“Who?” I quip back, and I’m honestly shocked that Aaron can hear me at all.
“The son of the GMP’s leader, Maxwell Barrasso,” he finishes as we find ourselves near the bar. Victor has an entire side to himself. He’s leaning against it, a drink in his hand, and watching us. My skin gets tight, and a rush of heat floods my core. Piece of shit, I think, knowing that he’s musing on what happened at the art gallery. About Trinity. For better or worse, he’s thinking about a woman that offered her hand in marriage to him—and right in front of me.
That shit doesn’t fly in this neighborhood.
“Bourbon?” Vic offers, holding out the glass. I take it from his hand, our fingers brushing together. Our gazes meet, but I end up looking away first, downing the drink as my eyes survey the crowd. Half of the people in here are underage. Shit, I know most of the people in here. “Any sign of James?” Victor asks. It takes me a second to realize he’s talking to Callum.
He appears from behind the bar, coming out of a crouch and climbing on top of the counter. He reassumes that position, knees bent, elbows resting on them. His bow tie is gone, shirt unbuttoned, blue eyes scanning the crowd.
“Not here yet—unless Hael’s found him,” Cal replies, snatching one of the shots off the counter. There are six of them; I’m assuming one for each of us. Aaron sinks into one of the stools, his demeanor that of a lazy prince. But I know that the slow, careful way he’s moving has much less to do with his personality than it does his injuries. Gotta say, he puts on almost as good a show as Vic.
“Either I’m not recognizing the little piss-ant based on his social media pics, or he isn’t here,” Hael purrs, appearing behind me and grabbing onto my hips. His touch is enough to set my blood aflame.
“The touch of the cocky school slut, huh? That does it for you?” Kali’s voice sounds in my head, but at least I’m not seeing her ghostly face among the crowd.
“Well, then,” Vic begins, turning and grabbing two of the shots. He passes one to Hael and one to me. Oscar lifts a palm up in quiet refusal when Victor hands one his way. Our boss shrugs and drinks it himself. “May as well stay and party then. To keep up appearances, of course.”
“Oh, of course,” Hael purrs in my ear, reaching down to pluck the shot glass from my hand. He hands both empty glasses to Vic before he leans down and runs his tongue along the side of my neck. “After all, Blackbird here is the bait.”
“The bait?” I echo, but then Hael’s pressing his hot mouth to my neck and it’s suddenly hard to think.
“How best to draw a shithead out of the woodwork,” he murmurs against my pulse, “than with a pretty girl.” I close my eyes briefly, and Oscar scoffs. As if he wasn’t a part of a gangbang last week. I open my eyes again and stare him down. He doesn’t flinch. Instead, he returns my stare with a challenge in his own.
“Just so you know,” Aaron says, drawing my attention away from Oscar. “I’m not a fan of this idea.” As it always does when I look at him, my heart gives a gentle flutter, and a sense of relief washes over me. I can’t believe I let those poser motherfuckers get ahold of my man.
“And then refused to punish his very punish-worthy kidnapper,” Kali says with a laugh and a smirk. This time, when I see her out of the corner of my eye, she’s riddled with holes and bleeding.
“Shit,” I murmur, and I swear to fuck, all five of those boys look at me like they can sense something’s wrong. See, that’s the thing about surrounding yourself with carefully astute monsters. They always know. Always.
“What is it?” Victor demands as my gaze swings back to him. I’m not getting out of this. And I can’t lie. There are no lies in Havoc. I glance away, pulling from Hael’s grip for a second.
“Can we get another round?” I ask, leaning over the bar. I know for a straight fact that my ass is now hanging out of this dress.
“Jesus, Bernadette,” Vic says, tugging my outfit down. “This is only for sharing in certain circles.” He laughs, a deep, dark male laugh that gives me the chills. “Now, stop flashing ass to avoid the question. What’s the matter with you?”
I turn back around, leaning my elbows on the bar. Everyone here who looks at me is either terrified or turned-on. Well, terrified or turned-on and terrified. They think I’m some sort of badass bitch. In reality, I’m just an awful poser myself.
