“Mother, this is my fiancée, Bernadette Blackbird.” Vic moves his arm to my waist and pulls me close. “We'll be getting married as soon as we turn eighteen.”
“A ploy for you to get your inheritance, no doubt,” Ophelia says, nostrils flaring as she turns to me. “I hope you know that you're spreading your legs for a liar. He doesn't love you, and he never will. As soon as he gets the money, he'll dump you on the street and take off to whatever drug den he's currently holed up in.”
Vic laughs, the sound much more genuine than his hair or his outfit.
“Oh, Mother,” he purrs, turning to look at me. His eyes burn, and I can see he's as interested in fucking me as I am him. “You've got it all wrong.” Victor drops his mouth to mine, a burning ember that sears through me, makes me tremble with this desperate, aching need.
It hurts, how much I want it.
It makes me wonder if I'm as much a monster as he is, wanting the man who tortured me for nearly half a year. Once, he and the other Havoc boys set me up, so it would look like I’d screwed Kaydence Mane’s boyfriend when all we’d done was study in the library together. She and her friends kicked the shit out of me and left me bleeding on the gym floor.
I must be a masochist.
Or maybe I just hate myself so much, I’ll always want what I shouldn’t have? My personal poison, delivered in lethal doses by my own hand.
“Please, hold the theatrics,” Ophelia says, holding up a hand. “We'll be late to lunch.” Vic pauses, pulling away from me just enough that our breath mingles, but there's still room to talk.
“She's jealous.”
“Of what? A kiss from her son?” I scoff, and Vic smiles this awful, knowing little smile. “She's a rich, successful heiress. What the hell would she be jealous of?”
“Of passion. She's such a cold bitch, she's never been fucked proper in her life.”
“That's a weird thing to say about your mom.”
“Yeah, well, what can I say? It's true.” He licks my lower lip and flips off some socialites that are gaping at us in the corner. They don't bother me. Honestly, they'd probably give their left nipple to spend a night with someone like Vic.
He backs away from me and takes off down the hall with that confident stride of his, just expecting me to follow. I take a deep breath, shake my hands out, and go after him.
We're having dinner in the Rose Room, this glass atrium situated with views of the sprawling golf course. Inside, there's a huge, round table with an impressive bouquet of flowers in the middle and trays of small, delicate looking appetizers.
“Doubtful anything in this room is edible,” Victor murmurs, sauntering in like he owns the place. His presence swallows the whole room.
It's instant, the way he commands that crowd.
“Ladies,” Ophelia begins, curling her arm through her son's. She puts on this beautifully executed smile of motherhood and gazes over at him with something that looks like affection. I've been around enough liars in my time to know better. “This is my son, Victor. He considers himself a bit of a rock star.” She squeezes his tattooed arm with her fingernails just this side of too hard, but Vic doesn't let on that it bothers him.
The women laugh, and the eyes of some of the younger ones glitter with interest. That is, until they see my ring and their eyes swing up to mine.
“Rock star?” I whisper as Vic turns back to grab my hand. “You can sing?”
“Can't sing for shit, but 'rock star' is the only acceptable term they understand to explain me and my looks.”
He pulls me forward and puts his arm around my shoulders.
“And this is my fiancée, Bernadette.”
“Fiancée?” a woman with dark hair says, stepping close enough to our little group that her next words are audible only to us. “I didn't know scoundrels like you dated.”
“Auntie Cheryl,” Vic purrs, flashing a villain's grin. “There are a lot of things about me a crazy old bat like you wouldn't understand.” His aunt smiles tightly at him, putting on a show for the rest of the room.
That's when it hits me: what's going on in here is the same as what went on in the street the other day, guns and bloodshed traded out for fake smiles and underhanded insults. It's all a game, a gang war of a different sort.
We take our seats, and polite conversation starts up.
It's pure. fucking. torture.
No wonder Vic was willing to set his gang on my nightmares in exchange for this. What sane woman would subject herself to this hell?
“So, Victor, your mother tells us you're studying overseas, at a boarding school in Paris?”
I almost choke on my bite of watercress sandwich (I had to surreptitiously Google it with my phone hidden under the table before I even knew what it was).
Prescott High, a boarding school in Paris? I'm officially dead. Our piece of shit school is more akin to the catacombs than some fancy academy.
