“I can assure you: I have no problems with performance. You should know: you’ve seen it.” Oscar scowls as we turn up the winding road that digs into the hill, cutting away the beauty of the forest. These hills used to be wooded and wild. Now, houses slice through the pretty evergreen forest like blemishes, scars that can never be healed. All these SoCal motherfuckers moving up here and turning Oregon into the strip-mall studded desert that they left behind. Pisses me right the hell off.
Should be no surprise that Brittany’s family moved here from LA.
We park in the driveway, but only I climb out. Brittany doesn’t need or want to see Oscar here. At least the garage door is open so I can see that her father’s Hummer isn’t parked inside. Dealing with that man makes me stabby as fuck. He’s so desperate to destroy me that I have to be careful here. If Brittany turns on me, Forrest Burr will drag me into this VGTF investigation and bury me.
“Hey baby,” Brittany says, sniffling as she opens the door. I do my very best not to sigh. I just can’t with all of this other woman drama. Never been a fan of it. I’m either fucking a chick or I’m not. And I am most definitely done with pretty little Brittany Burr. “Come in.” She turns away and heads down the carpeted hallway toward the newly renovated kitchen.
Britt’s sporting a long-sleeved pink sweater today, to hide all the scars on her back and arms. Our crew fucked her up good at the cabin. They didn’t stop there, either. After I changed the plan to throw blame on the VGTF, Cal decided her face wasn’t exactly off-limits.
Before she opens the fridge, she turns to me, her eyes slightly less bruised and swollen than the last time I saw her. Even with as much animosity and resentment that I feel toward her, seeing her like this makes me sick. Thinking about what happened to her makes me sick. Watching my father knock my mom around, reading the police report on what he did to that prostitute … I just can’t handle seeing women hurt.
It’s my greatest weakness. Bernadette says it’s a strength, too. Guess something can be both. Life exists in dualities and contradictions, doesn’t it?
During the Prescott High Massacre—as the press calls it—I put my gun up to a man’s forehead, pulled the trigger, and found myself spattered with his brains. It didn’t bother me the way seeing Brittany’s cut and bruised face does, her burned wrists, her baby bump hidden beneath that sweater.
Shit.
I scrub at my face.
“You want a soda or something?” she asks, but I shake my head. It’s a struggle to play boyfriend and baby daddy, especially with Bernadette waiting for me. Especially with the miscarriage. It’s funny, isn’t it, how afraid I was when I found out that Brittany was pregnant, and how fucking excited I was when Bernie told me the same damn thing. Of course, that joy only lasted a split-second before it was crushed with the hammer of reality.
A miscarriage.
Caused by the GMP.
On the turf of my fucking school.
My hands squeeze into fists so tight that my knuckles pop through my inked skin. Brittany notices and turns back to the fridge.
“Never mind then,” she murmurs, but I snag the red Coke can from her hand anyway, popping the top and downing the fizzy bubbles as I watch her warily. It’s been almost three weeks since her visit to the cabin, and she’s been too freaked-out to ask me for sex. But it’s coming. I can sense it. Just a little longer, I remind myself, studying her as she pours herself a glass of milk. Eventually, I’ll get the pleasure of telling her that her cabin visit was punishment for betraying Havoc.
For now, we use her.
Whatever it takes to keep our family safe.
“Where’s your dad?” I ask, because that’s why I’m here. For information. She’s already told me all sorts of fun things since I lied about the DNA results in front of Fuller High: Neil was a dirty cop working for the GMP, the VGTF is planning a raid, her father thinks he can get Maxwell Barrasso on RICO charges for the school shooting.
Britt snorts at me and scowls, tossing blond hair over her shoulder as she looks me over with a gaze I’m well familiar with: you are pathetic. I only want you because my father hates you, and you’re a bad boy, and you can fuck. In reality, I want to marry a Ken Doll with a 401k who can give me a white picket fence and a golden retriever.
“You are going to need to get over your shit with my daddy,” she says in that grating way of hers, the one that makes me wonder how I ever got it up to fuck her in the first place. I take a sip of the soda and wait while she sighs and slides onto one of the stools at the peninsula. She looked better with the dark hair she had on Halloween—not that it matters to me—but she looks even less attractive than usual to me. Or maybe it’s just because I’m in love and the only girl in the world that matters is Blackbird? “He’s working.” She sips her milk as I grit my teeth and then force myself to exhale to relax. The more of a dick I act like, the tighter she clams up.
