tips as I stare at him, a blue-eyed menace who must’ve, at some point, stolen the fairy-tale prince’s skin and marred it with ink.
“What about the girls?” I ask as Vic is led away and the rest of us follow along behind him, a trail of Havoc to disturb the genteel beauty of the gallery. The atmosphere here is so different it’s almost scary. I’ve done the very opposite of what I needed to do to keep Heather safe. All of these rich people, with their weird games and their fucked-up self-interests, would not hesitate to kill my sister to keep the fact that they’ve been purchasing little girls quiet.
I think about Alyssa, over at the Peters’ house where Oscar lives, and then take another sip of champagne. I’ve grown up on drugstore champagne, and the five dollar a bottle shit they sell at Winco. It all tastes the same. I know it does because now, not only have I tasted both and can’t discern a fucking difference, but Pam used to buy it and refill expensive bottles she stole from her friends’ parties. Things like Dom Perignon and Veuve Clicquot, worth hundreds of dollars, refilled and then brought along as gifts to new events.
Pam always made sure to hide the missing cork with ribbon, to pour the champagne quick, before the bubbles gave out.
I take another sip.
“We’ll keep the girls safe,” Callum promises me, and he sounds so goddamn sure of himself that I almost believe him. Almost. Because while I know he isn’t lying—in his blackest heart of hearts, he believes he’s telling me the truth—there are some things in life we have no control over.
This time, when I take a swig, I down enough in one go that I feel momentarily lightheaded.
I offer the bottle to Oscar, even though I’m certain he isn’t going to take it. To my surprise, he does, swigging it like he’s as repulsed by this place as the rest of us. He looks like he belongs here though, even more so than Vic.
“Are you okay?” I ask, noticing the faintest sheen of sweat on his forehead.
“I’m fine,” he murmurs, but there’s something off in his silver gaze that tells me he isn’t being entirely truthful. “This whole scene … it reminds me of my father.” He takes another drink, shoving the bottle into Aaron’s hands and then moving forward to rejoin Vic.
“His father …” I murmur as Aaron glances my way. I feel like he should be nervous, seeing Tom and Ophelia again, but instead, he just seems pissed off. His mouth is set in a thin line, his shoulders taut. I stare at his tattooed hand as he curls it into a fist around the neck of the champagne bottle, stretching and twisting the letters of HAVOC that are inked into his flesh.
“His dad ran in these same sorts of circles,” he offers, but no more. He’s as aware as I am that Oscar’s story is his to tell. Aaron turns his green-gold eyes from me to something just ahead of us and then frowns, letting me take the champagne from him. “Who the fuck is that?”
There’s a pit in my stomach that hurts, even before I see that what he’s looking at. Turning my head, I notice a pretty young girl with hair like gold and a face carved by expensive moisturizer, a nutritionist, and a professional trainer. Motherfucker. She looks right at me as we approach, the same way that Sara Young did, like she hates me for no reason at all. It’s called internalized misogyny, and it’s a hell of a bitch. Even though I know it’s there, even though I try my best to control it, I feel it, too.
Get the fuck away from my men, I think as the girl saunters up to Vic and Oscar in a gold dress that swishes when she walks. That’s the type of dress Penelope always liked to wear, one with movement. But when she did it, she walked like the whole world was fun. This girl walks like the whole world owes her a favor.
I scowl, and Callum chuckles, finishing my strawberry and flicking the stem onto the passing tray of a different waiter. It’s covered in empty cups and toothpicks.
“Go, defend your territory,” he tells me, so I do, stepping forward to stand at Vic’s side just as his mother introduces the newcomer.
“Victor, this is Trinity Jade,” Ophelia says, smiling sweetly as she lazily flicks her fingers at the young woman. The fact that she won’t even acknowledge my existence or my place as Victor’s wife puts a seed of hate deep into my heart.
But that’s part of the game, isn’t it? The most important part really, to pretend that you’re not playing it at all.