Vic casts me a warning look, and then turns this horrifically blinding smile to the woman in the big white hat. It almost looks like he’s gritting his teeth …
“Oh yes, and I'm loving it. It's helping me iron out my hedonistic tendencies.”
“Victor,” Ophelia snaps, giving her son a warning look not dissimilar to the one he just gave me. “Kids,” she says with a laugh, looking back at the women, and they all titter.
The waitstaff appears to take our orders, and I find myself counting the seconds until I can get out of here. Unfortunately, time only seems to slow as conversation turns to me.
“Bernadette, was it? Such a beautiful name,” an older woman with gray curls says to me, patting my hand with one of her wrinkled ones. “Tell us, how did you two meet?”
We've known each other since second grade; Vic pushed some kid down a slide for pulling my pigtails. The brat broke his nose when his face met the woodchips.
“We met at an airport,” I lie, pulling up some ridiculous fantasy from god only knows where. “I accidentally sat in his seat on the plane.” I glance over and see Vic smirking at me. He rubs his hand over his chin in that way he does. The funny thing is, if his mother had been involved in his life whatsoever, she might know that her son and I met over a decade ago. Or maybe even that he tormented me during my sophomore year. Since she doesn’t though, I feel free to make up my own story. “It was on a flight from San Francisco to Paris actually, after one of Vic’s many visits to his mom.” I turn back to the room and smile in the most saccharine, bullshit-filled way that I know, like I’m that bitch Kali Rose-Kennedy. “I had no idea until the flight attendant came to take my breakfast order.”
Vic snorts, but several of the ladies smile and nod, like this is actually some sort of believable scenario for them. Actually, I stole it from some crappy rom-com. Since when I have ever sat in first class? Never. Been to Paris? Not once. Been on a plane? Yeah, I never have been.
“That is adorable,” one of the women says, putting her hand on Ophelia’s. “Your son and his fiancée are so sweet; you must be so happy for them.”
“Thrilled,” she says, taking a sip of her wine, perfectly shaped brows raised.
An hour and a half later, and I’ve survived the luncheon on BS and recycled romantic comedy trope nonsense.
“This is pure hell,” I say, bumming a cigarette off Vic out back of the country club. We’re smoking right next to a No Smoking On Premises sign which brings me a small, fucked-up piece of joy. I’m going to make sure to grind my butt out on the head of the founder’s statue staring at me from a cluster of shade-loving begonias. “No wonder you figured this a fair price for vengeance. No sane girl would put herself through this.”
Victor laughs, that subdued, dark little chuckle that makes my chest feel tight. It’s hard to hate someone as much as I hate him, especially when my body’s constantly lusting after his.
“Are you kidding me? I could get any girl at Prescott High to do this for me. And I’d only have to pay them in dick.”
I wrinkle my nose and glance his way, watching him inhale, little tendrils of smoke escaping his nostrils. He looks like a different person in that outfit, all cleaned-up like one of the yuppie assholes out on the green.
“You’re delusional,” I murmur, turning away before he catches me studying him. “Everyone in that school hates you and your crew, and you know it.”
“They’re afraid of me, and that’s a whole different sort of animal.” Vic flicks his cigarette butt into the fountain, proving he has about as much respect for these rich assholes as I do. “You should know: you’re afraid of me, too.”
“Like hell I am,” I snort, shaking my head and laughing. “I used to be, sure. Not anymore. I’ve been beaten into a whole different shape.” I look up at him and my smile fades away to nothing. “I’m not afraid of anything anymore.”
“Can you get your mom to sign off on our marriage?” he asks suddenly, surprising me, his face this dark, impossible mask. “You’re still seventeen, right? We’ll need her permission.”
The color drains from my face at the thought of asking her anything; Vic notices and smirks at me.
“Maybe you’re not afraid of me, but you’re still afraid of her. Don’t worry: we’ll get her to sign off.” He pushes off the wall, pulls a small bottle of body spray from his pocket, and spritzes both of us. “Let’s go say bye to Ophelia.”
My mouth tightens, but I follow after him.
I have to, to pay my end of the bargain.
I’ll have to do a lot of other things, too. I just haven’t been asked to do any of them yet.
Yet.
There seems to be this unspoken thing about me spending the night at Aaron’s again. We don’t talk much—or at all on Sunday since I just chill in his room and play with my phone—but I know I can’t stay here forever. For now, Heather’s still staying with a friend. Eventually, I’ll have to go home when she does.