Page 30 of Victory at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys 5)
Like I said, I still want to believe.
Believe the world is good.
Believe that love prevails.
Believe that there is justice.
Callum drops his hand, shuddering as my fingers probe his neck. The cut is gnarly, but obviously not deep enough to have severed any major arteries. Thank fucking god. We all remember Danny and how quickly a neck wound can result in an earthy bed six feet under.
I relent and go back to the wound on his shoulder instead. He’s right: the one on his neck is fairly shallow. We’ll wrap it with gauze. I wouldn’t attempt to stick a fucking needle in my lover’s throat anyway.
“I’m sorry that I didn’t protect you better,” Cal tells me, but I don’t look at him. I’m too busy working on the wound at his shoulder, the one that scares me even more than the gunshot.
“You saved my life,” I tell him, thinking of his masked face appearing from the vent in the ceiling. “And that’s not the first time either. Don’t apologize to me for anything.” I continue my work in silence, glancing over to find him with his eyes closed, racked with pain.
Once I finish with his shoulder, I put the kit away and try to climb off the bed.
Cal snatches my wrist and yanks me back, so hard and so fast that I end up off-balance, falling into him and landing on his chest as he sinks back into the pillows. He sighs and curls his arms around me, holding me close. My fingers clench against his bloody hoodie of their own accord.
I just can’t resist the rhapsodic poison that is Havoc.
“Let me get you something to smoke or drink,” I murmur, but Cal just tucks my head against the side of his scarred and ruined neck, stroking blue-tipped fingernails down my spine. I can feel the heat of his fingertips, even through the Ruth Bader Ginsburg tank that I’m wearing. RIP to one of the baddest bitches around.
“In a minute,” Cal breathes into my hair, making me shiver. The idea that he’s having this sort of effect on me is just further proof that I’m already intoxicated by his presence. “Let me feel your heartbeat first.”
We lay there together until the sun has fully risen and the night’s ebony fingers have furled from the sky. Then, as Callum sleeps softly beneath me, I get up and go in search of whiskey and a few joints.
“He still alive up there?” Vic asks when I appear at the bottom of the stairs, streaked with Cal’s blood and dizzy enough that I wish I’d had some of that fucking OJ before coming down. I don’t want Vic or Hael or Oscar to sense that someone’s wrong before I get a chance to tell them.
“He seems okay,” I hazard, drumming my chipped nails against the round top of the newel post. This Prescott bitch needs to get her fucking nails done. Like, Jesus, for a Prescott girl to have nails like I do now is considered a cardinal motherfucking sin. If you can’t afford to get your nails done, you ask one of Stacey’s girls and she’ll do them for you provided her crew doesn’t hate you.
Stacey.
I sigh, and the sound is distinctly melancholy. I’m mourning our school’s queen bee for the friend she could’ve been, for the good person that she was.
Aaron is asleep on one sofa, clearly taking a shift while Vic sits with a shotgun and a cigarette at the table. Oscar is on his iPad, glancing briefly my way as I stand there, wrapped in a thick fog of emotion.
I have a lot to process.
We don’t have a lot of time.
Tomorrow, we’ll move to a safe house and I’ll probably spend every second there missing the safe, easy normality of Aaron’s house.
Hael appears from outside, stepping in the sliding glass doors as he taps the cordless receiver against his lips. His brown eyes slide over to mine and he smiles, the expression skin-deep at best. He’s stressed-out. We all are.
“Brittany says she thinks her father is gearing up for a raid. She says it’s habit for him to hide in his shop all night writing letters to the family, just in case. I’m inclined to believe her on this one, especially since I know she’s mentioned this to me sometime in the past.” Hael sets the phone down on the table as my eyes sweep past him to Vic, back to Oscar.
Now would be a good time to mention the miscarriage …
“Don’t leave me, prima ballerina,” Cal whispers huskily from behind me. I jump, spinning around to his dark chuckle and finding him leaning his elbows on the railing at the top of the stairs. “You really think I’d let you slip away?”
“I’m getting you something to smoke, at the very least,” I grumble, going for what I know is one of the boys’ recreational weed stashes on the top shelf of a kitchen cabinet. I’m too short to reach it, even at five-ten, so Hael reaches over me and snatches a plastic bag full of joints instead, dropping them into my hand.
