Page 82 of Chaos at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys 2)
“Oscar, do you masturbate by sticking a razor-coated dildo up your ass every morning? Because you sure as shit act like it.” I reach back to touch Aaron’s hand and he cracks both a smile and a single eyelid, so that he can look at me.
“I even use the blood as lube,” Oscar responds smoothly, looking down at a spreadsheet on his iPad. I’m impressed by the quick clapback actually, but I still feel bad for Aaron.
“How long is this drive anyway?” I ask, because I have no clue where we’re going. Realistically, for most girls, you’d have to be a brain-dead idiot to get in a car and start driving with four guys to an unknown destination. This, though, this is different. Like I said, nothing about this is normal.
“Fifteen minutes at most,” Cal answers, tucking a knee up against his chest and leaning his chin on it. He watches me from sky-colored eyes. “We’re taking you to the garage.”
“The garage?” I start, before the pieces of this puzzle finally click together. “Like … for cars?”
“As if there were any other kind,” Oscar murmurs, and I dig my nails into the back of my seat to keep from punching him. Instead, I focus on the spreadsheet he’s playing with and see that it’s a list of people.
My list of people.
By first and last name.
My eyes widen as Oscar flicks his gray gaze to me. He doesn’t care that I’m looking. Actually, I’m pretty sure he wants me to see it.
The first column of that spreadsheet holds names like Neil Pence down its vertical length, followed by rows of numbers. At the top of each column, there are acronyms that I don’t understand.
“Curious as a kitty cat?” Oscar quips as Hael throws us around curves in the road like he’s got something to prove. He rolls his window down to let the air ruffle his red hair, and just laughs. Okay, nope, I was wrong. He isn’t proving anything: he’s just in love with the road. “Do you want to know what this column is for?”
Even though I know Oscar is baiting me, I bite. Why the hell not?
“What?” I ask as he leans forward and gets in my face, glasses shining with a stray shaft of sunlight.
“These are my calculations for risk. That is, how likely is it that we’d be caught if we murdered the person in question.” My eyes widen, flicking back down to the spreadsheet to read the numbers. I barely get a chance to see anything before Oscar is shutting off the screen and tucking it away. He weaves his fingers together around the knee of his crossed leg and stares back at me in challenge, daring me to beg.
I’d rather die.
But at least I saw one thing of interest: Eric Kushner’s column for risk … was only three percent.
Uh-oh.
I’d sure as shit hate to be him right now.When we arrive at the garage, Victor is waiting, sitting on the hood of some rusty junker without wheels. It looks like it hasn't been in service for, like, decades.
“What the hell is this?” I ask when I climb out, pausing at the end of the grease-soaked driveway and looking around. Off to one side, there's a row of pretty vintage cars, their paint shiny and fresh, their interiors sleek and freshly remodeled.
“Our garage,” Vic says with a shrug of his big shoulders. He hops off the hood of the car and parks a cigarette between his lips, talking around it as he cups the end and lights up.
“By our, you mean …”
“Havoc's garage,” Oscar says, pausing beside me with his mouth in a thin line. “We collect junkers and flip them for profit.”
“You mean I collect junkers and flip them for profit,” Hael says, moving over to stand beside the rusty piece of shit that's propped up by cinder blocks. He taps the side of the car and flashes one of his shit-eating grins at me. “And this one right here, Blackbird, this is for you, baby.”
I lift a brow and then glance over at the baby pink convertible on my left that matches my leather jacket.
“That …” I start, pointing at the rusted crap-heap. “That's my car? Why can't I have one of those?” I switch my finger over from the junker to the classic beauties on my left. “I'll give you a hint: one of these makes me wet, and the other turns this cooch into the Sahara Desert.”
Hael howls with laughter, and Vic grins as Callum hops up onto the hood of the pink convertible.
“Those cars are already marked for sale,” Oscar says, glancing down at his goddamn iPad again. Sometimes I want to tear it from his hand and smash him in the face with it. Fairly sure at this point that he's married to the damn thing.
