Page 128 of Havoc at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys 1)
“It would, yeah.” Victor reaches out with that big hand of his, smoothing some of my hair back. Just that little touch makes me want him, and I hate that. I hate that I feel like a drug addict with a habit when he’s around. “You’re my girl, remember?”
“Since when?” Cal asks, appearing from the shadows of the spare bedroom. I’ve just barely peeked in there, but it’s got one queen bed and a set of bunk beds on the opposite wall. Back in the day, when Aaron’s parents lived here, it was his dad’s office. Now, it functions as Cal, Hael, and Oscar’s bedroom. Aaron obviously has his own room, and piece of shit Victor Channing gets the master all to himself. “You need to rein in that possessive streak of yours, boss.”
Victor scowls at Callum, pushing up off the wall to give his much smaller teammate a look.
“Did you finish the props for tonight?” Vic asks as I notice the item clutched in Cal’s hand. It’s a black baseball bat with nails strategically hammered through the end, leaving the points sticking out precariously.
Callum grins and swings the weapon up to his shoulder, just barely missing stabbing himself with it.
“All ready,” he says, and Vic nods. I don’t know what they’re all planning on as far as costumes go, and I haven’t asked. I figure I’ll see them later. For now, I use the lull in conversation to sneak down the stairs and finish up the girls’ makeup. Well, Kara and Ashley’s makeup anyway; Heather is once again going as Ryan Reynold’s version of Deadpool, complete with full mask.
Once they’re ready, Aaron and I herd the girls into the van, and I’m surprised to see that Callum joins us, grinning and winking at me as he straps himself into the back row.
“I’m your backup,” he explains, “just in case.”
I nod, but to be honest, I’m glad he’s here. I have a feeling Callum could buy us whatever time we needed to get the girls out of a rough situation.
And the universe knows we’ll probably be in at least one life or death scenario before the night is over …Looking at myself in the mirror with my blond hair in a high, bouncy ponytail and my makeup done up like some MAC counter girl is surreal. I look like a different person, like the reflection of myself I might’ve been with a different upbringing, a different life.
The sort of life Brittany Burr and her friends have.
I reach out and touch my fingertips to the mirror, studying the reflection of my cheap cheerleading uniform and the way it shows off the ink on my midriff. This should be an interesting evening, dressed up like some preppy Fuller High asshole for the darkest night of the year.
Just a few more additions, and I’ll be ready. I drag my makeup kit closer—pretty much all of my product is stolen, so I have a decent collection—and grab some of the fake blood and Halloween effects we purchased at the Hellhole.
Fifteen minutes later, and I’m done dirtying up my look.
I give myself a wry grin in the mirror and rise to my feet, flipping my hair and then rolling my eyes at my own reflection. Downstairs, I can hear the heavy bass of some hip-hip song from the early 2000s. My nose wrinkles as I open Aaron’s door and realize the beat is Ridin’ by Chamillionaire and Krayzie Bone.
When I get to the top of the staircase and look down, my heart freezes in my chest, and a cold, fearful chill chases down my spine.
All five Havoc Boys are waiting in the living room, dressed in identical Halloween costumes.
Their faces are fully painted, to the point that it’s hard to tell them apart from up here. Five gritty skeleton visages stare back at me, black around the eyes, teeth painted over lips. They all have their hair slicked back and sprayed black with one of those colored hairsprays that only lasts the night. And they’re all decked out in matching black trench coats with black hoodies and black shirts underneath, black slacks, badass boots.
For a brief moment there, I feel like a helpless heroine in some scary teen Halloween slasher flick.
Shit.
I force my basic instincts to take a back seat. Sure, Havoc is dangerous, but … maybe not to me? At least not right now. Good thing the girls are holed up in their room watching Halloweentown with the babysitter. This would scare the crap out of them.
“Are you guys supposed to be Tate Langdon from American Horror Story?” I ask, swallowing hard as I hit the bottom step and find myself at the center of Havoc’s attention. “Or Zombie Boy? The show makers based that look off of him, you know.”
“We know,” Oscar says, and my eyes flick back to find his gray gaze. For once, he’s not wearing his glasses. I’m assuming contacts? But holy fuck, having his focus bared on me like that, without the lenses to protect me, it’s intimidating.
