Page 131 of Anarchy at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys 4)
Then again, I did fuck Brittany and here we are today, suffering for it.
Did all that fucking make you a better man than your dad, Hael? I wonder to myself, but then Brittany’s striding up to me in a loose-fitting dress that catches the breeze and plasters the fabric to her belly, showing off the rounded bump.
That right there was almost my bump.
I take a drag on the cigarette and blow smoke into Brittany’s face. Instead of pissing her off, she blushes, like she actually enjoys being treated like shit. That’s how it worked for us for a while. She kowtowed to me, and I treated her like crap. We both have daddy issues that manifest in different ways.
“Can we talk?” I ask, but it’s barely a question, and she knows it. What I don’t think she understands is how serious her fuck-up is. Havoc isn’t like the football team here at Fuller High. We don’t steal lunch money and give freshmen swirlies. Like, Brittany is lucky we have some iota of compassion for her fetus. Otherwise, she’d probably be buried on Tom Muller’s property already.
Brittany gives a curt nod, throwing Jennifer a long-suffering stare.
It takes the dimwitted girl several seconds to figure it out before she winks conspiratorially and then reaches out to pinch my bicep. I let her do it, but I’d rather break her arm. The thing is, I don’t know if Brittany’s wearing a wire, if her VGTF daddy will show up, whatever. I have to act carefully here—especially considering this is my fault to begin with.
“You’re here because of the arrests,” Brittany says, and then, when I raise both my eyebrows at her, she adds, “and the rape charges.”
“Oh, just that pesky rape accusation. Brittany.” I lean down and put my palms on my upper thighs, like I’m speaking to a small child. “You are a rat. And a liar. You broke your deal with Havoc.”
Her entire face flushes red, and she nods. She still isn’t getting it. Like I said, Fuller High … is a very different crowd than Prescott. Shit, the Oak Valley assholes are less naïve. Rich people are fucking awful, cutthroat and nasty. They’re more used to this kind of thing than the middle-class Fuller brats.
“I know. I just … Hael, I really did love you.”
I just stare at her, and Brittany flushes, reaching up to comb her blond hair over one shoulder. It’s a much more yellow shade than Bernie’s. Bernadette’s hair is nearly white, with ashy gold tones. Dipped in red the way it is now … I have to exhale and look away, standing up straight and running a hand over my face to keep my focus.
“No, you didn’t,” I correct, glancing back at Brittany. She’s peering up at me like she thinks we might actually get back together. I’m far more likely to kill her. Why can’t she see that? But, like Bernadette, Kali haunts me. My father was quite literally put in prison for murdering a pregnant girl, some prostitute he picked up with his friend Travis. My skin ripples with disgust. I know that Aaron had no choice, that I would’ve done the same or worse to Kali, but I don’t really want to hurt Brittany.
Too bad she gave us no other option.
“Hael, look, this was all my father’s idea, okay? I told him not to press charges,” she sputters, like she’s done me some huge fucking favor.
“You know how awful it is to lie about rape?” I ask her, because I have a serious fucking problem with it. Seeing men hunt Blackbird the way they do, I can’t stand anything about it. I’ll choke a motherfucker to death, but I would never rape someone. Never. Besides, a real man can get ass without forcing it to happen. “Your point-zero-zero-one bullshit makes everybody else suffer. Get it together, Brittany.”
“I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t think my dad would take it that far. What’s the problem anyway? You got out, didn’t you?”
I give her a look as cold as ice, the wind rippling the limbs of the willow trees that line the front walk. Students move around us, backpacks flopping, phones in their hands. Every now and again, one of them looks at me like they’re afraid.
Good for them.
I can’t very well tell Brittany that Bernadette almost died because of her, so I just shake my head.
“You broke your deal with us,” I repeat. I have to be so fucking careful about what I say. Brittany wearing a wire is a very real possibility. “You know what that means, right?”
Brittany just stares up at me with angry brown eyes, her full mouth brushed with gloss and pursed into a thin line. She’s annoyed, rather than afraid. I have a feeling she won’t grasp the severity of the situation until Callum is putting a lighter up against the sensitive skin of her underarm.
