Page 117 of Chaos at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys 2)
Oh. Crap. It is, isn’t it? Well, in like a week and a half or something.
We’ve been so busy this month that I spaced it completely.
Victor doesn’t want me to go home anymore. I agree with that, but it also means that the danger level is amping up. My mother isn’t going to take this lying down. The Thing most definitely won’t. He loves to pick at me from across a dinner table—even more so on holidays. He laps my pain and anger up like a lizard sticking its long tongue to a fly.
“It’s on the twenty-eighth,” I say, but I don’t really care. It’s an okay holiday, and I get the modern meaning of it, but there’s also just a wee bit of genocide in there, too. Heather, though, she might get upset if we don’t do anything at all. I put my forehead on my arm, the fingers of my right hand still curled around the sponge.
I cannot believe I had sex with Oscar Montauk this morning.
At this point, I’ve screwed every Havoc Boy but for Callum. I’m sure we’ll get there soon, I think, and then sigh. Not because I don’t want to see what Cal might be like in bed, but because I hate holidays and all their stupid rituals.
“The girls will want to do something,” I say as Vic comes over to sit in the armchair on my left. I lay my cheek against my arm and turn my face to look at him. He stares at me with equal parts possessiveness and tender adoration. I’m not sure he’s even aware of the latter bit. “But I’m not sure I have the energy.”
Victor nods, sweeping his palm over his purple-dark hair. He doesn’t like me sleeping in Aaron’s bed, but I keep doing it anyway because I have a feeling that after the wedding, I’ll rarely be out of Vic’s wicked fingers.
“Hael can make tacos with that ground turkey meat shit you like. How does that sound?” Vic lights up a joint, the smoke drifting toward the open sliding door. “Gobble motherfucking gobble.”
I smile, but I don’t have the energy to laugh.
“Tacos and Havoc Boys. This might be my most exciting Thanksgiving yet.” I sit up and plop the sponge into the bucket of pinkish water. Victor and I don’t talk about me screwing the other guys, not really. It’s implied that I stay within Havoc. I’m dead certain that if I fucked a guy outside of this circle, he would kill him, and I would most certainly suffer.
Not saying our relationship is healthy or hashtag-goals or anything like that, but it is what it is.
And I revel in it.
“The day after, can we get a Christmas tree?” I ask, and Victor gives me a weird look as I push to my feet.
“You’re one of those people, huh? A sentimental asshole with a need for dead pine trees and lights.”
I glare at him as I climb to my feet, swiping a hand across my forehead. When I reach out for the joint, he passes it my way and then yanks me into his lap. Victor’s lips brush my ear, and my entire body flashes white-hot before relaxing into a desperate sort of cool, like a dip in a pool after getting a sunburn.
“Why do you have to mess with me like this?” he continues, and it takes me a second to realize he’s not talking about the Christmas tree. No, he’s talking about Oscar. “You know how I feel when I see you with another man, don’t you?”
“Grateful for a night off?” I joke, and his hold tightens on me. I pretend not to notice, smoking the joint with two, tattooed fingers. The A and the V from my Havoc tattoo stare back at me.
“Murderous,” he tells me, and then he takes the joint back and pushes me off of his lap just as Callum comes down the stairs.
“Off to the studio?” I ask, lifting the bucket. Cal shakes his head, coming over to take the bucket from me. I almost don’t let him. After all, he doesn’t know what the pinkish water in it means, but then I decide to just enjoy not having to dump the heavy thing in the sink.
“Not today,” he tells me, rinsing the bucket with the detachable sprayer on the sink. He looks ridiculously comfortable cleaning up blood. Not his first time at the rodeo, am I right? “I was going to climb onto the roof and watch the sun rise.”
I stare at him as goose bumps prickle across my arms. I’m wearing his hoodie again, drowning in fabric and the fresh smell of talc and laundry soap. Callum turns around and leans his ass against the sink. His hood is down, but he’s wearing a sweatshirt similar to mine, tucking his hands into the front pocket.