“Working on what?”
Her brown eyes snap over to me and she scowls again.
“I’m not some informant for you to shake down, Hael. I’m the mother of your child”—only in your fantasies, bitch—“so you better learn to start treating me nicely.”
“Britt, if you know something, you should tell me. I won’t be much of a baby daddy if I’m dead or in jail.” I move over to stand in front of the peninsula across from Brittany, resting my elbows on the tile countertop. “You know we’d never hurt your father.” Not unless we have to, too risky. “What’s going on?”
“I’m not a mole, Hael,” Brittany grumbles, looking away from me to where a show’s playing on the TV. It’s The Queen’s Gambit, some chess drama about a wonder-girl that Bernadette’s been obsessed with for the last few days. I only watched, like, half an episode last night before I whipped my cock out and slid into the silken heat of my girl’s pussy. “Ugh, this show is ridiculous. Talk about ramming woke culture down your throat. It’s nothing but a femi-Nazi mess.”
My eye twitches, but I manage to keep my thoughts about that to myself. Bernie loves The Queen’s Gambit. Brittany looks like she wants to puke. Polar opposites. And there’s only one that I’m attracted to.
Brittany uses an app on her phone to turn the TV off and then turns back to look at me.
“Dad is worried. There are, like, a ton of missing Prescott kids.” Brittany opens a plastic container and pulls out a powdered doughnut, frowning down at it for several seconds before she finally takes a bite. She’s always had eating disorders, but I guess being pregnant makes starving yourself a bit harder. I take a doughnut for myself, waiting for her to continue with this train of thought. After all, we’ve only got limited time before the gig is up. As soon as the kid is born, she’ll know he isn’t mine. Rich Pratt, the real father of the baby she’s carrying, is black. I might not be as white as a virgin’s wedding dress the way Bernadette is, but Brittany will know the kid isn’t mine after taking one look at him. “He says I’ll be lucky if you make it to the baby’s birth. Apparently, that Nazi Portland gang is killing all your, like, crew? Is that what you call them? Crew?” Brittany takes another bite of her doughnut and then sets it aside with a deep frown. “They’re bringing in cadaver dogs next week to search some property near Veneta.”
A chill takes over me, but I hide it by sipping the Coke in my hand.
Property near Veneta … means Tom Muller’s property.
Means our bodies, dug up and exposed to the light of day. The only thing I can say about that is, we were very careful about leaving any evidence behind. If the VGTF finds our buried friends in the woods, they’ll connect them to the GMP. This could actually be a blessing in disguise for us, a chance to wash ourselves of our sins and start with a clean slate.
“Anything else?” I ask, and Brittany turns a look on me that’s so poisonous that I stand up and set the soda can aside.
“If you came over here just to grill me for gang crap, you can go.” She stands up and storms off down the hallway. Using my well-adjusted man-whore senses, I can tell she wants me to go after her, grab her by the shoulder, throw her into the wall and kiss her.
I’m more likely to plant one on Principal Vaughn, if you know what I mean.
I turn to head for the door as she screams at me from down the hall.
“Don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out!” she screeches as I roll my eyes and slam the front door behind me. Just in time to see Brittany’s dad, Forrest, pull into the driveway beside the Camaro.
Fucking hell.
“You,” he snarls, which is the most he ever really says to me. His beady eyes drift down to Oscar, sitting in the passenger seat of the Camaro with the window rolled down. In Forrest’s face, I can see that he’s remembering parading us down the hallways of Prescott High like he’d actually won something.
Once, there was this New York City mafia man named John Gotti. He was known as Teflon Don because the authorities could never get any charges to stick. Well, that’s Havoc. Shit just don’t stick to us.
“Me,” I reply, opening the door on the driver’s side and pausing as Forrest, the head of the local division of the VGTF and former chief of police for SPD, shoves my door closed, nearly severing my fucking fingers. On the inside, I felt that same familiar darkness, the twisting inside of me that promises I can never actually be a good guy—no matter how bad I want it.
All I can do is wear a cape for Blackbird. That’s what I got to offer.
“If you and your gangbanging friends know what’s good for you, you’ll keep your noses clean and stay out of the shadows. Maxwell Barrasso is not a man you want to piss off. Much as I’d like to see you locked up for tormenting my baby girl, you are the father of her baby. I expect to see you stick around.” He leans in toward me, nostrils flaring, bald head shiny under the weak February sunlight. “I’ll be watching you, pathetic little punk-ass.”