Page 35 of Mayhem At Prescott High (The Havoc Boys 3)
Oscar ignores him, but at least he isn’t gazing at his iPad with undying love. He’s just sitting there in his perfect suit, legs crossed, hands wrapped around his knee. He tilts his head just enough to look at Hael.
“Why don’t you party, since that’s what you’re good at? I’ll sit here with a clear head and make sure you don’t fuck something as dangerous as Brittany Burr.” Oscar’s jab cuts right through the heart, but even though Hael’s face flickers with annoyance, he ends up howling with laughter.
“Brittany fuckin’ Burr,” he crows, downing half the wine in one go. Victor and Aaron each take up a bottle, but even though they’re trying, it’d be impossible to miss the rivalry brewing between them. “What are we gonna do about her, huh? We’ve only ever had someone break the rules of their price once before.” Hael pauses for a moment, and the glee on his face dissipates briefly. Sometimes I wonder if he loved Brittany, if only for a minute. The thought fills me with a jealous rage that I wash away with another swig of wine. “I wonder if she sent Daddy Dearest after us, or if he just flipped his shit and went rogue.”
“Irrelevant,” Oscar corrects, still sitting there, an annoying statue with a pretty face and demon hands inked onto his throat. His hair is growing out, and shockingly enough, it isn’t the raven-black color that it appears. He has … blond roots? What the actual fuck? They’re barely showing at all, but the way he’s sitting, in front of all those big windows, the light shows me very clearly where his hair dye ends, and his real hair begins. Huh. “Her job was to sic her father’s anti-gang squad on the Charter Crew. She failed to divert his attention. I will calculate her risks.”
“We aren’t killing a pregnant girl,” Hael snaps, voice like a violent whiplash. I actually have to do a double-take to make sure he’s the one actually talking. His mouth is twisted into a deep frown, his pretty almond-honey eyes dark and dangerous. “Because he murdered a pregnant prostitute.” Victor’s words about Hael’s dad pop into my head as I sip my wine, wondering if that has something to do with his visceral reaction. “You never told her she couldn’t send the VGTF after us. Maybe be more specific next time? She could still send that bald-headed prick of a dad after the Charter Crew.”
“Stop romanticizing things that don’t need romanticizing,” Oscar says back, his voice as smooth as a shark fin slicing through a quiet sea. It’s coming for you, no doubt, but you won’t hear or feel a splash until you’re bleeding. “And don’t you dare criticize me. Victor said—as per my request—that Brittany was to redirect her father’s attention away from Havoc and over to the Charter Crew. What do you think the word redirect means, you moron? Shall I look it up for you?”
Hael’s jaw clenches tight, and he takes a step forward, like he might actually start shit with Oscar. Do the other guys see how hard Hael Harbin works to hold himself back? They poke and prod him like he’s got unlimited patience coiled inside his chest. In reality, he’s just barely keeping himself from striking out.
“Alright, Oscar, you’ve been a monumental prick since you blew your load and left Bernie to clean up the mess.” Vic gestures at him with his wine bottle. “Knock that shit off. We have too much going on to start fighting with each other.”
I wish I could describe the expression on Oscar’s face without using words like death, gravestones, sharp-beaked crows, and skulls with empty eye sockets. But … I can’t.
“My apologies, boss,” Oscar says, his voice like dark chocolate over old bones. It looks okay at first, but you would never eat that. “Sometimes Hael’s diminished intellect infuriates me which, of course, is unfair since he can’t help being born that way.”
Hael smashes the wine bottle on the floor, spattering the linen-white furniture with droplets of red wine. Oh, I bet Leigh will love that.
“You better be playin’ with me because if you ain’t playin’ with me, I’m gonna kick your ass.” Hael kicks over a side table with his boot and a glass lamp shatters. “Well? I’m waiting for your apology. Or maybe I should tell Bernie that you were a—”
“Shut your fucking face,” Oscar hisses, standing up from the sofa. The two boys face off against one another, chest to chest, their jaws clenched, eyes hard. “If you don’t want to be ridiculed for saying ridiculous things then stop. saying. them.”
“Still doesn’t sound like an apology to me,” Hael replies, his voice weirdly cold and smooth. Not like his usual cocksureness at all. I set my wine down and step between the two of them, putting my palms up on either of their chests. For a second there, it seems like neither of them is going to acknowledge me.