“Trinity,” Vic says as he nods once in greeting then turns back to his mother. “What is this? Your pathetic, too-late attempt to set me up with someone?” Based on Trinity’s reaction or rather, the fact that she has no reaction at all, I can tell she’s already been briefed on the situation. “Thanks, but no thanks.” Without him having to say a single word, I know what Victor wants. I take his arm, standing opposite Oscar on his right side. Hael has already wandered away to look up at paintings that are two stories tall and bathed in too-white light. In reality, I think he’s canvassing the place for possible exits, cameras, and guards. “Have you met my wife, Bernadette?” Vic gestures at me with a tattooed hand as I try to hide the sheer pleasure I get at hearing him use the word wife.
It’s a traditional term, steeped more in pain and servitude than anything else, but I like the way we’ve twisted it. I’m married to Victor Channing, but I’m fucking four other guys. I hide my lascivious smile in the champagne, snatching another strawberry off a tray.
When I take a bite of it, I look Trinity right in the eyes.
Hers are brown, but not a honey-almond color like Hael’s. Nor are they dark as pitch, like Victor’s. More like … an endless stretch of sand on a deserted coastal beach, wet and covered in seaweed. She gives me nothing in response, even when I eat the strawberry the way I might suck a dick.
“Trinity’s mother is the head of the Save These Precious Children League.” Ophelia delivers the words the way any normal person might, like she’s actually interested in a charity that helps kids. The two women exchange looks and smiles before Ophelia turns back to her son. “She’s grooming her to be the head of the charity after she graduates college.”
“Oh, I’m sure she’s ‘groomed’ her—just not for that,” Vic says with a laugh that makes the hair on the back of my neck raise up. His double meaning of the word ‘groomed’ doesn’t escape any of us. Ophelia’s mouth tightens imperceptibly, just enough to give her a single tiny tension wrinkle on one side. Victor looks like he was made to own the world; the rest of the people in here wish they did. Some of them might even think they do. “What’s your point, Mother? Please get to it and quickly, and we’ll pretend you’re not trying to kill my wife or that you didn’t kidnap my brother.”
Vic takes the drink from me and chugs the remainder of it, handing the empty bottle over to Oscar before he takes a step forward. Ophelia’s face doesn’t register a word of what her son is saying, but I notice her eyes stray to the necklace of diamonds at my throat again.
“Don’t melodramatize the situation, son. You sound so unbelievably gauche when you ramble like that.” She swings her gaze from the necklace—which is so very clearly upsetting to her—back to Victor’s sardonic stare.
“If there’s anything more pathetic than a greedy man grasping for more gold, it’s someone who used to have it all, lost it, and is suckling at the dick of the devil for more. Look, I’ll be straight with you,” Vic continues as Tom fidgets behind Ophelia. The way he looks at the boys and at me tells me several things. First off, he’s scared. Second, he’s jumpy. The first chance he gets to hurt one of us, he’s going to take it and he isn’t going to hold back the way I did with Kali. “We’re at war now, you and me.”
“You’re not just at war with me,” Ophelia says, still smiling, raising her glass at friends that pass by. She turns her obsidian stare on her son’s matching one. If Vic and I ever have a kid, I bet they’ll have that same eye color, like the blackest night in winter, when the clouds are so thick they block out all the stars. It’s that savage ruthlessness that’s etched into their DNA, impossible to
escape or ignore. “I want you to look around and remember how to keep your mouth shut.”
“About which part of the equation?” Oscar asks, but Ophelia refuses to look in his direction. It’s as if nobody in the world exists but for Victor. Ophelia might hate him, but she wants his attention, regardless of what she has to do to get it. “The fact that you help facilitate the buying and selling of children? Or the kidnapping? The murder?”
“How are you involved with the GMP, Mother?” Vic asks, but Ophelia just sips her own champagne and smiles.
“You’re such a child, Victor. Springfield is nothing. It’s not even a dot on a map. You could be and have so much more. Trinity’s grandfather is a judge. He’s prepared to grant you an annulment on your marriage.”
I freeze where I am, go completely still, like a mannequin in a dress that’s so red that some of the less savory characters in the room are probably looking at me and remembering the last time they killed somebody. Unlike you, Bernie, who didn’t have the guts to do so.
