Page 66 of Victory at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys 5)
The only person at this fucking funeral who’s wearing a suit is Oscar fucking Montauk.
“What a roomy casket,” the man in question remarks, curling his fingers over one of my shoulders. “And you are not parading around as an undercover hooker.”
“Like there’s anything wrong with that,” Vera shoots back, giving me a look from beneath heavily shadowed blue lids. Challenging me. That’s what she’s doing. You gonna let these boys run you, bitch? “All you need to get a private audience with Mason Miller is a wet pussy and a smile. You were the one that told me you had those things in spades.”
“No offense, Bernie,” Cal whispers huskily, shaking his head as he takes a seat in one of the metal folding chairs surrounding the grave. There are six of them, silently reserved for Havoc. No signage needed. Only an idiot would sit in one of those chairs. Like, for example, Sara and Constantine. I just sigh and cross my arms over my chest as they move the two end seats over to the knoll behind the casket. “But if I couldn’t beat Mason, you won’t be able to. It’s far too dangerous.”
“So, what was the plan then?” Vera counters, stepping up in front of me and blocking the view of Stacey’s casket. “You send one of my girls in and let her die in pursuit of your little gang war? That’s some bullshit right there.”
“She’s right,” I say as Hael whistles and lets his big body slump into the chair next to Cal. “I can’t expect a girl under my protection to take on a task that’s too dangerous for me.”
“Blackbird, listen to me,” Hael says, leaning forward and putting his elbows on his knees. He stares at me in earnest from eyes the color of honey and almonds. “You got the jump on me at the after-party. That shit, it ain’t happening again.”
I take a step forward and then crouch down beside the hole where Stacey’s body will soon be buried.
Taking out Mason means dismantling the first brick that makes up the GMP. Then Maxwell. Ophelia. I grit my teeth as I reach out and grab a handful of dirt, tossing it into the hole and watching as the shadows of the earth swallow it up.
When I stand back up and turn, I see that the majority of the crowd is watching us while they wait for the service to begin. Luckily, when I glance over my shoulder at the two VGTF officers, I see them engaged in a whispered conversation.
I look back at the boys, all five of them staring at me like they can barely resist touching me, holding me, tucking me under their chin to keep safe. And shit if I don’t like it. In the same vein, it also pisses me off. It’s possible to be a bitchy forward-thinking feminist while enjoying a little straight male possession. Definitely not mutually exclusive concepts.
“I’m going after Mason,” I say, and Aaron frowns hard while Vic laughs.
“No, you are not,” he says as I turn to Vera, meeting her pale eyes with my emerald tinted ones.
“Ignore them. They’re just alpha-maleing around. You know how I can make contact with this prick?”
Vera glances toward the high priestess as the woman claps her hands to get the group’s attention. Pretty sure Stacey wasn’t religious at all but having a modern day witch preside over her funeral seems about right.
“There’s James Barrasso’s funeral,” Vera suggests, ignoring the men in my life. Stacey’s girls never did appreciate being ordered around by people with dicks. They’d much rather deal with other women. Can’t say I blame them.
“We know all about the funeral, thank you,” Oscar purrs, looking down his nose at Vera. “Hundreds of mourners, an open cemetery, private security. Complete waste of our time.”
“Oh, yeah?” Vera quips back, popping her hip in that uniquely tragic Prescott style. I love that she’s wearing a cropped pink shirt that says Hot Girl in forty-degree weather. That’s Fahrenheit, by the way. I don’t know shit about Celsius. This is urban America, yo, not fucking Europe or some shit. “Do you know about the reception Maxwell is having at Kay’s?”
“Reception?” Victor echoes, exchanging a look with Oscar. Swear to fuck, put the two of them together, and they think they know goddamn everything. “And where the fuck is Kay’s?”
Vera just laughs and shakes her head, focusing her attention on me.
“They all must have huge dicks for you to put up with that crap,” she tells me, confident enough in my hold of Havoc’s leashes to prevent any clapback from her snide commentary. “Kay’s—we usually call it KKKay’s because the GMP is racist AF—is a gang-owned strip club near West Burnside Street in Portland. Mason has already ordered a bunch of call girls to attend. He’ll do what he always does: pick a girl and take her upstairs to his bedroom. That’s how often he’s at the club, enough to have a private room.”
