Page 48 of Mayhem At Prescott High (The Havoc Boys 3)
I scream, but Hael just lets out his usual howling laugh.
“Ah, little bird, if you could only see the look on your face. Oscar would probably pay to have that expression framed.”
“I'd flip you off if I could,” I grumble, trying and failing to keep a consistent speed.
“You're lucky: this car has an adaptive suspension and a smooth-shifting dual-clutch, so it's basically an automatic transmission. The Eldorado might be a bit trickier for ya.” He nods like that's that. “Now tell me: what song will set you free, Blackbird? Drive me to the saltwater taffy shop in Newport, and I'll play it for you.”
It only takes me a split-second to make a decision.
“Trouble,” I say, and my heart seizes. “By Valerie Broussard. That's the right song. It's what I need to hear right now.”
We buried my past when we buried the Thing; I'm starting to actually look toward a possible future.
“You got it,” Hael says, selecting the song and pressing play. The music comes thumping out of the speakers as I brake too hard and we fly around a bit in our seats. But Hael is most definitely right about one thing: there is nothing so electrifying as the feeling of being free. “You got this, Blackbird,” Hael says again and then—and the wind almost steals this last bit away from me—“And I got you. Don’t be scared, little bird.”
I bite back tears, exhaling sharply as Valerie sings about boys that are like poisonous thorns.
Those are my Havoc Boys, that's for fucking sure.
The Ferrari whips around the curves, the mountain on our left, the beach on our right, the world stretched endlessly out in front of us.“Do not make me regret leaving you alive,” Victor warns the Vincents on Sunday morning, after the girls have finished their cereal and been tucked safely away inside of Aaron's Bronco. The leader of the Havoc Boys crouches down in front of our bald captives as Leigh's brown eyes dart around her ruined living room with a look of such sheer devastation that I feel a little warmth bloom inside of me.
To me, a ruined house is nothing. It's just a place. It's just things. Penelope was a soul, a spirit, a heart, a fucking person. This means shit all to me. But to Leigh and her husband, Marcus, their material possessions are the most important thing, and we've just fucked those up royally.
“Are you listening?” Callum asks, his voice low and dangerous. “Because if you're not, we can make other arrangements.”
“We're listening,” Marcus groans, shaking and holding his still-broken hand to his chest as he looks around at what's left of their house.
“You will clean up, you will tell your doctor some bullshit story about your hand, about an accident with a ladder or a hammer or a giant motherfucking dildo, I don't care. And then you will await my instructions.” Victor turns to Leigh, tears and snot streaming down her face as she stares at her ruined house with a deep-set frown. “You will find a way to place Alyssa with the Peters; they're a foster family already, so they should be in the system. We will drop the girl off tonight. After that, you will keep your head down and report anymore requests for children directly to me.”
“You're going to send us spiraling into bankruptcy,” Leigh says, as if Victor or any of the rest of us cares. Aaron actually laughs, shaking his head and then storming out of the room like he can't fucking stand to listen to this anymore. I don't blame him. The Vincents are delusional. “You are the very epitome of a monster.”
This time, it's my turn to laugh like a crazy person. Wow. Just … wow.
“If you don't do what I say, when I say it, you will be the very epitome of dead. Do you understand me now?” Victor rises to his feet and looms over the couple the way he always does. “Get your shit together and figure out a way to help me nail Ophelia to the cross. If you do, I'll give you a cut of my inheritance, enough that you'll never have to sell another girl again.”
Leigh looks askance at Victor, like she doesn't believe him for shit. She shouldn't, considering that he's lying his ass off, but she's also greedy enough to consider it as a possibility. Whatever works.
“Let's go,” Vic says, nodding at Hael, Cal, and Oscar. Me, he grabs around the waist, pulling me out the door and leading us toward his Harley as he digs a pack of cigarettes out with his left hand. “Jesus, these people are stupid as fuck. I give them until the New Year to piss me off to the point of murder.” He takes a drag and passes the smoke to me.
“I give them until Christmas,” I reply and Vic chuckles, taking the cigarette back and pulling in another drag before he flicks it to the ground and crushes it out with his boot.
