“Take the week,” Vic repeats, moving away from me and hopping off the edge of the stage, his boots loud on the cement floor. “Because once you give your answer, you can’t take it back.”
“You’ll do what I say when I say it.”
I’m not sure Vic could’ve uttered a single other sentence that would’ve infuriated me quite so much. The sex angle, I expected. In fact, I was almost hoping for it. Sex is easy if you approach it the right way, just two bodies working off their basic instincts. Never mind that I’ve only ever been with a few guys, and even then, only a handful of times. Never mind that one of those guys was Aaron Fadler.
“Shit.” I grab a book off my nightstand and chuck it at the wall as hard as I can. I’m satisfied when it leaves a dent, but that doesn’t push back the anxiety or the worry as I rub my palms over my face. “You’ll be our plaything.” How else am I supposed to interpret that? I’ll be at their beck and call for sex, all five of them. What was it that Vic said, a Havoc Girl?
My skin tingles, and I wrap my arms over my chest. When I was in middle school, I watched them from afar with desperation, always wanting to be a part of their little group, knowing that I never would be. And then sophomore year happened, and no amount of pleading could stop that wave of pain.
Biting my lower lip, I stand up and peep in the bathroom door to make sure that Heather’s still situated in the tub, playing with her toys and reminding me that I not only have a reason to stay, but a reason to fight.
If I make this deal, Neil Pence will pay. I don’t know how, but the Havoc Boys have a certain finesse to their cruelty. It’ll be something good, something worthy of my sister, Pen, and of Heather, and of me …
It’s Saturday night, and I’ve already had plenty of time to think.
I’ll do it.
It doesn’t matter what happens to me, doesn’t matter what Vic or his cronies have in store. I’ll be their plaything. Who cares? I was in love with Aaron once, I’ve been lusting after Vic since … forever. They’re all undeniably gorgeous, if a little cruel for my tastes.
Fuck.
Am I really going to do this? I’ve fought my entire life to keep my body to myself. And trust me, men have tried. Men like the Thing. Men like my temporary foster brother. Men like Principal Vaughn.
But then I hear the front door open, and the Thing’s voice booms from downstairs, sending a shiver down my spine.
There’s nothing worse than him, the ultimate villain in my horror story.
A cop, the son of a well-respected judge, the brother of a prosecutor.
Untouchable, impossible, the epitome of evil.
Whatever it takes to bring him down, I’ll do it.
Even if it means getting in bed with Havoc.
I march into Prescott High on Monday ready to make a deal, but I’m already running late, and the school is on lockdown. I have to check in at the office, wait for the gates to be unlocked, and scurry to my first class. I’ve forgotten that we’re having an active shooter drill, so I spend the next few hours learning how to find random objects around the room and use them as weapons.
My first period teacher isn’t pleased when I suggest ramming a pencil up the shooter’s ass from behind. But at least he doesn’t have to hide his disgust with me for long because the lunch bell rings, and I’m off, searching the campus for Havoc.
“They’re out back by the dumpsters smoking,” Stacey Langford suggests, taking pity on me when she sees me searching the halls. She’s barely spoken a dozen words to me since she got shipped here during sophomore year. I figure she’s just afraid I’ll include her in whatever deal I make with Havoc, and she’ll get her ass kicked. As far as queen bees go, she’s not so bad. The bullying thing isn’t really her angle.
“Thanks.”
I head outside and find five boys in black, smoking cigarettes and sitting around some hot rod car that looks far too fancy for the dirty parking lot. Must belong to Hael. He’s got a serious hard-on for vintage rides.
“Nice car,” I say, and he snorts at me, flicking his cigarette in my direction and standing up with this cocky swagger that makes me grit my teeth. In another school, another life, he’d be the king of the elite, some badass ruling over the high school in preparation for a life of luxury. But that sense of entitlement must’ve been hard-earned because I know Hael Harbin doesn’t have a cent to his name. One time, right after my mother lost the house my dad had bought for her, we spent the night in the same homeless shelter.
“Nice car?” He leans against the roof and taps the cherry red door with his tattooed knuckles, honey-brown eyes glittering. He smells like fresh leather, coconut, and motor oil, a much different scent than Vic. My eyes flick that direction and find him watching me carefully, probably waiting for my answer. He doesn’t think I’ll accept. Well, fuck him. Him and his idiot friends came up with this whole ‘Havoc’ thing. Name the job, hear the price, pay up. I’m going to fulfill my end of the bargain, and for three years now, the Havoc Boys have been fulfilling theirs. “This is a ’67 Camaro. It’s a fucking collectible.”
