Page 79 of Victory at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys 5)
“Not in a one-on-one fight,” I argue, standing up from my chair so quickly that it falls over, scratching the already ruined wood floors. This place is a dump, even by Prescott standards. But it’s also buried so deeply in our territory that if the GMP were to attack, our people would appear at their own windows, holding sawed-off shotguns and ready to fight. “But I have a plan. I’ve been talking to Vera, gathering information.”
I grab Oscar’s iPad, our fingers brushing as I go to take it from him. Our eyes meet and a bolt of ice slashes through my chest, cooling some of my ire but encouraging a whole different sort of fire between my thighs, one that blazes so hot that a bead of sweat trails down between my breasts.
Flipping the cover open, I pull up the map I drew with his stylus this morning, over coffee and doughnuts with Vera. She’s actually kind of … cool? Like, I can see how she became Stacey’s BFF. She fucks and discards naughty Prescott boys the way Hael used to plow his way through girls. Her mouth is filthy, but she’s sharp as a fucking tack. Loyal, too. Even with Stacey dead and buried, she won’t allow anything to taint her friend’s memory.
“This is a map of Kay’s,” I say, noting that Vera scrawled KKKay’s in the corner. Fuck, I hate white supremacists. Nazis and racists and homophobes and sexists and fascists. Gross. But anything to inspire hate and division, am I right? “And this is Mason’s personal room. According to Vera—and a few of Stacey’s other girls—he uses this room every time he goes to the club. Every. Fucking. Time.”
“And your point is?” Victor asks, his massive body leaned up against the countertop, rippling with ink and bullshit and smelling like amber and musk. Even as I hate him, I crave him. Even as I desire to gouge his face with my on-pointe nails, I want to fuck him. He makes me feel in ways I haven’t since my father died. “Mason will pick a girl and take her to that room, and if he isn’t stopped, he’ll fuck and torture her. He might even kill her. You’re not taking that risk, Bernie. You might be queen, but I’m still king, and I say no.”
“Do you have a plan?” Callum croaks out, rubbing at his throat. The scab on the front is fading away, but he’s still got stitches—proper ones—in his shoulder and arm. It could’ve been a lot worse for him. If he wasn’t smart enough to know when enough is enough, he wouldn’t be here to crouch on top of the table like a spider monkey, hood pushed back, blond hair bright. “Something other than the obvious one of parading you in front of Mason under the guise of a call girl.”
“I do,” I say carefully, looking over at Hael. He nods and holds out a hand, his other arm crossed over his chest.
“I’m willing to at least listen?” he proposes, shrugging his massive shoulders. Swear to fuck, when I think about him with other women, I get stabby. But damn it if I don’t appreciate his skills. He fucks like somebody who earned a Hot Piece of Ass degree from an ivy league university. This guy knows what he’s doing, he’s got the talent and equipment, and he makes his experience work for him.
I shift where I am, feeling my thighs get slick with need. That’s kind of how it is around here, a flurry of sex and violence. It’s just what we do, okay? No need to judge. I know how fucked-up we all are.
“I’ll listen, but I’m not agreeing to anything that puts you in a precarious position,” Aaron adds as I sit down on his lap and he lets out a grunt, palming my hip and letting his fingers get just a tad too close to the fly of my jeans.
“If you’d all shut the fuck up, put your balls back in your boxers for a minute, and let me talk, you’d understand where I’m coming from.” I point at the map again. “It’s a near guarantee that Mason will choose a girl and retire to this room—alone. Stacey’s girls say he doesn’t like to be watched. Mostly, it’s because he’s into some really sick shit that he doesn’t even want his comrades in arms to know about. Everybody in the GMP is afraid of him, apparently. Killing this guy puts us so much closer to dismantling their organization. His fellow gangbangers hate him. He passes judgement too quick and plays judge, jury, and executioner on a regular basis.”
Cal pops the top on a Pepsi can with his blue-painted nails and then sits back on his heels, sipping it and alternating handfuls of chocolate covered peanuts while he watches me.
