Page 44 of Havoc at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys 1)
Just standing here, I feel a wave of pain hit me, the sight of the school a trigger for what I’m sure must be PTSD or something. What are the key points again? Avoidance of specific triggers? Check. A physical reaction to said triggers? Check. Nightmares? Check.
“How do we get in?” I ask, shoving that pain down with everything I have, and taking a deep breath. Fighting the emotions back like that leaves me empty and numb, but it’s better than feeling sick and scared. I’ll take it. Licking my lips, I work to channel that numbness into rage. It’s the only thing that’s kept me safe all these years.
“Simple,” Oscar says, tapping something on his iPad. With a whirring death rattle, the generator outside the security office goes quiet, and the lights flick off. With a curse, the night guard comes outside to scan the darkness with his flashlight, not noticing six kids standing in the shadows behind him.
Callum and Vic exchange a look, and the leader of the Havoc Boys gives a curt nod. Like a fucking ninja, Cal flips his hood up, flashes me this cocksure smile, and then moves up behind the guard, hitting him in the back of the head with a goddamn baseball bat.
The man drops to the ground with a groan as my heart begins to pound. This is for real, isn’t it? There was a reason Vic asked me if I wanted to go, and a reason why Aaron didn’t want me here. I glance his way and find him glaring back at me. He’s not happy about any of this. Maybe he should’ve thought about that before betraying me for his fucking gang?
“Is that guy dead?” I ask, feeling this light, panicky feeling take over me. Vic just stares back at me, completely dead in the face.
“What would you do if he was?”
“Vic, come on, knock it off,” Aaron growls as Callum comes back over to us, swinging the bat up and onto his shoulder. He reaches up to tug at the tuft of blond hair that sticks out of his hood.
“Nah, he isn’t dead. He’ll have one hell of a hangover in the morning, but a small price to pay for getting us free entry into this den of assholes.” Callum smiles at me and then bends down to snag the guy’s keys, unlocking the small gate embedded in the ten-foot fence and letting it swing open with a creak.
“Here,” Hael says, passing over a black ski mask and letting his fingers caress mine more than necessary. “Put this on.” He yanks one over his red hair as I bite my lip, watching the other guys transform themselves into faceless monsters. My throat tightens up, but I follow along with them, drenching myself in anonymity.
At night, Oak Valley Prep is beyond creepy, a soft white fog drifting across the campus. It looks ominous, towering over us like a brick castle, one complete with torture chamber. Trust me, I know they've got one: I was there. It was called Donald’s Dorm Room at the time. Still is.
A shiver takes over me that I can't quite suppress, this cold chill that Vic takes note of, flint-like eyes scanning over me. For such a 'bad boy', he doesn't seem interested in fucking girls against their will. Maybe he doesn't get off by shoving his dick in some poor chick's mouth when she doesn’t want it? Maybe Vic is a real man, after all?
But then I remember the coldness in his gaze when he locked me in that closet, how hoarse my voice was from screaming, how little he cared.
No, he truly is a monster, just of a different breed.
“Show us the way,” he says, holding out an inked hand. I nod and turn, knowing the Havoc crew will be close behind me. They're never far apart, these boys. It occurs to me that we're all here because nobody loved us enough, nobody cared. The boys, they created their own family. And me, I just stumbled into it.
“In there,” I say, remembering the night Donald brought me back here, how he smirked, and I giggled. How he pushed me up against this wall and kissed me breathless. He was good at that—probably still is—but being a good kisser doesn't make up for the fact that he's a rapist, too. Or at least a wannabe one.
Hael hands Callum a crowbar, but before he can even try to use it, I step forward and grab the handle. It swings open and the boys exchange looks in the dark behind me.
“Posh school, a different sort of hoodlum. They probably think the front gate security is enough.” I step inside and find an elaborate hallway with wood floors, brick walls, and stuffy paintings of old white dudes. More than likely, rich old, white dudes. My lip wrinkles—because who the fuck actually likes misogynistic, money-hoarding dinosaurs?—and I step aside to let the others in.
