Page 67 of Anarchy at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys 4)
“Hey Bernie,” he begins, swiping a hand over his face. “Smoke a joint with me before we leave? I’m afraid that if I don’t chill the fuck out, I won’t be able to keep my hands off of Ophelia’s throat.”
I nod and Oscar releases my hand like he’s been struck by the poisonous fangs of a snake. I want to know why he hates to be touched so much. I deserve to know. Because we belong to each other. When he looks back at me, I can tell he knows it, too.
“You’re such a stubborn fuck,” I murmur as he turns and heads for the door like his feet are on fire, sweeping past Aaron and back into the house.
“And patience, tame to sufferance, bide each check,” is his reply, and I roll my eyes. Apparently, we’re going to work our way through Shakespeare’s entire sonnet, albeit out of order.
“Did you know that Victor had more than a billion dollars on the line?” I whisper to Aaron as he slips the joint and lighter from his pocket.
He gives me a look that says he most definitely did.
“Motherfucker,” I curse as Aaron lights up, takes a drag, and passes the joint to me.
“He’s not satisfied with just that, you know,” he tells me, and the sentence sounds very much like a warning. “He wants more. He’ll always want more.”
I smoke the joint for a moment and then hand it back.
No wonder Ophelia’s so eager to get her hands on that money.
There are people in this world who’d drown their own children to have a fortune like that—literally—and not lose any sleep over it.
“It won’t mean shit if we don’t survive long enough to get it,” I reply absently, my mind already spinning. One year of marriage. That’s what we have to get through first. Standing here in this overpriced dress, it feels like an eternity.
But it’s nothing a little violence can’t help with it.
If Ophelia is dead, she can’t exactly hurt us, now can she?As the sleek, black length of the limo pulls up to the curb in front of the art gallery, the six of us slip into our masks together the way we always do. The driver lets us out, doing a double take when he sees what we’re wearing.
Guess we’re the only people at this masquerade wearing the maws of grinning dead things, huh?
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Hael murmurs as the six of us climb the insanely wide steps of the gallery, heading toward its soaring glass walls and its mono-pitched metal roof. There’s an outdoor art installation, some colored paper lanterns suspended at different heights by metal poles. It bathes the otherwise austere exterior of the building in color. “This place is swanky. You sure we won’t catch fire when we walk in the doors? Like sinners on hallowed ground.”
Vic gives his best friend a grim smile as he threads his arm through mine and waits for the valet to open the doors for us.
“Believe it not, we’re probably the holiest motherfuckers invited to this party tonight.” Victor hands over the invitation he received from Ophelia—likely because the security guards are eyeing our skeleton masks like they’re made of horse shit—and we’re welcomed in with polite smiles and fearful eyes.
As the doors open wide, sensual jazz music leaks out into the cool December air around us. The traffic isn’t too bad, but the distant murmur of cars in the distance keeps this spot grounded. As soon as we go in, and the doors close behind us, we’ll be stuck here, trapped in a different world.
“We’ve got this,” Callum murmurs, and Aaron nods, meeting my eyes one, last time before I look from him to Oscar. His steely gaze gives me nothing, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve already cracked his shell; I just need to hit it a few more times before it peels away and shows me what’s really underneath.
“Once you invite a vampire in, you can’t rescind your invitation,” Vic says mildly, and then he’s striding forward with me by his side. I swear on the devil’s tits, every person in that room turns to look at us. I mean, I’m not surprised. Everything from my dress to the boys’ cufflinks to the red bow ties is intended to grab the attention of the affluent crowd. Havoc never does anything in half-measures, after all.
“Mother,” Vic breathes, his eyes focused on a single figure in the room, as calculated and predatory as a cat discovering a mouse. The crowd of glittering urban nobles parts as we pass by, heading straight in Ophelia and Tom’s direction before one of the waiters moves over to us, offering up champagne. “No thanks. We brought our own.” Victor holds up one of the expensive liquor bottles we stole from Leigh’s house—pretty sure this one’s worth about eighty-grand—and then pops the top.
