Page 15 of Anarchy at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys 4)
I pull the trigger, and blessedly, the weapon discharges, knocking the man back enough that he loses his footing and slips. His body rolls down the hill. I can’t see much, but I can hear the foliage rustling, branches cracking, distant grunts and cries.
And then everything goes silent.
My body is tensed and ready to run, the surge of adrenaline keeping me from feeling any of my injuries as I clench the gun in my left hand and start to move. Part of me wonders if I should try to follow the man down the hill to make sure he’s dead, but there’s too much risk in that.
I have to keep moving.
This time, I veer directly into the road. I don’t have time to stay in the trees. If Ophelia—or whoever—sent one guy after me, it won’t be long until there are more.
At least now, I have a loaded weapon to use. That helps. That helps a hell of a lot.
The terrain levels out, and I’m left standing at a T intersection, the dirt road curving up the hill behind me, and a paved road laid out perpendicular to it. A green sign directs me back toward Springfield—twenty-five fucking miles away.
“Son of a bitch.”
I should’ve checked my attacker’s car for a radio or a phone of some sort, but I guess I’d rather walk twenty-five miles than risk getting caught. Tucking the weapon into the pocket of my hoodie, I start to jog. My adrenaline stays with me for about a mile and a half of that, and then the pain starts.
The next time a car drives by, I duck into the trees, but that doesn’t stop whoever it is from slowing down and stopping.
“Aaron!” a voice calls out, shaky and unfamiliar. It’s that David guy again. Guess the bloodstained hoodie and jeans gave me away. I step out of the woods, removing the pistol from my pocket at the same time. “Whoa, where did you get that?” he whispers, his eyes locked on the gun as he swallows several times to clear his throat.
“Give me your keys,” I tell him, and he looks up at my face. “And your phone.”
“You don’t want my phone,” he says, and I raise a brow, forcing my right hand to grip the weapon even though it hurts. David doesn’t need to know what bad shape I’m in. “My dad tracks me. He has all of that parent-spyware crap installed, too. But I can drive you into town. Nobody has to know about any of this.”
I give him a look.
“You came all the way back here to give me a ride? Sorry if I call bullshit on that.”
“No, I came all the way back here because my dad called me and said he was having trouble getting ahold of his guy.” David pauses and glances over at the woods, as if he can sense the carnage I’ve left behind.
“Right,” I say with a harsh laugh. “And that makes me trust you so much more.”
“Look,” David says, turning back to me, his breathing picking up, hands curling and uncurling as anxiety rides him like a wave. He's so damn easy to read. “My father and his friends …” He trails off, but when he looks me in the face, I can see it. I’ve been victimized, too. It’s implied. “I can’t do much, but I can at least give you a ride.”
I tap the Glock against my thigh. Nothing is ever free. There is always a price. What’s the price here? Too much risk, Aaron, I tell myself, but I’m tired, and my adrenaline won’t last forever. Pretty sure I fractured my leg. Maybe my face. Probably my wrist and hand.
“You drive. I’ll hold the gun. Don’t disappoint me, David.”
We head over to the car—a blacked-out Lexus LX—and I pause.
I know this car, somehow. This is the car that’s always picking Kali up from school. In the driver’s seat, there’s another boy. Clearly, David wasn’t driving. That’s when I remember what Bernie said: David doesn’t drive himself anywhere.
“Oh, please,” the driver says, rolling his eyes dramatically. “You think I’d help my boyfriend’s abusers? Get in the car. I’m Mack, by the way.”
I stand there for a moment, looking between the two of them.
“What about your phone?” I ask, wanting to call Bernadette, hear her voice, listen to her sigh with relief at hearing mine. We’re a tragic fairy tale, me and her. Childhood sweethearts rarely live to see the sunrise together.
“If I were you,” Mack starts, exchanging a look with David. “I wouldn’t take the risk.” He turns back to me. “I work for Tom; he spies on me, too. I watch plenty of gay porn on my phone though, so at least when he snoops, he’s got something to see.” The guy smiles at me, but I’m not exactly in a smiling sort of mood.
