Page 72 of Anarchy at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys 4)
“Extremely,” Oscar agrees, and then Hael is opening the limo’s back door before the driver can get to it, and we’re on our way back to the neighborhood we know better than anyone.
Prescott.We end up at a club in the southside, flashing fake IDs that Callum produces like it’s nothing. I don’t even blink at that. Out of all the craziness that is Havoc, having and using fake IDs is like comparing baby food to vodka. Not even in the same league.
Ram’s Skull, is the name of the club. I mean, walking in and looking at the place, I’m not surprised. The name is basically written all over the walls in blood.
Before we walked in here, I asked the boys for a switchblade and cut the dress along the mesh inset at the thigh, turning my floor-length gown into a party dress. Guess I won’t be reselling it after all.
“Oh, devilish,” I say as we enter the club, letting the red-and-black dress drift up my thighs and not bothering to fix it. Let everybody stare at me. They are, too, but only because of Havoc. When Vic heads straight for the bar, the crowd parts like water to let him pass. I mean, we are in South Prescott. Cal takes off in the opposite direction while Hael dives right into the fray, leaving Aaron, Oscar, and me near the entrance.
The walls are painted black and covered in what I’m guessing are real rams’ skulls. Bones fill the space, hanging from the ceiling, decorating the backs of the stools by the bars. The place smells like cloves and sage and sweat, and it’s run-down and rachet enough that I’m sure it’s been here forever. I’ve never made a habit of coming to clubs, even though I could’ve gotten a fake ID by closing my eyes and throwing a rock at any number of Prescott High students.
What on earth is fun about being swarmed by desperate guys with roaming hands? And like, yeah, not going to have a drink here and find my ass roofied. I mean, not that anyone would be so stupid now. Everybody in here knows who Havoc is. Or if they don’t, they can get in our way and learn quick.
“Downright demonic,” Oscar agrees, drawing my eyes away from the throbbing crowd. He’s frowning, his eyes the color of slate and far too stony without the glasses to put up a barrier between us. “God, I despise the club scene.” The corner of his lip curls up as a girl accidentally bumps into him, glancing over her shoulder and paling substantially before scurrying away into the crowd.
Poor thing.
“Why are we here?” I ask, sticking to the perimeter of the dance floor. Might as well be a brothel. Looks like most everyone in here is on the verge of fucking. I try not to look at them. Makes me remember that I got gang-banged last week. Or wait … actually, maybe I should look at them.
“We’re looking for someone,” Oscar says cryptically, reaching up to tousle his dark hair with long fingers. He doesn’t look like a kid with a fake ID; he looks like he owns the damn club. Frankly, I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that Havoc really did.
“And tonight, of all nights …?” I hazard, finally drawing the golem’s attention. Fucker may as well be made of stone.
“Because our crew called and told us he was here,” he explains, making his way along the narrow walkway near the wall. I follow him, people squeezing past us with drinks in their hands. Aaron trails after me, doing his best to keep a limp out of his walk. Can’t exactly hide the cast on his hand, but nobody in here is stupid enough to think a few injuries will stop Havoc.
“We’re looking for James Barrasso,” Aaron tells me, his voice rough as he’s forced to yell over the pounding music. My eardrums are already aching, and my body is buzzing. It’s impossible to walk into a place like this and not feel the vibe; it’s everywhere. That, and my blood is drawn from the veins of this shit-ass neighborhood.
“Who?” I quip back, and I’m honestly shocked that Aaron can hear me at all.
“The son of the GMP’s leader, Maxwell Barrasso,” he finishes as we find ourselves near the bar. Victor has an entire side to himself. He’s leaning against it, a drink in his hand, and watching us. My skin gets tight, and a rush of heat floods my core. Piece of shit, I think, knowing that he’s musing on what happened at the art gallery. About Trinity. For better or worse, he’s thinking about a woman that offered her hand in marriage to him—and right in front of me.
That shit doesn’t fly in this neighborhood.
“Bourbon?” Vic offers, holding out the glass. I take it from his hand, our fingers brushing together. Our gazes meet, but I end up looking away first, downing the drink as my eyes survey the crowd. Half of the people in here are underage. Shit, I know most of the people in here. “Any sign of James?” Victor asks. It takes me a second to realize he’s talking to Callum.
