Page 48 of Victory at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys 5)
Aaron takes my fingers, twisting our hands together. He winces slightly, but he doesn’t pull away. That broken hand of his probably still hurts like fucking hell. That one time, when I crushed my finger in the garage door, it hurt for months longer than the doctor told me it would. That’s pain for you. Persistent. Relentless. A demon with reaching claws.
I realize then that it isn’t that Aaron Fadler thinks he still shits rainbows and fairy glitter; he just doesn’t relish the fact that he’s gone over to the dark side. He exists here because he has to. And now that he’s wrapped up in Havoc’s shadowed arms, he may as well have been dragged beneath the sea by a kraken.
There is no escape for Aaron.
I push my palms up against his, inked digits tangling together.
“Sometimes, I wonder if it wasn’t you that should’ve gone to Nantucket,” I say, wondering if I could’ve saved Aaron all those years ago. What if I’d marched up to Vic and looked him in the eye, refused to let him look away until he acknowledged that we could never let each other go. What if I’d told him that I belonged to Havoc and Havoc belonged to me? Would Aaron have been able to walk then?
His smile softens, and his eyes blaze with stark intent. It isn’t difficult to guess what he might say.
“Not without you there,” he assures me, giving my hands a squeeze and then releasing them.
Hael is waiting on the other side of the car, shoulder propped up against a telephone pole. It feels safe here somehow, being surrounded by Havoc. In every building, on every floor, there’s at least one member of our crew. And if we do have a rat, well, I guess we’ll deal with that when it comes.
But we’re not running.
Not from the Grand Murder Party or the police, not even the feds.
“You two done getting all Gone with the Wind over there?” Hael asks with a cocky chuckle, turning and heading up a narrow walkway toward a derelict front porch. Victor is already there, unlocking the door with a key and letting it swing inward on rusted hinges.
“Have you ever actually read or seen Gone with the Wind?” I ask, cocking an eyebrow. “It has absolutely nothing to do with our romance.”
“We’re more like …” Aaron begins, lighting up a cigarette as he steps onto the soft, damp wood of the porch. “My Girl or Bridge to Terabithia.” I give him a sharp look, but he just laughs, pushing chestnut curls away from his forehead. “What? That’s how all childhood romances end—in tragedy.”
“Hilarious,” I say with a roll of my eyes, stepping into the front entry of a house that, once upon a time, was probably very nice. As of now, the old Victorian is smashed between two brick apartment buildings built in the early seventies, rotting away and forgotten in the darkest part of the city.
“Looks like shit, don’t it?” Victor quips, moving into the damp, wet mustiness of the house as I wrinkle my nose. Oscar and Callum are at Joseph General together which both worries me and makes me feel better all at the same time. Cal most definitely needed medical treatment, but at the same time, I don’t like the idea of us being separated.
We are strongest together.
“It’s … barely livable,” I admit, and Vic chuckles, shaking his head as he goes for the stairs and Aaron and Hael fan out to secure the house on either side of me. I decide to follow Vic up, past threadbare sofas and peeling wallpaper. There’s a TV at one end of the living room that looks like it was probably purchased in the late eighties.
I slide my hand up the banister, finding myself in a hallway that stretches out on either side. There are half a dozen doors up here, most of them shut tight. Vic is in the doorway to the bathroom, peering at the toilet and the shower with a frown.
“Fuck, this is rough—even for Prescott.” He snorts a laugh and steps into the room, testing the toilet to make sure it flushes. “We won’t stay here for long, don’t worry. Just a week or two.”
“You’re not actually considering sending us all to Oak Valley, are you?” I ask, because I’m having a hard time getting that out of my head. The rich are just as monstrous as the poor, only they have resources to fund their dark ambitions.
“Whatever it takes, wife,” Vic tells me, turning the tap in the shower on and standing up with a frown as the water spurts like a freshman during his first time and then craps out completely. The sound of old pipes echoes in the walls and then the shower coughs up some steamy water. Victor turns his head to look back at me, an apology resting somewhere in his face that I don’t quite understand. “You and Aaron will be able to see the girls, we’ll have round the clock security, and there is no way in fuck the GMP will storm Oak Valley. Too many risky politics involved. Half the students’ parents are paying customers with private militia.”
