Home > Victory at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys #5)(10)

Victory at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys #5)(10)
Author: C.M. Stunich

As soon as he looks away, back toward Vic, it’s gone.

“Agreed,” Victor says, and then his eyes stray over to mine, and I know he can sense that I’m not feeling so good right now. Luckily for him, he says nothing, and I make sure that when I crawl out of the broken window, that I show no weakness.

But something is wrong. I can fucking feel it. I just don’t know what, exactly, that is yet.

Whatever it is though, it can wait until I find my man.

Havoc puts me first. I put them first.

Blood in, blood out.

It’s early morning by the time we get home—we’ve wasted an entire day on nothing. Cal is not at any of the rendezvous points and none of our crew has seen him. I slam the front door into the wall as I walk in, finding Aaron taking a cold slice of pizza from one of the boxes.

He’s got dark circles under his eyes, and he looks fucking exhausted.

My heart flutters in that fairy-tale way it does when I see my childhood sweetheart safe and sound. He encapsulates my dreams of something better in the way he smiles at me; he holds the very last shred of my innocence in the warmth of his arms around me.

“You’re back,” I whisper, sauntering forward and acting like I don’t have blood all down my thighs. I’ve stopped in four bathrooms to empty my cup and put new pads in. Still, I bleed.

“Just got here,” he says, setting the pizza aside and then holding his arms out for me. Without hesitation, I step into them, letting his sandalwood and rose scent wash away some of the agonizing frustration I feel. I haven’t even really had time to process that we survived a school shooting. Or that I killed the son of a notorious gangster. All I’ve been able to do is focus on Callum, the way I did on Aaron when he was missing. “One of the boys told me about Cal.”

Aaron pauses there and waits, but when nobody says anything, a deep frown appears on his face.

“What took so fucking long?” Vic asks, moving up behind me and stealing Aaron’s pizza slice. We’re all starving; we have to take a break to eat. Really, I could use a shower and a nap, too, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to relax enough to do any of those things.

“When they wouldn’t tell me if Bernadette was safe, I spit in Constantine’s coffee.” Aaron strokes his fingers through my hair and smiles down at me. “He left me in the interrogation room for six hours by myself.”

I almost laugh, but the sound hurts too much trying to come out, so I don’t bother. Instead, I curl my arms around Aaron’s neck and lean up on my tiptoes, watching his long lashes flutter as our lips brush and then ignite with that usual sense of desperation and need. We were separated for too long; we can’t get enough. Even as we kiss, and I dig my fingers into his wavy chestnut hair, I know that I could fall forever into him and I would never hit the ground. It would be an endless sensation of floating, of falling, of dizzying heights rushing past at the speed of light.

The home phone rings, and I startle so bad that I end up nicking Aaron’s lip with my teeth.

“Cal …” I breathe, glancing back.

“Go,” Aaron says, pressing an aggressively affectionate kiss to my forehead and giving me a small push with his hand. I notice that his cast is missing which annoys me since it’s about two weeks early for it to come off. But I’ll chastise him later.

This could be Callum, calling to let us know he’s okay.

It has to be Callum, right?

Because as much as he jokes around about being the first of us to die, I won’t allow it. I won’t allow any of them to sacrifice themselves or be snuffed out in a stupid fucking gang war. Prescott—and the city of Springfield—belong to us. We deserve to rule first; we deserve to be happy first.

“I feel like I’m in a fucking nineties movie,” I grumble, because dark humor is Cal’s thing, and it makes me feel closer to him when I use it. “Hello?”

I swear to fuck, if this is someone asking me if I like scary movies, I’m going to kill them and bury their body under an endangered plant so that nobody can legally dig it up.

“Bernadette, it’s Sara,” the detective begins, and I sigh. It’s a sound so heavy and ominous that it causes police girl to hesitate. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I don’t want to hear from Sara motherfucking Young.

That is … unless she has news about Callum.

I close my eyes.

“Where did you get this number from?” I ask, but then I realize that I already know the answer: off my fucking phone. “Never mind, don’t answer that. It’ll just piss me off.”

“Honey, I need to talk to you for a moment. Are you alone?”

That gives me pause, but I just shrug my shoulders, remember that she can’t see me, and sigh again. “Close enough. What’s up?”

“Well, the hospital just called your cell.”