“That’s not a ’67 grille,” I say, gesturing at the front end. “It’s too wide. A ’68 maybe, but not a ’67.” Hael gapes at me for a moment, and then smirks. Hopefully he’s impressed, but really, I don’t know shit about cars. I overheard him talking to a buddy in shop on my way to the bathroom last week.
“Smart chick,” he says, and then looks me over, his eyes sweeping me in a calculating sort of way. Unlike Vic, he doesn’t get any deeper than my exterior, doesn’t delve into my soul with a pair of flint-like eyes. Instead, his gaze takes in my tight leather pants, and black Harley tank with interest. “So, which do you prefer? The Camaro or the bike?” He gestures back at Vic’s ride with his thumb, and I give the shiny Harley a cursory glance. For such poor boys, they sure have nice rides.
It’s easy to deduce that they either stole them or, more likely, stole the money or parts to make them happen.
Havoc’s control isn’t limited to Prescott High. I know they have a network of assholes that run the city. It’s a little scary, if you think about it, these seventeen and eighteen-year-old boys running their gang. If they’re this bad now, what’s going to happen in five years? Or ten? That is, if they even make it that long. Like me, I assume they all live life under the assumption they’ve got an expiration date in the not-so-near future.
“I didn’t come to talk cars or bikes,” I say, glancing over at Vic, Callum, Oscar, and Aaron, all perched on the back steps where the food trucks make the weekly deliveries to the cafeteria. “Actually, I—”
“No,” Vic says, that one word spoken so quietly it barely breaks the sudden gust of wind across the lot. But it’s powerful enough to halt any further conversation in its tracks. “I said take the week.” He looks right at me, and I can see this is yet another test.
“You’ll do what I say when I say it.”
Fuck.
Aaron glares at me from green-gold eyes, smoking his cigarette and biting back whatever caustic, awful thing it is he wants to say to me. Bet Vic told him to keep his mouth shut.
As I stand there, I feel them looking at me, all five of them with different expectations, different wants. I should be scared to be out here alone with them, but as of right now, I’m a potential client. They won’t hurt me, not yet.
“Get lost, Bernadette,” Vic says, leaning back on the steps, his expression the most difficult one to read. Hael looks like he wants to bend me over the hood of his car; Oscar looks like he wants to do my fucking taxes; Callum has a much darker, scarier expression on his face. But it’s Aaron who looks like he might want to kill me. “Come find me on Friday to let me know your decision. Until then, stay lost, would you?”
Slowly, I back away and head inside, seething with anger.
And even though I try to hide it, a shiver takes over my entire body. As I sweep past, I know that even Stacey and her girls can see it.
Despite my bravado, I really am terrified, aren’t I?
But am I scared of Havoc? Or scared of what I might become if I give into them?
Vic is sitting in his front yard when I bike over on Friday, my boots crunching across the gravel as I climb off and head his direction. He barely glances my way, but I can see the tense set of his shoulders. If I were a threat, he'd neutralize me without a second thought.
“Bernie, what brings you to this side of the city?” he asks, slowly blowing smoke from between his full lips. He's lounging in a plastic chair on the front lawn of his father's run-down little farmhouse. I remember this place well; I spent a whole week in one of its closets.
“I'll do it.” The words scrape past my throat, like hot coals burning their way up my esophagus. My hands are shaking, but inside, I'm nothing but white-hot rage. I need this, and I hate Vic for making me crawl all the way over here to tell him that.
“Yeah?” He exhales smoke, his violet hair catching the sunlight. Vic just barely glances over his shoulder at me, the tattoos on his neck crinkling with the motion. “Then get over here and sit on my lap.”
My mouth purses. I don't like being told what to do.
“If you want this, you'll be our plaything.”
I must be fucking mad. And yet, the only things that motivate me are my sister … and my vengeance. I don't care about anything anymore, not even myself.
Moving forward, I squeeze between two overgrown bushes and toss my ratty backpack on the ground.
Vic's dark eyes follow me as I walk over and straddle his lap. The expression of triumph on his face is like an arrow to the heart, but my heart turned to stone a long time ago. I don't feel it at all.
My body likes his though, so much so that when I adjust myself and feel his hard, muscular form beneath me, I feel my breath catch.
Vic continues to smoke his joint, the sweet skunk-y smell of weed wafting around me. Pot smoke is so much denser that cigarette smoke, and I swear, it rolls off the lips like nothing else. I'm mesmerized, watching him. He puts one, big hand casually on my hip, studying me with a much sharper, much more intelligent gaze than I'd have ever pegged him for.