“I can’t stop seeing Kali,” I tell them, having to raise my voice so they can hear my words over the music.
“Like, in your head?” Cal asks, taking a shot as soon as the bartender pours it. He tosses it back and then hops off the counter, turning the glass over carefully and placing it back on the bar with his blue nails. They’re disturbing, actually. The more I look at them, the more I think he wears them that way on purpose. They remind me of a corpse. I lift my eyes to his face and smile. Live fast, die young, and leave a beautiful corpse, right? That’s Callum in a nutshell.
“Like, everywhere,” I correct, putting my fingers to my forehead and closing my eyes. “Visions, hallucinations, whatever. She taunts me.” I shrug my shoulders. “Probably just manifested trauma.”
“And you were going to tell us when?” Oscar asks, adjusting his glasses and cocking his head in that way that gives me the chills. He’s digging into me with slate-gray eyes and a frown like a knife’s edge. So sharp. It’s fucking cutting.
I steal another shot, but I can’t shake five sets of eyes by drinking.
“I’m telling you now,” I say, which is the biggest copout known to man. I stare into the shot glass. “I was going to say something after the break, if it was still going on.”
“Well, I’m sure it’s nothing,” Vic says, but the way he looks at Aaron terrifies me. It’s almost an … you were right sort of expression. The annulment springs in my mind, and I down a third shot.
“Let’s go dance,” I blurt as a new song comes on. I grab Hael’s hand—because he’s the easiest to deal with, emotionally speaking—and drag him to the dance floor.
“Well, well, Blackbird,” he purrs, dragging me so close that we’re as close to fucking as we are to dancing. “I see you’ve got good taste: you’ve picked the best letter of Havoc.”
“Just thought you’d be a club rat is all,” I yell over the music, leaning up on my tiptoes as Hael’s hands trace my waist. He settles his grip on my hips, squeezing me hard enough that I wonder if I won’t have bruises tomorrow.
“Seems like you were right,” he shouts back, molding my body to his as we dance. His honey-almond eyes look down into mine, much darker in the shadows of the club than they’d usually be. It gives him this edge, this reminder that every once in a while, that smile of his cracks.
My palms press against his chest as I look into his eyes. One of his legs between my own, pushing up my dress as we sway and rock to the beat. My skin is speckled with little droplets of sweat, the colored lights above our head turning them to rainbow jewels. When I lift up on my toes to press my mouth to Hael’s, he stops me with a finger against my lips.
He releases me abruptly and steps back, but his eyes never leave mine. I’m aching for him now, practically burning up. My stomach hurts, and my head is spinning. I end up closing my eyes, my body gyrating to the music. There’s a constant bassline thumping along that sounds like a heartbeat. I lean into that, letting it carry my movements as I drift through the shadows of the club, twisted up with alcohol. Being in here, around all these people, helps banish the awful thoughts skittering around inside my head.
And trust me: there are a lot of them.
When I open my eyes, I see that Hael’s moved even farther away. I can still see him, but only until a different man steps into view. And he most certainly is not a part of Havoc.
I look up, into a pair of blue eyes framed by thick lashes. The guy’s eyes are the color of sea glass, but, despite their unusual hue, there’s nothing inviting about them. Those natural female instincts of mine tell me to run.
Instead, when the guy steps up close and rests his han
ds on my hips, I let him.
His skin is pale, his hair jet-black. He’s got a slick smile and an expensive outfit. I know right away that this is James Barrasso, the son of the gang that showed up to a school party armed to the teeth. Because they’re looking for Havoc. Because they know Ophelia. The same gang that supplied the Charter Crew with drugs to sell.
Fucking hell.
I can only handle two songs with the guy before my nerve breaks. Luckily, right before I’m about to step away from him, he makes the break for me.
I stop dancing, swiping my hand across my forehead. My lips are parted, my tongue tasting the lipstick on my lower lip. He might think I’m looking at him like a hot fuck. In reality, I’ve decided this guy needs to die. I’ve been around enough predators to know one when I see him.
He takes my hand, and I allow it. I want to see what he’s going to do, what he wants. I’m not surprised to find out that he already knows who I am. We weren’t the only ones who came here tonight looking for someone.
