Page 69 of Anarchy at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys 4)
I think about Alyssa, over at the Peters’ house where Oscar lives, and then take another sip of champagne. I’ve grown up on drugstore champagne, and the five dollar a bottle shit they sell at Winco. It all tastes the same. I know it does because now, not only have I tasted both and can’t discern a fucking difference, but Pam used to buy it and refill expensive bottles she stole from her friends’ parties. Things like Dom Perignon and Veuve Clicquot, worth hundreds of dollars, refilled and then brought along as gifts to new events.
Pam always made sure to hide the missing cork with ribbon, to pour the champagne quick, before the bubbles gave out.
I take another sip.
“We’ll keep the girls safe,” Callum promises me, and he sounds so goddamn sure of himself that I almost believe him. Almost. Because while I know he isn’t lying—in his blackest heart of hearts, he believes he’s telling me the truth—there are some things in life we have no control over.
This time, when I take a swig, I down enough in one go that I feel momentarily lightheaded.
I offer the bottle to Oscar, even though I’m certain he isn’t going to take it. To my surprise, he does, swigging it like he’s as repulsed by this place as the rest of us. He looks like he belongs here though, even more so than Vic.
“Are you okay?” I ask, noticing the faintest sheen of sweat on his forehead.
“I’m fine,” he murmurs, but there’s something off in his silver gaze that tells me he isn’t being entirely truthful. “This whole scene … it reminds me of my father.” He takes another drink, shoving the bottle into Aaron’s hands and then moving forward to rejoin Vic.
“His father …” I murmur as Aaron glances my way. I feel like he should be nervous, seeing Tom and Ophelia again, but instead, he just seems pissed off. His mouth is set in a thin line, his shoulders taut. I stare at his tattooed hand as he curls it into a fist around the neck of the champagne bottle, stretching and twisting the letters of HAVOC that are inked into his flesh.
“His dad ran in these same sorts of circles,” he offers, but no more. He’s as aware as I am that Oscar’s story is his to tell. Aaron turns his green-gold eyes from me to something just ahead of us and then frowns, letting me take the champagne from him. “Who the fuck is that?”
There’s a pit in my stomach that hurts, even before I see that what he’s looking at. Turning my head, I notice a pretty young girl with hair like gold and a face carved by expensive moisturizer, a nutritionist, and a professional trainer. Motherfucker. She looks right at me as we approach, the same way that Sara Young did, like she hates me for no reason at all. It’s called internalized misogyny, and it’s a hell of a bitch. Even though I know it’s there, even though I try my best to control it, I feel it, too.
Get the fuck away from my men, I think as the girl saunters up to Vic and Oscar in a gold dress that swishes when she walks. That’s the type of dress Penelope always liked to wear, one with movement. But when she did it, she walked like the whole world was fun. This girl walks like the whole world owes her a favor.
I scowl, and Callum chuckles, finishing my strawberry and flicking the stem onto the passing tray of a different waiter. It’s covered in empty cups and toothpicks.
“Go, defend your territory,” he tells me, so I do, stepping forward to stand at Vic’s side just as his mother introduces the newcomer.
“Victor, this is Trinity Jade,” Ophelia says, smiling sweetly as she lazily flicks her fingers at the young woman. The fact that she won’t even acknowledge my existence or my place as Victor’s wife puts a seed of hate deep into my heart.
But that’s part of the game, isn’t it? The most important part really, to pretend that you’re not playing it at all.
“Trinity,” Vic says as he nods once in greeting then turns back to his mother. “What is this? Your pathetic, too-late attempt to set me up with someone?” Based on Trinity’s reaction or rather, the fact that she has no reaction at all, I can tell she’s already been briefed on the situation. “Thanks, but no thanks.” Without him having to say a single word, I know what Victor wants. I take his arm, standing opposite Oscar on his right side. Hael has already wandered away to look up at paintings that are two stories tall and bathed in too-white light. In reality, I think he’s canvassing the place for possible exits, cameras, and guards. “Have you met my wife, Bernadette?” Vic gestures at me with a tattooed hand as I try to hide the sheer pleasure I get at hearing him use the word wife.