I stare at the wall above the phone where an old painting sits. It’s a wolf, painted by Aaron’s mom back in high school. I’d wonder why it was still hanging here if I didn’t understand how screwed up mommy issues could be. My mother allowed her husband to rape my sister. How could I ever forget that? Why don’t I just want her dead and fucking gone?

“Okay,” I say, because I have no idea where this is going. “And?”

“They’d like you to call them back. It sounds urgent. Do you want to write their number down?” I just narrow my eyes slightly. I don’t like the direction of this conversation. Immediately I’m thinking internal bleeding or some shit. I let them draw my blood when I was there, do some tests. Maybe a result came back that isn’t good? At least if I call them back now, maybe I’ll understand why I feel like such shit at the moment.

“I have Google, but thanks for letting me know. I’ll call them.” I hang up and turn back to the table, grabbing Aaron’s laptop off the edge of the couch arm on the way.

“What’s up?” Vic asks, but I just shake my head.

“I need to call the hospital real quick,” I say, and he gives me a dark look. “I have no idea what for. That was Sara Young; she said they called my phone, so I’m calling them. Chill out.”

My stomach clenches again, and I let out a long, low breath, putting my hand across my belly. Period cramps plus body aches from being beaten on the front lawn of my school. Fucking ouch.

I sit down at the table with the cordless phone receiver, flip open the laptop, and search for Joseph General.

“The hospital,” Aaron says, taking the seat across from mine. He moves gingerly, like maybe he got the crap beat out of him, too? He’s still wearing the medical boot which makes his survival during the shooting even more miraculous. If I’d had a broken fibula and a medical boot, I might not’ve been able to make it out alive. “What could they possibly be calling about?”

I shrug my shoulders, trying to play it off as nothing.

“Probably after me to pay the bill since I don’t have insurance.” I smile tightly because jokes about our fucked-up for-profit healthcare system aren’t really all that funny (it’s actually entirely probable that that’s why the hospital called) and then dial the number.

Hael sits beside me, Oscar across from him, while Vic takes the head of the table. They eat pizza and share the two-liters of soda around, not bothering to get a glass. Well, Oscar gets a glass. Nobody else does. And, shocker of all shocks, he actually eats.

I just stare at him as the phone rings and rings, offering me one useless menu after another.

“What?” he asks finally, setting the crust down on his plate—also the only boy to use a plate by the way. “See something you like?”

“You,” I say succinctly, and that shuts him the fuck up. I avert my gaze back to the pizza boxes and try not to let that itchy feeling beneath my skin take over. Callum was alive as of six hours ago. Alive enough to get up and leave that basement. Alive enough to consider not leaving a trail.

That’s something, right? Because … “Hope is the thing with feathers,” I breathe aloud, not meaning to quote Emily Dickinson but doing it anyway. Because, deep down, in my heart of hearts, I am a poet and not a killer.

“That perches in the soul,” Oscar continues for me, picking up his pizza crust and finishing it as I try to fight back a weary smile.

“Fuck, you two are weird sometimes,” Hael murmurs, but not like he dislikes our weirdness. No, quite the contrary. As much as he and Oscar squabble, I know they love each other in that strange, obsessive sort of way that the rest of us do. Havoc’s way. Poison and possession, delivered down the throat in a dose as smooth as cognac.

Finally, after a half-dozen department transfers, I get someone at the hospital. She looks my name up, transfers me, and then I’m finally on the phone with the doctor.

“Hello Bernadette, how are you?” she asks, but I’m officially done with peopling today, so I barely grunt in acknowledgement.

“Fine. What’s going on?” I ask, listening as the woman shuffles around on the other end of the line.

“I just wanted to let you know that we got your blood results back. Bernadette, you’re pregnant.” The doctor pauses a moment before continuing, saying something about the injuries I received today, how a hard blow to the belly can cause miscarriage in early pregnancy.

I hang up the phone on her.

When I set the receiver down, I see that my knuckles are as white as virgin snow.

I choke out a laugh and stand up, my chair scraping across the floor with a loud sound.

“Everything okay?” Vic asks, like he’s a fucking mind reader. Frankly, I wouldn’t put that skill past him. He very well might be able to. I hardly know what to say, so I just stare at the wolf painting for a moment. It’s in mid-howl which is funny, considering the whole Cry Havoc trend I started.

I bite my lower lip.

Another cramp makes me close my eyes and clench my hands into fists.

Shit.

No, no, this is a situation for the word fuck. I don’t care if I’ve used it a hundred and sixty times today. There are just certain times in life when that word is the only appropriate thing to say.

   
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