Page 93 of Victory at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys 5)
But I don’t. The way Mason is looking at me, I can tell that he’s already made his decision for the night: I’m the girl that he wants.
“You,” he says, pausing in front of me. The way he looks at me, it feels like he’s peeling my skin back so he can lap at the blood inside. Wild, primal fear takes over me, the most feminine part of my brain screaming that I need to run. Now. Fast. Go, go, go, and never look back.
The thing is, we cannot move forward without killing Mason.
And we’re never going to get a better chance than we have now, tonight, here.
I go to set the bottle of liquor aside, but Mason snatches my wrist so hard that I hiss in pain between my teeth. He smells like iodine and bleach; I kid you not. And there’s just something so much worse about that antiseptic sterility. I’d have preferred sour breath or the stink of booze. A neat monster, I think as Mason takes the bottle of liquor and lifts it to his mouth. Swigging a healthy portion of it, he lets his eyes sweep the crowd. If he looks too closely at Hael and Aaron, there’s a chance—however slim—that he might recognize them.
It’s dark in here, smoky and hazy, strobe lights flashing as topless girls flicker across the surfaces of the stages. It’d take an eagle eye to spot anything unusual in the anonymous pit of the club. The thing is, I don’t put it past a man like Mason Miller to do just that. If Callum says this man is dangerous, then I believe him.
I scoot closer to Mason, allowing my breasts to brush against his chest. He curves his left arm around my shoulders, looking down at me with a sneering expression that has me fantasizing about the blade stuck in the sole of my boot. It slides into a small sheath embedded in the rubber, and even if it’s only about the length of my hand, I could kill a man with it if needed.
Just … maybe not Mason Miller.
I don’t lose faith in my plan—it’ll still work, whether Mason chooses me or Vera—and allow him to lead me through the crowd, toward a dark hallway with a staircase. A chain is drawn across it, a small sign hanging from it that warns against trespassing.
That’s where we’re supposed to be going.
Instead, Mason leads me right past the staircase and down a separate hall. In my pocket, I feel my phone buzz, but there’s no way to answer it or even check to see who’s calling me. Mason is too focused, his gaze flicking down to mine every few steps we take. At least I know that the call I made to Vic’s phone outside the club is still connected; nothing else matters.
We make a right turn and Mason pauses at the sight of another man in the hall with us.
It’s Tom Muller.
His eyes drop to mine before lifting back up to Mason’s. He does a decent job of acting like he’s never seen me before, but the pulse in his throat jumps at the sight of Maxwell’s second-in-command, a dark fear and grudging respect etched into his gaze. Tom’s brown eyes mimic his son’s in color only; there is nothing of Tom’s cruelty in David Benedict.
“Mason,” Tom starts, nodding his head respectfully in the man’s direction. “Do you like the girls this week?”
“Oh, I love the girls this week,” Mason says with a harsh laugh, and then, before I can even think to react to his movements, he’s drawing a pistol outfitted with a silencer and pulling the trigger. A neat, little hole appears in Tom’s forehead just before he slumps to the ground at our feet, blood pooling in a circle of ruby red around him.
That’s the first sign I have that something’s wrong; I did not expect Tom Muller to die here tonight.
“Fuck,” I murmur as Mason laughs and yanks me forward, shoving me into one of the downstairs rooms, the ones that used to be old bank vaults. The door slams into place as Mason flicks first one lock, then the next, and the next.
Three locks, all of them on a solid metal door that can’t be blown up or shot down or picked.
Trapping us inside.
In here, nobody can hear Mason’s girls scream. Nobody can hear them cry. Nobody can smell their blood.
This vault room, it may as well be a tomb.
I back away from Mason as he lifts the liquor bottle to his lips, finishing off the alcohol inside before tossing it aside and letting it shatter. He drags a hand across his mouth as he looks me over, standing there in a corset and a miniskirt, my hair hidden beneath the red curls of an expensive wig.
