Page 147 of Chaos at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys 2)
Whatever.
It’s symbolic, right? The wedding dress, I mean. There’s a reason I got married in black.
Victor turns onto his back and lights a cigarette, passing it to me as I sit there with my attention on the gravestones all around us. Somewhere beneath us, there’s a dead—or soon-to-be dead—cop. A dead stepfather. A dead rapist.
I’ll never know if Neil Pence actually killed my sister or not. Either way, it doesn’t matter. Because he ruined her, with his lust and his greed and his narcissism. He ruined the person I loved most, and I will always love the sweet taste of vengeance in my mouth.
Confucius says, dig two graves before embarking on a journey of revenge.
Well, bitch, I’ve already dug more than that. What next?
“Let’s get out of here,” I say, finishing the cigarette in my hand and stabbing it out into the grass beside me. Victor turns toward me, his own smoke still clutched between his lips, and smiles.
It’s not a very nice smile.
It never is.
“Whatever you say, my love,” he growls, shoving up to his feet and looking down at me. Vic, his shirt undone, his tattoos glowing in the sunlight, stares down at me with smoke curling from his lips and grins.
I take his outstretched hand and he hauls me to my feet.
Vic then pulls a small pocketknife from his jacket, cuts his palm, and offers the blade out to me. I take it, slicing my own palm and curling my fingers through his, our wedding bands brushing together. We look at each other, past our clasped hands, and he smiles.
“Blood in,” Victor tells me with a nod of his chin. “Blood out.”
Together, we walk hand-in-hand through the gravestones toward Vic’s waiting bike.1. stepdad.
I take the tube of red lipstick from my purse and pop the cap off. Victor waits beside his Harley, the back decorated with a Just Married sign, cans and flowers tied to the saddlebags and dragging. I wonder which one of the boys found the time to do that? It had to be one of the Havoc Boys; Victor would never let anyone else near his ride.
The eyes of my new husband are dark as he watches me kneel down on the pavement in my wedding dress, silence rolling through the cemetery as the sounds of our moans fade into a distant memory. My hands are dirty, staining the old envelope as I smooth it out in front of me.
I don’t bother reapplying my lipstick. Instead, I use the pretty pink color of it to cross out the first name on my list, obliterating Neil Pence from my life, my mind, and the endless abyss of my pain.
Fat, juicy tears fall from my eyes and splatter against my wedding ring, the ink of my HAVOC tattoo, and the crinkled piece of paper that holds all my worst memories in simple words and titles.
“I’m sorry Penelope,” I whisper, wishing she were here with me, missing her with every breath. You’d have hated Vic, huh? I bet you’d be just like Heather; you’d ship me and Aaron, I’m sure. He always got along well with you, didn’t he?
“Bernie,” Vic says, gently commanding me. Just the way I like. Just the way I hate. I can’t decide if I should be his queen, if he should be my king … or if we should rule together. We have a long way to go.
I tuck the list—and the lipstick—into the pockets of my black gown and stand up.
Victor waits for me by his bike, reaching out to put his big, warm hands on my hips so he can pull me close and kiss me in a stray shaft of sunshine. His mouth tastes like iniquitous love and romantic sin, all twisted into one dark, wicked tongue.
His fingers fist in my hair, bringing me closer so he can consume me with that impossible venom of his, its taste as sweet as the peace I feel inside of me. I had to fill that dark void to quiet the voices crying out my seemingly endless and infinite pain.
I should feel sorry for Neil, but I don’t.
Not in the least.
“Let’s go, wife,” Vic says, flashing me those white teeth of his as he grins big. “I haven’t fucked you near enough to satisfy my inner demons.” A shiver takes over me, but I’m not displeased by Victor’s words. He’s right: we haven’t had near enough of each other.
“Can we play some music?” I ask, and he nods. His Harley’s hooked up with a sound system that fills the cemetery when he turns it on, letting me choose the song that will forever define this moment for us.
I decide on “A Little Wicked” by Valerie Broussard.
Victor hands me a new leather jacket in hot pink that he gets from one of the saddlebags, the word Havoc scrawled across the back. It’s like, the dark version of the Pink Ladies jacket from Grease. I slip into it and then climb onto the Harley behind him, wrapping my hands around my husband’s strong waist.
