Page 23 of Mayhem At Prescott High (The Havoc Boys 3)
“Even though I don’t deserve you,” he continues as I struggle to hold my breath as long as I can. Victor knows I’m doing it, too, but he doesn’t hurry his way through this. Instead, he draws out each word, like my soul is a voodoo doll and he’s sticking in pins. Each one hurts, but then blooms into a pleasure unlike any other. “Even though my love is selfish, I want you to trust me. Close your eyes and free fall, Bernadette; let me catch you.”
I open my eyes at the same time I draw breath, filling my lungs with the sweet, coolness of the winter breeze. It feels so good that for a moment there, I almost stumble. Vic keeps me standing upright. He leans down and kisses the side of my neck, sending lines of fire into my bloodstream.
“Let me be your husband, and I fucking swear to you that I’ll love you until the world goes dark and beyond that, into the stars.”
“Do the other guys know what a soft-hearted motherfucker you are?” I whisper, but it’s a deflection technique and we both know it. Victor isn’t a soft-hearted motherfucker; he is only soft for me. I have to remember that.
“Will you, Bernie?” he asks, kissing my collarbone. I didn’t bother to put on the feathered piece of the dress, so my throat and chest are naked and ready for the poisonous kiss of his lips. “Will you stay with me until we can be buried in the same casket, in the same plot, in the same cemetery?”
“You’re morbid,” I murmur, but I can’t resist his pull and he knows it. “I will; I do.”
Victor grins at me, putting his hands on my upper arms and rubbing them up and down to warm me up a bit.
“I’ll never get over hearing you say that,” he tells me, giving a low chuckle when my cheeks flush. Even in the dim moonlight, I bet it’s obvious that I’m embarrassed and uncomfortable. That first night, when Vic gave me his vows and asked for mine, all I had to do was grab him and pull him into the bed.
We fucked all night long, barely stopping for breath.
Today is different; I’m not getting out of this now.
“My vows are … kind of like a poem,” I venture cautiously, lifting up the crumpled envelope between us. “Even though I suck at them, I try. They make me feel better for some reason, like writing down my feelings makes them easier to digest.” I exhale through my nostrils and stare down at the first word. Victor. It always starts with Victor. From that moment he pushed a little boy down the slide for pulling my pigtails until the day I stormed up to him in the hallway of Prescott High.
“I don’t think your poems suck,” he says, and I have to look up and find his eyes to make sure he’s telling the truth. They’re as dark as always, and shadowed by night, but I can still tell because I’m used to seeing in the pitch-black. He’s being serious. “I used to dig them out of the garbage and read them last year. Every Tuesday and Thursday after your third period English class.” He flashes me a white-toothed grin as my lips part in surprise. “You wrote a lot about us, about how much you hated us.”
“I—” I start to sputter, but Victor silences me with a kiss.
“It’s okay. Everyone needs an outlet; writing can be yours.” Victor licks the corner of his lip and reaches fingers up to his purple-dark hair, mussing up its perfection a bit. He always slicks it back like some fifty’s greaser, and I fucking love it. Wouldn’t hurt him to fuck it up a bit every now and again though. “Violence is mine. Wanna trade?”
I laugh, but it comes out so breathless. My hand is shaking, and I’m not sure that I’ve ever felt so vulnerable in front of another person. A close second would be me and Oscar, on the couch in Aaron’s living room. My lips purse and the small rush of anger I feel helps steel my nerves.
I keep saying I’m not afraid anymore.
What I mean is, I’m not afraid of anyone on the outside. I’m terrified of the people on the inside. Each letter in that dark acronym is a possible bullet headed straight for my motherfucking heart.
“Victor,” I start, looking down at the envelope, even though I don’t really need it. “I was eight when I first saw you. Fifteen when I hated you. I’ve loved you for almost a decade. Do the math. Add me and you together and you get one. One heart beating in a broken chest. There is beauty in havoc, peace in chaos, and wisdom in anarchy.” I wet my suddenly dry lips. “God, this poem sucks,” I murmur, but Victor says nothing, watching me with half-lidded eyes. Pretty sure that whether the poem is crap or not, I’m getting my brains fucked out tonight. “Two broken people can’t fix each other, but there are six of us.” I pause, looking up at Vic to see if I can figure out what he’s thinking. As usual, he gives me nothing. “Six hearts, twelve hands, ten years of history. Make me your wife, Victor, and I’ll be as loyal as the tattoo on your forearm.” I point at the ink on Victor’s right forearm. The word Loyalty is written in black cursive, surrounded by a dozen other pieces, so that it blends into a swirl of color. It isn’t immediately visible, but it’s permanent, unmovable, inked into his flesh. Kind of like loyalty is in real life, huh? “Do you want me? Please say yes, even if you don’t. Feed me beautiful lies and say I do.” I stop and look from the envelope to his face.
