Page 36 of Havoc at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys 1)
He notices goddamn everything.
“The cop,” he says, his voice hollow.
I nod.
We don’t talk for a while, and I find myself glancing over his shoulder in the direction of the house, searching for any sign of his father. That guy gives me the serious fucking creeps. Why Vic stays here is beyond me.
I decide to ask.
There are no secrets in Havoc right?
Bunch of bullshit, surely, but if they’re willing to play the façade in my favor, I’ll take it.
“Why are you still living here?” I ask, and when Vic’s gaze passes up to mine, it’s like watching the moon eclipse the sun, cutting off all the light but somehow making it more beautiful in the process. “You could have your own place. Shit, you could live with Aaron if you wanted. Really, anywhere away from your father would be an improvement.”
“It’s all part of the deal,” he says, reaching out to take my hand, fingering that ring on my finger for the first time. He looks at for a while, really looks at it, until I can’t take the tautness in the air between us and snatch my hand back. “In order for me to get my inheritance, I have to live with my father until I graduate.” His face darkens, storm clouds sliding across an expression that’s already too dark, too mysterious, too steeped in shadow. “Get married. Stay married for one year.”
That’s the part that really surprises me.
I have to resist the urge to hit him.
My teeth grit in frustration.
“You never told me we had to stay married for a year.”
Victor’s eyes darken and narrow, and he slides that tormenting gaze my direction. Just trying to maintain eye contact with the man exhausts me. He’s both a complex storm of emotions, and the complete and utter void of a blue, cloudless sky, all at once. Difficult to read, impossible to predict.
“We’ll stay married for life if that’s what it takes,” he snaps out, losing that practiced cool for just a fraction of a section. With a deep inhale, and an emptying exhale, I feel his taut muscles loosen beneath me, the anger in him draining out with a single breath. I can’t even imagine, having that sort of control. My heart flutters, and my fingers curl reflexively. I might be sitting on his lap, but Victor Channing and I are both stupidly similar and worlds apart.
Conundrums. Hypocrisies.
That’s us.
“Did you think this deal had an expiration date?” he asks finally, and I frown.
“I’m not big on thinking ahead at all,” I admit. It’s true. My life has never been the sort where I could stop and smell the roses, wonder what might happen tomorrow, or what could happen in the future because I’m always worried about now, surviving this exact second and hoping in the darkest recesses of my heart that there might actually be another. Of course, I don’t say any of that out loud.
Vic just stares at me for a moment and then runs his huge hand over his face.
“What?” I ask, because all of his non-verbal communication says he’s not very happy with me. The way his hand drops from my waist, the way his fingers curl around the end of the chair arm. “You asked me to be Havoc’s … girl.” I choke on the word a little and feel my body start to shake with that old, familiar anger. “Did you expect me to be happy to be here? Was that part of the deal, too? Because if it was, I didn’t hear it.”
His face tightens up, but he manages to maintain that ironclad control.
“You’re lashing out with anger in an unfamiliar situation, I get it. Been there, done that. Learn to leash it up and set it loose when you decide, and you’ll find it much more satisfying to control the rage instead of letting it control you.”
“What are you, a fucking shrink or something?” I snap, grabbing up the pack of cigarettes and removing one with shaking fingers. Vic holds up a lighter as I slip it between my lips, igniting the tip.
“We didn’t ask you to be Havoc’s girl, we used to be a Havoc Girl. Big difference, Bernadette.” Vic pushes me off his lap without warning, and even though he doesn’t push hard, I end up stumbling, sprawling into the grass and losing my cigarette in the process. He leans down to look at me, like some sort of king perched up on a throne, and I find myself scowling. “Blood in, blood out.”
“You keep saying that!” I shout back, pushing to my feet and wondering if I could take him on, too, beat his ass like I did Oscar, wrap my hands around his throat. It’d probably feel good, wouldn’t it? To take revenge on him the way I’m asking him to do to everyone else in my life who fucked up along the way. “I should’ve added your name to your own list, sicced you on yourself.”