“You’re as enchanting as I thought you’d be, Bernadette,” the guy says, releasing my hand. The bones suspended from the ceiling spin slightly in the breeze from the janky ass air conditioning unit. It’s as hot as the surface of the fucking sun in here, but I feel instantly cold as I stare back at James Barrasso, the heir to the Grand Murder Party and its strange connections to the Charter Crew, to Ophelia, to Neil. “Tell your husband that I said hi.”
He turns and disappears easily into the crowd as I turn and find Victor standing beside me. His entire body is taut, like a bowstring.
“What the fuck was that about?” I ask, because the way Vic’s staring at me is terrifying in its own right, like he might lose me before he’s ever really had me.
And I don’t like that. Not one motherfucking bit.
“I just wanted to see how bold he was,” Victor tells me, reaching up to push a particularly low-hanging bone away from his face. He’s goddamn terrifying, the way he looks after James. I think again about his hands around Logan’s throat; I wonder what the boys did to Kyler. He will not be attending school at Prescott High next Monday. That much I do know.
“And?” I ask, panting, sweating. For some reason, I’m so nervous all of a sudden that my stomach hurts. The reason Victor looks the way he does, the reason Aaron’s face is so dark and drawn, is because there are only two outcomes to this game: either we win, or we die.
That’s it.
Victor looks down at me with his endless black eyes, and I swear to god, the crowd makes a bubble around him. It’s as if they can sense the way he’s staring at me, like he’s going to consume me.
“Would you dance with my girl in front of me?” he asks, and I shiver.
No.
No, I most definitely would not.
Any break from the nightmare that is Prescott High is a good break, even one that has me resting on the couch more often than not. I’m so fucking sore from dancing at the club that I fall asleep on it as soon as we get home.
When I wake up, Oscar is sitting on the opposite sofa and staring at me.
He’s shirtless and beautiful, his body dipped in ink by the hands of some dark, unforgiving goddess. He’s a wet dream on the outside, a nightmare on the in. The way he’s sitting with his back ramrod straight, the HAVOC tattoo on his knuckles stretched and straining with tension, I can tell he’s about to drop a serious bomb on my ass.
What that bomb is, exactly, I have no idea.
“We need to talk,” he says as I groan, sitting up and rubbing at the side of my head with the heel of my hand. What was in those shots?! I wonder, because I swear to you, I haven’t had a hangover since I was like, thirteen and got so drunk on a bottle of Everclear that Penelope had to sit up with me all night to make sure I didn’t choke on my own vomit.
I didn’t get drunk again after that, not until after she died.
“No shit,” I murmur, slumping into the cushions and then wincing as the edge of my phone digs into my ass. With a curse, I dig it out and check the time. It’s barely seven-thirty in the morning. No wonder I feel like such crap; I’m probably still drunk. “What do you want?”
I don’t mean to snap at him like that, but how can I be vulnerable with him? How can I show him a softer part of me, the way I do Victor or Aaron? Because every time that I do, he lashes back at me like I’ve wounded him. That sort of behavior starts to hurt after a while.
He just stares at me in that way of his, slate-gray eyes narrowed, jaw clenched. Whatever it is that he wants to say, he’s having to rip it from the very depths of his soul. Whatever it is, it’s been stitched into his spirit for so long that it’s become a part of his identity. Based on the tension in his shoulders and the frantic flutter of his pulse, I can only assume that this is about something I’ve done to him. Twisted him in some way. Broken him.
“The night we fucked, I was a virgin,” he tells me, and then he sips his coffee, holding it in two inked hands. There is an upside down cross on his stomach. He’s telling me he was a virgin.
My brain isn’t making the connection.
“I’m sorry, what?” I ask, because I know it for sure now. I’m still drunk.
Oscar stares back at me, his glasses sliding low on his nose as he holds his mug to his lips and blows on it, steam fluttering around in the gray early morning light.
