Page 70 of Mayhem At Prescott High (The Havoc Boys 3)
Aaron brings the Bronco to a stop at the edge of the parking lot and then pauses, turning his head to look left, out his partially cracked window.
“What the actual fuck?” he asks as I crane my neck to see what he’s staring at. “Is that the Thing’s partner?” Aaron takes his time at the stop sign, and the other cars behind us wait their fucking turn.
They know who the ‘96 Ford Bronco belongs to.
I set my empty ice cream cup in the cup holder and then scoot forward for a better look.
Sure enough, there’s Sara Young, unmistakable with her bright blond hair and petite white face. She’s sitting in a maroon-colored Subaru with the headlights off, eating a burger. She’s not looking at us right now, but I can’t imagine a cop who lives in the Fuller area of Springfield goes out of her way to visit the southside grease pit known as Wesley’s.
Trust me.
If a cop started frequenting this place, we would all know.
“Do you think she’s following us?” I ask, but Aaron just turns back to the windshield with his lips pursed into a thin line. He says nothing as we very carefully pull out of the parking lot and onto the dirt road that cuts between two empty pieces of property. I saw the word property very loosely; these lots are nothing but shrubs, broken glass bottles, and graffiti proclaiming this to be Havoc territory.
“I would say …” Aaron starts as we finally hit the paved road that leads back into the suburbs between Fuller and Prescott where his house is. Headlights turn behind us, keeping a careful distance. It’s the motherfucking Subaru. “Yes. Jesus fucking Christ. Call Vic.”
I pull my phone out and dial up our fearless leader.
He doesn’t answer on the first ring—probably because he’s on the Harley. But he calls me back less than a minute later.
“Talk to me, baby,” he says, making my stomach muscles tighten in appreciation of that rumbling voice.
“We need to untangle a mare’s nest,” I say carefully, unsure as to how much I should say here. There are plenty of ways for someone to pick up on our phone conversation if they really wanted to. “And we need to do it before we get home.” I’m hoping he catches the meaning in my words as I lick my lips. They still taste like Aaron, like cherry cola and teenage fucking dreams. “Anything you need from the store before we get there?”
“Ah,” Vic says with a deep chuckle. It vibrates my body, even over the phone and separated as we are. “Tell Aaron he should take you mudding. Makes for a fun date. I’ll see you when you get here. Stay safe, princess.”
He hangs up before I can metaphorically bite his dick off for calling me princess again.
“He says you should take me mudding,” I tell Aaron, my voice clearly showing that I have no idea what this backup plan means. Aaron smiles tightly and nods, pulling into an empty parking lot to turn around. Within two minutes, Sara Young is behind us again.
“I can’t wait for you to see this,” Aaron tells me, taking us through some seedy back areas of South Prescott—by seedy, I mean like prostitutes on every corner and people passed out with needles in their arms—and over to the racetrack. It hasn’t been in proper use since the late fifties, but the local kids keep it up and running all on their own. Sometimes Prescott guys come here to race classic cars.
The most famous racer of all of them though is Scarlett Force, a girl who graduated just a year before the guys and I started at Prescott High. She’s made a legend of herself, as famous for her cars and her racing prowess as she was for seriously dating three men all at once.
You go, girl.
“Okay, this I can’t wait to see,” I say as Aaron flashes a grin that in any other school in the state would grant him the title King of the Cocky Assholes.
“Put that seatbelt on, Bern, and I’ll fucking show you.” Aaron hits the gas, sending the Bronco through the gate (that’s really just an opening as the actual gate has been missing for years) and onto the property. There’s a small driveway to the right that cuts through what used to be the stands for the crowd.
We blast through that and skid onto the track. Since it’s December, and it’s rainy as fuck in Oregon, the dirt track is filled with potholes and mud puddles. We don’t make it five seconds before we hit the first one and the windshield is spattered in mud.
I lean forward and put my hands on the dash as Aaron takes us around the track, hitting every bump and sending the Bronco flying. My stomach ends up with wings, fluttering into my throat as we hop up and crash down like we’re on a rollercoaster. Aaron lets out a whoop and turns the music up; “Tears Don’t Fall” by Bullet For My Valentine is playing now, like a soundtrack for our quickie date.
