Page 30 of Havoc at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys 1)
“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.”
