Page 116 of Havoc at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys 1)
Flipping through page after page of incident reports and complaints from students, I know there’s enough ammo in here for Ms. Keating to suspend or even expel one or all of the boys. There’s maybe enough info in here to press charges on some of them.
Victor Channing punched me in the face between first and second period for saying Bernadette Blackbird was hot.
I check the date on the complaint and see that it’s from … sophomore year.
“What the hell?” I ask, seeing that the complainant is a student that no longer attends Prescott. Mostly because Havoc chased him off. But why would Vic stand up for me during sophomore year? That’s the year they tortured me; it doesn’t make any sense.
Licking my lower lip, I shove the paper back in the box and stare at it.
This is a lot of ammo.
This … is a ticking time bomb set to go off against the boys I hated more than anyone else, the only people I couldn’t figure out a way to get revenge on. And here this box is, full of uncovered secrets. I bet Vaughn had the box in his office because he was getting ready to go after the boys again—Vic especially.
What would a Havoc Girl do though? I think, pushing the box away with my heel and trying to think. I could take this box, hold onto it and wait for the guys to finish my list up. Then I could nail them with it. At the very least, I might be able to get Vic kicked out of school, so he’d lose his inheritance—I don’t really expect him to give me a cut anyway.
I could run, and pawn the ring, and …
But no.
Blood in and blood out, right?
“When you’ve been lied to by everyone around you, when you have nothing else, you realize the one currency you can carry is truth. So a single word does have meaning. A promise does hold importance. And a pact is worth carrying to the grave.”
What would a Havoc Girl do?
She’d burn this shit to the ground.“You can thank me later,” I say as the boys come around the corner and find me sitting on the ground next to Hael’s car. I remember Vic telling me not to touch the damn thing without Hael’s permission, but he doesn’t seem bothered by me leaning against it.
“Thank you for what?” Vic says as he notices the still-smoking trash can sitting next to the dumpster.
“Ms. Keating found a box of everything Principal Vaughn had on you guys from over the years: reports of bullying, vandalism, violence. He had a freaking goldmine ready to nail your asses with. I’m guessing since he had it hidden under his desk, he was getting ready to use it.”
“And how’d you end up with it?” Hael asks as Callum chuckles and leans in to examine the smoking remains. He glances up at me and winks one of those pretty blue eyes of his in my direction.
“She pulled me into her office for some sort of ridiculous pep talk,” I say, tucking my hands into my pockets and feeling my own report crinkle under my fingers. “I stole it and jumped out the window.”
“Ooh, you’re gonna be in so much fucking trouble on Monday,” Callum says, grinning. Hael still looks distracted while Aaron stares at me like he’s never seen me before. Oscar is studying me with a discerning eye, but at least Vic looks happy.
“What’s in your pocket?” Oscar asks, blinking gray eyes at me. The question sounds casual, but there’s so much menace in it. Nobody misses his tone.
“Empty your pockets,” Vic says, frowning and giving Oscar a look. “If you’re gonna accuse a member of Havoc, you carry it through. I don’t like idle threats.”
I do as Vic asked, my palms sweating as I pull out the crumpled piece of paper, my lighter, and two dollars in cash. Vic strides forward, sliding his hands up my side and checking inside my jacket for anything I might’ve missed. Or maybe he’s just doing that on pretense, and is actually feeling me up instead?
Our eyes meet as he steps back and unfolds the single piece of paper.
Oscar’s gaze darkens, like he expected as much, but then Vic turns and thrusts the stapled pages at his friend’s chest.
“Don’t doubt our girl,” he warns as Oscar opens up the page and reads it, his eyes narrowing slightly before he passes it back to me, albeit reluctantly.
“I’m sorry, Bernadette,” he says in that smooth, easy voice of his. “I was wrong, and I’m not often wrong.”
“Wrong, how?” I ask, shoving the papers back in my pocket as Oscar adjusts his glasses.
“I assumed you’d keep more than your own confession.” He glances over at the smoking trash can. “That is, unless you stored the remaining pages elsewhere.”