I exhale sharply and everyone looks at me. Aaron, Oscar, Callum, Hael … Victor. He glances at me and then turns his head very slowly to stare at his mother. Everything in his posture says he wants to wrap his hands around Ophelia’s throat—and not in the same way that Oscar does to me.
My eyes meet Trinity’s, and she smiles. She’s so pretty and decorous and quiet. I’m afraid of her suddenly in a way I was never afraid of Kali. This girl … she’s different than Kali, like an empty shell all-too happy to absorb the lifeforce of whoever’s around her. She drinks her champagne, and my stomach clenches like I’m having the most awful fucking period cramps.
“An annulment?” Victor echoes, glancing over at Oscar instead of me. Instead of smirking and telling his mother he’d rather die than give me up—something I might’ve expected—he asks her that question, like it’s important.
“Thought that would get your attention,” Ophelia says, still smiling. She hasn’t stopped since we walked in here. Looking over at Aaron I can see that, like with Kali, he won’t hesitate to kill this woman if given the chance. He leans on his good leg, his bad arm held gingerly at his side. There’s no doubt in my mind though that he could still hold his own in here. “You and Bernadette get an annulment which in no way affects the line of inheritance.” Ophelia gestures at Trinity with her glass. “You marry Trinity, and then after the prescribed length of time, you get a divorce. She will take half of your money when she goes.”
Vic raises a brow, crossing his arms over his chest.
“You can still screw your little whore,” Trinity says, turning her quiet gaze over to Vic. “If you want. But we can make this work, too. You’re driven, Victor. I can see that just by looking at you. So much more than the leader of some pathetic little high school gang.”
There’s a brief moment there where this conversation could go so many ways. I know why Vic asked about the annulment and what he’s thinking. I was selfish by marrying you; I want you to be safe. He said as much the other day. This is something he would consider, if he were smart.
I don’t even give Victor the chance to respond. Instead … I go full Southside and hit up with the heel of my hand, slamming it into Trinity’s nose hard enough to make a crack that echoes through the room. It seems to cut through the music coming from the musicians on the dais at the end of the room.
“Eh—” Trinity starts, looking down at the floor as bright red splatters hit the white marble. It looks like an abstract composition, something modern but understated—and far more real than the art that’s pinned to the walls like dead butterflies.
Her brown eyes lift up to mine, blazing with fury. Her fingers tighten around the stem of her champagne glass.
“What just happened here?” a man asks, reaching out for Trinity’s elbow. She lets him take it, covering her nose with her hand. The fact that she didn’t scream tells me a lot. This chick is dangerous.
“Just a nosebleed,” she says, nodding to him. “Could you get me a napkin so I can make my way to the bathroom? I’d hate to bleed all over the floor.” The man leaves quickly, long strides taking him across the room in just a few seconds. “Southside trash,” the girl murmurs, staring me down. “Filthy whore.”
I just smile back at her.
“Takes one to know one,” I say with a loose shrug, reaching down and threading my fingers through Victor’s. The girl looks from him to me and then back to him again. A surge of determination rises up in her gaze before she turns away, meeting the long-legged man halfway across the room.
“Think about it,” Ophelia tells Vic, reaching up to cup the side of his face. “And take your time. I’ll be generous and let you have until my birthday to decide. Start thinking about what you’d like to get me as a gift while you’re at it.”
She moves away, Tom trailing along behind her.
As soon as they’re out of the way, I can see the painting that was behind her. It’s a red-on-white image that reminds me of the blood on the floor. Reaching out with my heel, I smear it across the ground.
“That girl is terrifying,” I admit, glancing over at Victor. He’s looking right at me, the king to my queen. He’s so much more fit for the job than I am, at least right now. I’ve got to step it up; this is getting old and quick.
“Don’t worry about her,” Victor says, letting his smile take over his face. “If we weren’t so scary, they wouldn’t try so hard. Boys.” He gestures with his head, letting us know we’re getting the fuck out of there. “But let’s not go home. Not yet.”
