Page 89 of Anarchy at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys 4)
I purse my lips.
I know what the plan is here. Ophelia needs to die. That’s obvious to everyone, even me. It doesn’t even need to be said aloud. But is this really the best way to do it?
Victor promising to get an annulment doesn’t make me safe.
Nothing but that woman’s death will serve.
“I hope I’m the murderer at the party tonight,” I say, thinking of Kali. I look over at Oscar, but he isn’t looking back at me. Instead, he’s adjusting his tie because he perceives it to be the slightest bit fucking crooked. His long, inked fingers tease the silk fabric in a way that’s criminal.
I move away from Oscar and toward the boys’ bedroom door, the one that I closed behind me on purpose when I came in here looking for him. We’ve had sex twice since the night of the dance. The group thing, and when I woke up and he was behind me. But that’s it. I can sense there’s so much more waiting inside Oscar that needs to be let out. I crack my knuckles and he finally turns to look at me.
“What do you want?” he asks, and I frown. Hard.
“You to stop being a prick. Why are you pretending you can still act aloof and disinterested when all you want is to tie me up and fuck the shit out of me?”
Oscar rises from his chair and moves over to me in an instant, slamming his forearms into either side of the doorjamb. The door is closed behind me, but I’m not trapped. I could reach back for the knob if I really wanted to. Of course, I don’t. I’m not afraid of Oscar Montauk and he knows it.
“Aren’t you going to ask me about it?” he says, and I’m not sure if he means the virgin thing or the serial killer comment that he made. “Don’t you want to know?”
“Either you’re going to tell me or you’re not,” I shoot back, but I really, really, really want him to tell me something about himself. His family, his dad, his virginity, anything. “Do you need me to tell you a horrible thing back, so you’ll feel better? Should I tell you about the time I got mad at Penelope for banging her headboard against the wall and keeping me up all night? How she cried and cried and cried while I was a total bitch to her?” Knowing what I know now, I understand what was happening to her, and it makes me sick. I want to die when I think about that memory.
Oscar frowns hard, like he can tell I’ve just laid something special out. If he rejects me now, he can never tell me the truth about the way he feels because I’ll always know that he’s such a good liar, he can lie even to himself.
“I’m sorry that I’m not good at this, Bernadette.” There’s something sad in his voice, a melancholy so deep and endless that it feels as if I’m staring into the depths of the ocean. “Vulnerability leaves a person open to endless pain.” He drops his inked fingers to the side of my face, stroking my cheek and leaving me with a tightness in my chest that makes me want to cry. He’s tragic, isn’t he? Oscar Montauk.
“Endless pain but also endless love,” I whisper back, which sounds cheesy enough to be printed on one of Sara Young’s coffee mugs. It’s true, though, that statement. One of my hands comes up to rest against the front of Oscar’s chest, right over that bloodred tie. He flinches slightly, but he lets me touch him.
“My father murdered my mother and my siblings, did you know that?” he asks, capturing my hand in his. The serial killer comment suddenly makes a hell of a lot more sense. “He tried to kill me, too, but I guess I’m just that hard to get rid of.” Long, tattooed fingers squeeze my own, warm and oh so human. He really isn’t as demonic as he thinks he is. “You know how he did it?” he continues, and I don’t dare interrupt for fear that he’ll never speak to me like this again. “He tried to strangle me. And now it’s become a fetish of mine. How fucked-up is that?”
I find myself enraptured by his eyes, their color so indescribably beautiful that only purple prose will do, only lines of that inane poetry I scribble in my notebook in the dingy classroom of a decrepit school. Oscar’s eyes are like wet fog on the morning of a funeral. They’re the color of that gray alley cat that lives by the dumpsters outside the high school, the one that was once a cherished kitten and now nobody loves. They’re the color of ashes in an urn or a gravestone with the name so worn off that it can’t be read by passersby.
