Page 38 of Mayhem At Prescott High (The Havoc Boys 3)
Callum doesn't shed a single drop of blood.
“Get the girls and let's go swimming,” he says, handing the knife back to Aaron as soon as he's done. “And when we're finished, we'll drown the Vincents and dispose of their bodies.” Callum is bluffing, obviously, but his whispered words do the trick. The couple starts to scream as Hael and Aaron drag them back up the steps so we can lock them in their room again. Cal glances my way, and I swear to fuck, my lips tingle in response to his dark look.
It isn't dark with violence though; I've seen that expression on his Disney prince face plenty of times in the past.
No, this time, his expression is carved of hunger and lust and things unsaid that are better left in the dark. He has secrets, I bet, Callum does. Since Havoc isn't supposed to have any, if I asked, do you think he'd tell me?
I wet my lips with my tongue.
“For real though,” Cal says, letting out a husky laugh. “I'm dying to see you in a swimsuit, Bernie. Hope you don't mind my saying that.” He winks at me, picks up the lamp, and smashes the sofa table, with it, the muscles in his arms rippling with the power needed for such a move.
Meanwhile, I just hide inside of Aaron's sweatshirt, soaked between the thighs at the sight and holding a baseball bat worth more than most people's cars.
“It's what I've always wanted: Bernadette.”
I swing the baseball bat at a vase of dried flowers and try not to think too hard about that statement. Not yet, not today. Because Victor needs time, and this dangerous dance of beautiful boys … I'm not sure I know the choreography just yet.The Vincents don't have a turkey in that massive fridge of theirs—we go out on holidays, so says Coraleigh—but that's okay because the couple is really into Keto right now and their deep freezer is chock-full of ground turkey.
“Jennie-O for the motherfucking win,” Hael says, praising the brand of meat and spinning a knife around his fingers in a very impressive sort of way. “Tacos, it is.”
“Tell me …” I start, sliding my butt onto one of the still-intact stools at the kitchen peninsula. See, it's like a landscape in here: an island, a peninsula, a frozen tundra of mini-freezers beneath the countertops. It's also totally and completely destroyed. I mean, it's functional enough but Heather's eyes nearly fell out of her face when she saw it.
“You are not getting your security deposit back after this, Bernie,” she told me with all due seriousness. So fucking cute and naïve. I pop a bit of brownie into my mouth and hope that Callum's guess on how special this special brownie really is, is accurate. That, or I'm going to be so stoned I don't remember my very first Havoc Thanksgiving.
“Tell you what?” Hael asks, adding oil to a saucepan and dropping the seasoned meat into it. He's swaying a bit with the music, bobbing his head and mouthing the lyrics. Not sure how someone so dangerous can be so cute. But there you go. I like him even better now that I know he isn't going to be a dad to someone else's baby.
I bite my lip.
“Tell me how it is that you know how to cook?” I ask and Hael laughs. Always fucking laughing, him and Callum. But while Cal, oddly enough, reminds me of the Joker, Hael is just … fun. His laughter is just that, a way to lighten the mood.
“Ma mère m'a appris à cuisiner, cher,” he purrs in French with a little Cajun touch, giving me this saucy ass shit-eating little smirk that both pisses me off and makes me want to fuck him on the cracked countertop. I lean forward and park my elbows on it instead, acting like I don't feel Victor watching us from the living room. Most of the debris has been swept into a pile, so we can still sorta lounge around in the detritus.
“That means … something about your mom?” I ask, putting my chin in my palm.
“En fait c'était à propos de ta mère mais tu n'as pas compris la blague, n'est-ce pas?” he asks me, cocking a brow as he stirs the meat with the spatula. I pick off a piece of the broken counter and chuck it at his face. He catches it, which annoys me to no end, and then flings it over his shoulder. It lands perfectly in the tiny prep sink. “My mother taught me how to cook,” Hael adds finally, face falling slightly. The song on his phone shifts to “My House” by Flo Rida and his lips twitch into a small grin. He loves this stupid ass song and, as much as I hate it, I can't help but feel something when I see him start to mouth the lyrics. “She didn't teach me to cook no turkey fucking tacos, but once you've got the skillset down …” Hael trails off as Callum appears, holding an apron.