He leads us back outside, summoning the limo with a quick call to the driver.
“Did you notice,” Aaron begins as we’re waiting for the car to pull up in front of the gallery, “that Ophelia didn’t have a wedding ring on her finger?”
Oh.
That’s right: Aaron said he saw Tom get an engagement ring out of the cabin while he was trapped there. In fact, he told Aaron that he was going to ask Ophelia to marry him that night …
She must’ve said no.
“Interesting,” Victor breathes, as if it means nothing at all. But he’s taken note of it, I can tell. At some point, that information is going to help us solve this puzzle. There’s no doubt in my mind about that.
“Extremely,” Oscar agrees, and then Hael is opening the limo’s back door before the driver can get to it, and we’re on our way back to the neighborhood we know better than anyone.
Prescott.
We end up at a club in the southside, flashing fake IDs that Callum produces like it’s nothing. I don’t even blink at that. Out of all the craziness that is Havoc, having and using fake IDs is like comparing baby food to vodka. Not even in the same league.
Ram’s Skull, is the name of the club. I mean, walking in and looking at the place, I’m not surprised. The name is basically written all over the walls in blood.
Before we walked in here, I asked the boys for a switchblade and cut the dress along the mesh inset at the thigh, turning my floor-length gown into a party dress. Guess I won’t be reselling it after all.
“Oh, devilish,” I say as we enter the club, letting the red-and-black dress drift up my thighs and not bothering to fix it. Let everybody stare at me. They are, too, but only because of Havoc. When Vic heads straight for the bar, the crowd parts like water to let him pass. I mean, we are in South Prescott. Cal takes off in the opposite direction while Hael dives right into the fray, leaving Aaron, Oscar, and me near the entrance.
The walls are painted black and covered in what I’m guessing are real rams’ skulls. Bones fill the space, hanging from the ceiling, decorating the backs of the stools by the bars. The place smells like cloves and sage and sweat, and it’s run-down and rachet enough that I’m sure it’s been here forever. I’ve never made a habit of coming to clubs, even though I could’ve gotten a fake ID by closing my eyes and throwing a rock at any number of Prescott High students.
What on earth is fun about being swarmed by desperate guys with roaming han
ds? And like, yeah, not going to have a drink here and find my ass roofied. I mean, not that anyone would be so stupid now. Everybody in here knows who Havoc is. Or if they don’t, they can get in our way and learn quick.
“Downright demonic,” Oscar agrees, drawing my eyes away from the throbbing crowd. He’s frowning, his eyes the color of slate and far too stony without the glasses to put up a barrier between us. “God, I despise the club scene.” The corner of his lip curls up as a girl accidentally bumps into him, glancing over her shoulder and paling substantially before scurrying away into the crowd.
Poor thing.
“Why are we here?” I ask, sticking to the perimeter of the dance floor. Might as well be a brothel. Looks like most everyone in here is on the verge of fucking. I try not to look at them. Makes me remember that I got gang-banged last week. Or wait … actually, maybe I should look at them.
“We’re looking for someone,” Oscar says cryptically, reaching up to tousle his dark hair with long fingers. He doesn’t look like a kid with a fake ID; he looks like he owns the damn club. Frankly, I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that Havoc really did.
“And tonight, of all nights …?” I hazard, finally drawing the golem’s attention. Fucker may as well be made of stone.
“Because our crew called and told us he was here,” he explains, making his way along the narrow walkway near the wall. I follow him, people squeezing past us with drinks in their hands. Aaron trails after me, doing his best to keep a limp out of his walk. Can’t exactly hide the cast on his hand, but nobody in here is stupid enough to think a few injuries will stop Havoc.
“We’re looking for James Barrasso,” Aaron tells me, his voice rough as he’s forced to yell over the pounding music. My eardrums are already aching, and my body is buzzing. It’s impossible to walk into a place like this and not feel the vibe; it’s everywhere. That, and my blood is drawn from the veins of this shit-ass neighborhood.
Anarchy at Prescott High Page 18