Page 52 of Victory at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys 5)
Now, my nails as well as my knuckles say Havoc. I reach up and push a bit of red-tipped hair back from my forehead, turning around on the swivel stool so I can see Hael while I talk. He watches me do my thing, even as the girls take turns scoping him out. I wonder if any of them ever fucked him? I’m afraid to ask because, even though I’m a feminist in my very blood and bones, I’m also just a little bit animal. I get jealous much easier than I should.
“I need your help,” I start and a girl wearing huge falsies lifts her hand, perched on the edge of a sofa with her arm in a sling. I wonder if she got that injury during the shooting?
“If you want our help, answer a few questions first.” She grins, and I feel a bit of the tension in the room dissipate. I’m being offered an olive branch here, initiated into this circle of women even though I’m not entirely sure that I deserve it. “Which one of the Havoc Boys has the biggest dick?”
Laughter swirls through the air, riding the cool breeze from the open window on a cloud of sweet-smelling perfume and body spray. But even if they’re laughing, all eyes are on me and I’m expected to answer the question honestly.
My eyes flick once again to Hael’s honey-almond ones, but he’s just grinning back at me, hands still folded together behind his head, waiting. Obviously, he’s seen the other boys’ dicks, but I’m the only one well-acquainted enough with them to know for sure.
“Who do you think?” I snort, but Vera gives me a sharp look, and I know I’d better cough up answers here. This isn’t really about the boys though, is it? It’s a bonding exercise, a sharing of secrets, a building of camaraderie. “Are we talking length or circumference?”
“Both. Dish it out,” Vera says, snapping her fingers at me. Her eyes are the color of ice chips, pale, almost colorless, but with enough of a gray wash that she appears mysterious at first glance, almost otherworldly.
“Well, for girth, I’d have to say … Aaron?” I start, and I notice money exchange hands almost immediately. Ah, these bitches are betting on this. Even Hael chuckles as I shrug my shoulders. “And length … Victor.”
“Of course it’s Victor.” Tiff accepts cash from a few of the other girls, giving me a careful once-over.
“I’m hurt, Bernadette,” Hael moans, putting a hand to his chest like I’ve mortally wounded him. “But then, maybe these ladies are asking the wrong question? How about: who’s the best fuck?”
“Oh, good one!” Vera nods her head as she looks from Hael and back to me. I make extra sure to flip Hael off with my pretty new nails, and the girls titter like a flock of songbirds.
“Depends on the day.” I shrug my shoulders, knowing they’re not going to like that answer. It feels like a cop-out, like I’m too afraid to admit the truth. But that’s not it at all. It really does depend on the day, the time, my mood, the location … “Each one of them is different, like a separate ingredient for the same dish. I need them all or it just doesn’t turn out right.”
There’s a long pause there as my words sink in, and then Vera shakes her head at me.
“Alright, alright, you win the biggest ho at Prescott award. Congratulations.” Vera leans back in her chair, running her pink-nailed hand over her shaved red hair. “So, tell me, Havoc Girl: what is it that you want from us?”
There’s a sudden shift in the mood, like the wind’s changed and brought with it the dark reality of our situation.
“Are any of you familiar with a man named Mason Miller?” I ask, and several of the girls exchange glances.
“The whore killer?” Tiff asks, looking over at Vera, her brown eyes darkening substantially. “Yeah, we know about him. We never lost a girl to him, but I have friends in Portland that have.”
I take a deep breath, pushing my natural anger down to the bottom of my stomach. Control, Bernadette. That’s the most important thing here.
“Well, we need to get rid of him. Him and Maxwell Barrasso—the leader of the GMP—both. Since we know Mason likes call girls—”
Vera cuts me off by raising her pink-nailed hand.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. You want us to send one of our girls into a room with the whore killer? Are you fucking kidding me? Do you actually want us in your crew, or are we just fodder for your gang war with the GMP?”
I’m not mad at her for interrupting me; she has a point.
I stand up, the cream-colored sweater I’m wearing cropped and just barely long enough to hide the black sports bra underneath. The sweater has a bat silhouette on it with the words Protect Our Pollinators underneath. I’ve got on leather pants that I can move in if necessary, and a pair of combat boots with a knife hidden in the heel. Look, as much as I love my high heels, I think I need to take a break. Too many fights for my life recently, you know?
