Page 120 of Chaos at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys 2)
“Please don’t talk like that,” I say as he laughs at me, giving my scrunched up face a curious onceover with that beautiful blue gaze of his. Birds twitter in the trees around us, singing songs that are more cheerful than any living creature has a right to be. “If I were reading a book, I’d peg you as the sacrificial type, the first one to die.”
“Foreshadowing?” Cal jokes, but it’s not funny to me. I don’t want any heroic bullshit moves ruining what we’re building here. And what, exactly, are we building here, Bernie? I ask myself, but I’m not ready to answer that question, so I don’t bother.
“We haven’t slept together yet, so … it’d make narrative sense for you to be killed off.” My voice cracks a bit on the words because the thought of losing a Havoc Boy when I’ve only just gotten them … that kills me.
“Yet,” Cal purrs in his husky voice, expelling the sunlight from my aura and replacing it with star-studded darkness. I shimmy even closer to him. “There’s no rush, Bernadette. Just enjoy yourself. I don’t date, and I haven’t slept with anyone since school started.” He keeps smiling, but his eyes are far away and full of wicked whimsy.
“Victor acts like there’s a rush,” I say, wondering if Oscar or Hael is listening in on our conversation. They can if they want; I don’t give a shit. The shower was on when I came up the stairs, so I figure Aaron is naked, and wet, and his soapy hands are trailing down his inked body …
“There isn’t,” Cal tells me, voice firm and maybe just a little bit scary. “Vic is good at what he does. He created Havoc; he owns it. He’s fair, and he’s smart, and his fuse is long, but he’s also an asshole. Don’t listen to him. Sooner or later, he’ll understand.”
“Understand what?” I ask, but really, I don’t need Callum to answer me. We both know what he means. Havoc Girl. Not Vic’s girl, not even if I heat up on the inside every single friggin’ time he says it.
“Do we need a turkey for Thanksgiving?” Callum asks after a long pause. He lights up another cigarette and holds it between two fingers, his nails painted blue like always. “My grandma probably has one in her deep freezer. I could bring it over here after I check on her.”
I wet my lips.
I’m dying to ask about Cal’s grandma, about his homelife, what his bedroom looks like … but we’ve already had a tender moment up here, and my heart still feels a bit raw. That’s a subject for another time.
“Won’t she need it?” I ask, but Callum shakes his head, flipping his hood up to cover his hair. Defense mechanism. I’m getting good at recognizing the boys’ little tics. Or … I always knew what those tics were, because I’ve stalked them like a creeper for half of my life.
“She always makes me buy one for her, but she can’t cook it, and I’m no good with that shit.” He keeps smiling, even though there’s melancholy laced in those words. “It makes her happy though, when I bring one home. Maybe I should’ve made more of an effort to learn to cook?”
“You mean, in your spare time, after all the free dance lessons for impoverished little girls, the murdering, the burying of bodies …”
“Bernadette, show some tact,” Oscar says from somewhere behind me, probably leaning out the window of the upstairs bedroom. But if he can leave me to clean blood off the couch by myself, he can deal with my quips.
“Is your mom going to be okay with you staying here indefinitely?” Callum asks after a minute or two. We both know we need to get started with our day, but neither of us has moved. It’s hard to want to leave that spot, with our arms pressed close, hips abutting one another. The sunshine is nice, too. We don’t get much of that these days.
“Probably not,” I admit, pulling my phone out of the hoodie pocket. It’s off, the screen black, all of its horrible secrets hidden away. The last thing I feel like doing is turning it on. After he finishes his cigarette, Callum takes it from me and powers it on. He doesn’t ask me my pin code; he just seems to know it (which is not at all surprising).
“Mm,” he says after a minute, passing the phone back to me. There’s a text message pulled up, just waiting for me to read.
You’re an idiot, Bernadette. But I’ll do it. Let me know when to meet you at the courthouse.
That’s it, the only text I have from Pamela.
There’s nothing from the Thing either.
I smell a rat.
Well, that, and a snake.
“Victor,” I growl, shoving up to my feet and heading for the window. Callum follows close behind, as dexterous as a cat. I’m certain that if I started to fall, he’d catch me.