“You heard me,” he says, and I did, but … I really am not getting it. I saw him put a gun to a pedophile’s head and pull the trigger as easily as some people might crush a spider. It’s death, sure, but it means nothing. “I wanted you to understand why I left.” He sips the coffee again, but he doesn’t stop staring at me.
“You’re a virgin?” I ask, but only my mouth is really asking the question. My head is still catching up to the idea. Oscar pauses with his mug halfway to his mouth.
“Was,” he corrects, and then the mug finishes its journey. The shape of that mouth … the sharpness of that face … I wish I were the mug in that moment. He licks his upper lip, and I close my eyes. “Was a virgin.”
“I don’t understand,” I say, keeping my eyes closed. There’s a small sound, like clinking china, and when I open them again, Oscar is right there in my face. His hands are on either side of me, long, tatted fingers curled around the back of the couch.
“Yes, you do. You were my first fuck, Bernadette. You and that bloody pussy of yours.”
“Please stop,” I say, but my eyes are on his mouth for whatever reason.
“I’ve decided that I’m sick and tired of warning you. You asked for me. You may very well regret having me.”
My hands come up to touch Oscar’s chest, and he lets me. He lets me drag my fingers down his body the way I wanted to do the other day when he wouldn’t let me. He most definitely has a problem with touch. My skin prickles, and a nervous energy takes over me. I know all about people who are afraid of touch. They’re afraid of it because someone else wielded it against them.
“I can’t believe you were a virgin,” I say with a little laugh, but the sound is strangled. It’s not, like, some sweet thing on Oscar Montauk. It’s terrifying. Because I’m not stupid, it just has to be. He’s a very dangerous man, and I get the sense that he’d be willing to do things the others wouldn’t to ensure my safety—even if that meant hurting me in order to achieve that end.
“See, the thing is,” Oscar starts, putting a knee between my thighs. My dress is so short that the movement of me spreading my legs causes it to ride up, revealing my panties. “I have so many awful urges that I was afraid I’d hurt somebody if I fucked them.”
I lift my eyes from Oscar’s mouth to his slate-colored eyes.
“But me?” I ask, because it really does need to be said. If he doesn’t say it, then what can I do with him?
“You,” Oscar starts, drawing his fingers down my arm. They continue their journey until he’s brushing them against the wet front of my panties. “Are very different. You I knew I wouldn’t kill. So I fucked you. Right here on
this couch.”
“Oscar, goddamn it,” I groan, but he’s stroking me in just such a way that I feel paralyzed. “What are you trying to say?”
He laughs at me then, but I’m already too far-gone to care. I’m just drunk enough that my inhibitions are down yet I’m still fully aware of what’s going on.
“Do you know why I have so much ink?” he asks, putting his mouth against my ear. My entire body shudders. “Or why my cock is pierced?”
“I won’t know, unless you tell me,” I breathe back, shifting again and groaning as he pushes my panties aside and starts to stroke the slick wetness between my thighs.
Oscar pauses then and draws back abruptly. He’s frowning down at me as I struggle to pull in a full breath, sweaty and wanting on the couch.
“I will. But not today. You’re distracting, Bernadette. You’re going to get us all killed. I hope you understand that I still think that, that you’re a liability.” I kick at him, but he’s already moving back around the coffee table and picking up his mug. “Did you see us the other night? Five demons fucking you so furiously. But how long can demons share without eating one another?”
I sit up and shove my dress down my thighs, clenching my teeth as I grind out a reply.
“That’s up to the demons, isn’t it? That isn’t up to me.” I watch him as he turns around, carefully licking the two fingers that are slick with my juices. He cleans them with his tongue while we stare at each other.
“This,” Oscar says, swirling his finger in the air for a moment. “Is going to get a lot worse before it gets better. Just be aware.” He pulls his phone from his pocket and checks the time. “I have to go, but you’ll be here when I get back, won’t you? You’re not going anywhere, are you Bernadette? No matter how poorly we treat you.”
“Keep on going, Oscar, and see how pissed off you can make me before I retaliate,” I snap, feeling some of that old fire flare inside of me. I did choke the guy after all. Maybe he really was being nice, but maybe not. I don’t want to find out.
Anarchy at Prescott High Page 19