Page 117 of Mayhem At Prescott High (The Havoc Boys 3)
Touch her, feel her, kiss her.
I exhale again, and Callum smiles.
“She doesn’t know what you’re thinking, O,” he tells me, nodding his head and crossing his arms over his chest. “We’re all so used to operating around Bernadette and for Bernadette, that we forget to work with her.”
“You sound as stupid as Aaron right now,” I say, pausing when I hear a stirring from the couch. My gaze flicks toward Bernadette’s sleeping form as she groans and shifts onto her side, hugging a pillow close to her chest. Hael is on the couch opposite her, an episode of South Park muted but still flickering on the TV.
“You’ll feel a hell of a lot stupider than that if you don’t tell her the truth. And sometime soon.” Callum puts his palms on the counter and stands up, wincing slightly. He hurts everyday that he dances, or fucks, or fights, but he never stops. He never lets his pain win.
Me, I let it rule me, and I hate myself for it.
I say nothing as Cal limps his way up the stairs.
Because I know he’s right. I know it; I just have to get up the courage to do something about it.
My fingers curl around another apple, bringing it to my lips for another too-sweet bite of flesh. My face hurts, and I wish I hadn’t been on a sidewalk in public, so that I could’ve killed the last two remaining Ensbrook brothers.
It’s been all about sex around here lately; I’m ready for a little violence.I get my wish at around seven in the morning, my temper hot from not sleeping, my body aching from having to look at Bernadette flounce around the house in short-shorts and a tank top that dips too low while she gets the girls ready for school.
“Put some clothes on,” I growl at her, and she whips around so fast that her long hair hits me in the face. The scent of it makes me want to scream. My hands ache to touch her, but I keep a scowl fixed firmly in place. It’s too early, and I’m far too cranky to take any of Cal’s advice today.
But I am considering it.
Truly.
“You know what? Whenever you tell me to put clothes on or act decent or cover up, it just encourages me to do the opposite, Oscar Montauk.” She glares up at me, and I can’t for the life of me figure out why she’s standing so close. Back up, you little wench, I think, gritting my teeth and wishing I could teach her some fucking propriety. We’re far too near to each other; when she breathes, her breasts brush against the front of my chest.
She doesn’t know that I ask her to cover up because I can barely control myself. It isn’t her problem, but it makes me furious at myself because I know it’s all me. Self-inflicted. Stupid. Bernadette is here to stay; she’s a part of Havoc. These things are signed and sealed in blood, and, like Aaron, I just have to accept that this is reality, that the freedom I fought so hard to give her is now gone.
It’s just this, her and us and her bouncy tits and her ass hanging out of her shorts. It’s her fiery expression of rage, the way she pops her hip out, the way she smirks at me.
I turn away before I break under that stare and look at Victor.
He’s much easier for me to handle; we understand each other.
“I just got a text from our boys. The police were called to the Vincents’ home in Oak Park. They’re dead, Victor.” I deliver this information with as much feeling as a weather report. Bernadette balks at me, but honestly, I’m just irritated. That horrible social worker is dead, and she did not suffer the way she was intended to. A muscle in my jaw twitches in irritation. “It’s a bloodbath, quite literally. The walls were dripping crimson, according to the police scanner.”
“What the fuck?” Vic asks, halfway to pulling his shirt down. He just stands there for a minute with it caught up around his waist. Finally, he seems to pull himself together and drags the fabric down the rest of the way. Clearly, we’re going to be late for class today. No matter. There are no challengers for my place as valedictorian. That’s what’s important, that I win. “Jesus, it has to be Ophelia, doesn’t it?”
“Who else would care about some useless slag of a social worker?” I ask as Bernadette blinks in shock, flicking her gaze between the two of us.
“Leigh is dead?” she repeats, like she’s trying to wrap her mind around it. “Why would Ophelia kill her? She’s her contact; she supplies her with girls.”
“We brought Leigh to heel, and she lost her usefulness,” Victor muses, sighing and rubbing his hands over his hair. The way Bernadette watches him, hunger in her eyes even now, fills me with a terrifying and righteous sense of jealousy.
