Page 33 of Anarchy at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys 4)
I just stare right back at him, unyielding.
“We’re attending that stupid fucking thing?” I ask, but I knew we were going to. We have to. We’re adjusting the game here. We’re not playing against novices; this is the big league. “You know as well as I do that the cheap piece of shit I wore on Snow Day wouldn’t pass the security booth at a party like that. Stop being a fucking twat and just say it.”
“Say what?” Oscar challenges, cocking a dark brow at me. His nose is slashed across the middle, slightly swollen on the sides, the skin purpled. It makes him disturbing to look at, so perfect in the mouth and eyes, so beautifully destroyed in the nose.
“That you were worried about me, so you’re angry now that I’m alive and okay enough to be angry with.” I tap my nails on the counter. Before I came downstairs, I spent a half hour scrubbing dried blood out from underneath them. Can’t wait to hear about the gang members the boys killed at the party. That should be fun, a gang war—a real gang war. And against a racist, big-time criminal circuit while worrying about biology tests and English papers on the side. We’re just a barrel of laughs over here in south Prescott. “Just admit it and stop making a fool out of yourself.”
Oscar laughs at me, and both Hael and I jump. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve heard him let out anything more raucous than a gentle, mocking chuckle.
“You want me to confess my undying love?” Oscar asks, coming over to the counter and splaying his long fingers atop it. I stare at them and look up at him, at that sharp and perfect face, the face of an aristocrat. He might be poor now, but there must be some blue, blue blood in his veins. He looks it.
“That would be nice, yes, thank you,” I tell him, leaning back on the stool and groaning. I cross my arms over my chest and fucking wait. Our gazes lock, energy cracks between us, a rend in the universe made of wills and bullshit. “I’m waiting.”
“Then you are to wait, though waiting so be hell,” Oscar purrs, looking over the top rim of his glasses at me. He’s quoting Shakespeare again, some sonnet with a number instead of a name, I think. I do actually pay attention in some of my classes, thank you very much.
“Not blame your pleasure be it ill or well,” I retort, finishing the last line of the poem. He just stares at me then, this wicked smile frozen on his face. I’ve surprised him, and he hates it. “What? Can’t handle someone playing at your level?” I quip, but then the sliding door opens, and Oscar lifts his attention from me, looking over my shoulder at Victor and Aaron as they come in.
Swear to god, when I turn, it’s in slow motion.
“Bernie,” Aaron breathes, my name a desperate sizzling promise, and I find myself scrambling out of my chair and cursing. I throw myself into his arms and he grunts. He’s wearing a cast on his right hand, a black medical boot—basically like a cast made of hard plastic and Velcro straps—on his leg. Broken fibula or … something. “Oh, baby,” he purrs, nuzzling his head against mine. “Fuck.”
We hold each other like two people who know they’re running out of chances to make things work, who realize that tomorrow is not promised to anyone. My fingertips dig into his back, and he holds me so hard that I can’t breathe.
“Jesus Christ,” Victor says with a long sigh, storming past us. This is going to take some getting used to, showing them both how I feel without pissing the other off. Right now, though, Vic has to take a back seat. He just has to. I thought Aaron might be lost forever.
“She didn’t touch you, did she?” I ask as he lays the fingers of his left hand on my cheek, staring down into my eyes with his green-gold ones, like spring with bits of fall flecked through. Even though it’s winter in reality, I smell sandalwood and rose when I close my eyes.
“She tried,” he says, which reminds me that he also said that last night. “She couldn’t get me hard.” I open my eyes just as he grins at me. It’s not a pretty smile though; it’s a tired, wary one. “I wouldn’t get it up.”
“Who knew your impotence would come in handy someday?” Hael jokes, but I feel for Aaron. He’s gotten to experience something that most men don’t understand: the fear of carnal torture. I put my hands on his chest and lean into him.
“I can’t fucking believe her,” I whisper, because rape is next-level fucked-up. Murder has all sorts of possible justifications, but rape? I’ve got nothing. “I guess I should be grateful for her weird obsession or you might already be dead.”
