Page 54 of Anarchy at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys 4)
After all, the wealthy play the same games that we do, just on a different sort of board.
“Just make sure the cop isn’t following you,” Hael says, tapping his fingers against the countertop. “She was outside earlier this morning.”
“Aaron, you stay here with Oscar and the girls,” Vic confirms, making a split-second decision the way he always does. That is, without any hesitation whatsoever. Because to be a leader, you have to do things you don’t like sometimes. I guess I have a lot to learn. When Victor gives me an order from now on, I’m going to follow it. “We’ll take our girl shopping.”
Our girl.
That’s a rare phrase to hear, coming from him.
It makes me smile.
“And on the way,” I say, fingering the diamond necklace absently and then remembering that Ophelia did the very same thing at the beach house. I shiver and drop my hand to my lap. “You can tell me all about the motherfucking Grand Murder Party.”The Oak Park shopping district is even nicer than the Oak River Heights one. It’s been called the Rodeo Drive of the Pacific Northwest by a number of popular influencers. But really, to call the shopping experience here pleasant would be a lie.
Seeing as Hael’s Camaro is in a bit of a state, he can’t drive it. Instead, he’s borrowed a ’69 Pontiac Firebird in a bright yellow. It even has a black racing stripe down one side. It’s a nice car, and it probably took a hell of a lot of work to make it look the way it does, but … it doesn’t fit in here.
Neither do I.
I’ll admit, I dressed up as the biggest South Prescott ho there ever was. But only to prove a point.
I’m wearing leather stilettos, black leggings with circular fishnet cutouts that start at my ankles and go all the way up to my hips, and a deep purple sweater, cut off at the midriff. My makeup is heavy and dark, like I’m ready for a metal concert. Black liner in the shape of a cat eye, smoky gray shadow, and contouring for days.
“You really like to play games, don’t you?” Hael asks, studying me from his spot on the driver’s side of the car, arms crossed on the roof as he stares over it, looking right at me. He’s waiting to see what I’ll do next, and he has no idea what that’s going to be. He likes that. I grin back at him as Callum carefully closes the passenger side door, his hood up, blond hair hidden in shadows.
“Have you ever seen Pretty Woman? That’s what I’m aiming for, an all-out rejection from a salesclerk. Then I can walk back in that store later with a shit ton of shopping bags, gesture with them for emphasis, and say big mistake, huge.” I grin as Vic slides off his motorcycle after me, a deep chuckle warming those pretty lips of his as his obsidian eyes make a sweep of the quiet street.
Aaron is home with Oscar and the girls per Vic’s request, but the four of us, we’re going to make a date of this. Sort of. At least, in Havoc, this is what a date constitutes.
Theft and the careful disruption of classism. They’ll hate having us here, all of these wealthy assholes. I light up a cigarette as a woman passes by with a pink-dyed Pomeranian. “Jesus Christ,” I murmur as she passes. I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried. “The only way they’d be more pissed off is if we weren’t white.”
“Let’s go rob the Nazis then, shall we?” Vic asks as I find the store I’m looking for, pointing it out across the street. It has a sign proclaiming to be Locally Owned and Operated. But trust me, I looked this place up and found out that the owner is the daughter of some techie asshole who claims to be one of the world’s first trillionaires. Eyeroll. Talk about a disgusting distribution of wealth, am I right? Some people starve; some people have gold ceilings and toilets.
“The woman who owns that one is a ‘self-made’ woman,” I say, making quotes with my fingers. “Self-made with a loan from daddy. She’s had numerous bankruptcies, managed to avoid paying income taxes for years, and even once ‘paid’”—I have to make quotes with my fingers again, sorry, but the story is too dumb—“her husband a consulting fee to get out of reporting an extra million dollars in profit.” I drop my arms by my sides as Callum chuckles darkly beside me, swallowed up by a blue hoodie and terrifying as always. He’s got those long jean shorts on that he likes, showing off the tattoos and scars on his legs.
“I love that you’ve researched this, how you always try to make sure the people you bleed deserve it.” He laughs again and then slips his hands into the front pocket of his hoodie. “It’s an admirable trait, Bernie. A rare one at that.”
