Page 68 of Chaos at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys 2)
“Say what?” I ask, but I already know. “You’re right. I do love him.”
“You told Vic you loved me.” Aaron’s smile gets a little wider, but I don’t know what he expects will come of this. We can’t just go back to the way we were … but then, I don’t see why we can’t start something new? That rose and sandalwood scent of his wafts over me, and I close my eyes. “I didn’t think you’d be able to feel for me ever again. And then to say it to Vic’s face?” Aaron chuckles and shakes his head, reaching up to run his fingers through his chestnut hair. “That, I really didn’t expect.” He pauses again, his smile softening into something deeper, more melancholic. “You love Vic though, too, don’t you?”
I can’t deny that—it would be a lie—but I also can’t force my mouth to say the words either.
“Does it matter?” I ask instead, my voice much softer than I want it to be. “Love isn’t logical, and it doesn’t have limits.” I look back up at Aaron to find him watching me like I’m something precious, like dandelion fluff that might blow away in the wind if he breathes wrong. See, Aaron doesn’t know the new Bernadette very well. He might’ve been an expert on the old one, but he has a lot to learn. “What are you proposing?” I ask, and he shrugs.
“Well, to start off, I’d like to take you out for a milkshake.” His smile gets a little saucier, ratcheting up into a grin. “And then maybe we can talk about not hating each other?”
“I’ve hated you in a way I’ve never hated anyone else,” I say, giving a small shake of my head. “I can’t explain it, but I think there’s a special sort of hate that blooms from love.”
“Yeah, it’s called love-hate, and I hear the sex is off the charts.” Aaron cups the side of my face, running his thumb along my bottom lip. When he leans in close, I get butterflies. Fucking butterflies. Like I’m fifteen all over again. “But we can take it slow.”
“Why?” I ask, tilting my head to look at him. He really is gorgeous, always has been, but even more so now that he’s filled out and dripping with ink. “The sex is the easy part. It’s the feelings I struggle with.”
I turn and start down the sidewalk, listening for the easy fall of his footsteps as he hesitates and then follows after me.
“Sex isn’t easy, Bernadette. Don’t start telling yourself that.” Aaron walks a bit faster, overtaking me with his long strides. I catch up to him at the next crosswalk, but neither of us says anything. Instead, he reaches down and takes my hand in his, curving his HAVOC stamped fingers around mine.
That gets me right in the heart, an arrow that I can’t pull out for risk of bleeding to death.
We walk the last few blocks together like that, like a fairy-tale couple who lives in a tower, safe and solid against the wicked of the world. I notice as we go that Aaron’s eyes track side alleys, thick foliage, empty houses with For Sale signs in the yards. Occasionally, he nods, and I get chills down my spine.
We’re being watched, by Havoc’s crew.
“How many people do you have working for you?” I ask, thinking of Halloween and the dozens of skeleton-masked boys—and interestingly enough, girls—that appeared from the crowd. Aaron smirks slightly, eyes focused on the old-fashioned soda fountain down the block. It was built in 1915 and used to be a popular Fuller High hangout before Havoc kicked their asses across the railroad tracks. They still serve malts and Shirley Temples and all that old-timey shit in there.
“Even I don’t know the answer to that.” Aaron pushes the door open, bells tinkling in our wake, and I swear to fuck, every face in that room turns to watch us with wary eyes. Where Havoc goes, trouble follows. “Only Vic and Oscar do,” he adds as we head up to the counter and several students clear the red-leather stools to make room for us. “I could ask if I wanted, but I don’t.”
Aaron orders two chocolate shakes for us and then parks his chin in his hand, elbow resting against the cracked old countertops.
“I can’t believe they fire-bombed my van today,” he says absently, tapping his fingers against the side of his face. The car is trashed, by the way, a burnt shell of its former self, and yet another flame-washed memory of his mother. We told the cops it seemed like a random act of violence; they didn’t believe us for shit. I’m sure the news of today’s incident has already made its way back to the Thing.
“Are you going to get another car?” I ask, thinking of the two grand I buried in the backyard. That’s enough for a shitty clunker. Maybe I should buy one? I don’t have a license, but frankly I need to get on that shit. Having a car and being able to drive it, that’s a tool I need in my arsenal.
