Page 42 of Victory at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys 5)
It’s a moment like before, when she was on the toilet last night telling us about the pregnancy. I did nothing then. How could I? I have no idea what to do or how to behave in these sorts of situations. For fuck’s sake, my mother used to dye my hair as a child so that her husband wouldn’t suspect I wasn’t his biological kid; I’ve never stopped. Clearly, I have issues. More than anyone else in this fucked-up little family I’d imagine.
I raise a single brow. It’s the most expression I usually show that isn’t somehow related to disdain, carnal delight, or sarcasm.
“Don’t make me state the obvious,” I purr back, turning away so Bernadette can clean and reinsert her menstrual cup. She doesn’t seem to give a shit that I’m in here, watching with eyes that have already seen too much. My father might not have been the biological contributor to my DNA, but he certainly left his mark on me. He molded me into the monster I am, right at about the same time he put his gun to his temple and took his own life.
Sometimes, I swear to god I can hear the sound of his body hitting the ground. Thump. Over and over and over. Thump, thump, thump. I blink again and force my lips to smile. Bernadette is just staring right back at me, like she’s waiting for something.
“The miscarriage.” I start with that because it’s the most obvious and most pressing point. But what about the rest of it? What about the way her face changed before Pamela slapped her? What about the way her hands shook? “Your mother. How do you feel about that?”
“Do you think we can talk freely in here? Because I have theories about the GMP.” Bernie grabs that damned peach soap of hers and my hand snaps out, long, inked fingers curling around her wrist. It’s such a strange sight, to see my hand touching someone else’s skin. I can feel her pulse thundering in my hand, and I rub my thumb along the dancing heat of it.
A small, sharp gasp escapes Bernie’s throat, and I close my eyes in pleasure. When I bring her wrist to my mouth, she lets me take it. Carefully, gently, I uncurl some of my fingers, exposing an inked portion of her wrist.
There’s a small book tattooed here with a quill pin twirling above it. My mouth curves up sharply at one side. Ah, the clichéd tattoo of a dreamer. Nothing has ever looked so beautiful to me before. The thing with dreamers like this, they sometimes get the silly idea that they’re ordinary.
In reality, I’m drawn to this girl as a shooting star is drawn across the sky.
Some things cannot be undone.
This is one of them.
“Take, O take those lips away,” I whisper, kissing her pulse again. She tries to draw her arm away and my fingers wrap tight again, nails digging into her flesh. “That so sweetly were forsworn.”
“I think I care more for the miniscule cluster of cells I just lost than my mother ever did for me.” Bernadette stops talking and this time, when she tries to pull her arm away, I let her. I stand up. That old, familiar panic surges through me, but I tamp down on it; Bernadette is more important than any fear or hesitation that I might feel.
Four months ago, if we’d been here, doing this, I would’ve walked away, left her in here to cry. Or worse: not cry. Because emotions that stick around inside of you for too long, they rot. Trust me, I know better than anyone.
Two years ago, if we’d been here, doing this, I would’ve whispered awful things in her ear and I would’ve delighted in seeing her face darken with anger. Because that meant this strange hold we have on one another, this attraction that never goes away, that it could be broken somehow. Or at the very least, stretched. She might’ve walked away and known a life of ignorance and bliss.
But this … it’s nothing but passion and poison.
I reach over my shoulder and grab a fistful of my shirt, lifting it over my head and tossing it aside. I reach my right hand back and flick off the lights. Every movement that I make hurts; there is no part of me that isn’t terrified right now. Yet, I’ve been letting this one fear above all others consume me, and I can’t let it do that anymore. Not when Bernadette needs me the way she does.
“What are you doing?” Bernie asks as I strip off my pants and step into the tub, sliding my naked body around hers. I’ve always wondered what the point of these oversized tubs was. Now I know. “Oscar …” she starts, reaching down and curling her fingers through mine. I hiss at the sensation, but I don’t pull away. The heat of her is incinerating.
