Page 97 of Victory at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys 5)
“Ah, that,” I say, finally giving up on my sexual exploration of the ice cream and biting off the edge of the cone with a crunch. My eyes drift back to Cal as he slides down the pole of the sign just in time for Sara Young to glance his way. I swear, I can visibly see her sighing inside the Subaru. After a moment of what looks like arguing with Constantine, she starts the car and the two of them leave.
Guess they’ve had enough of watching us fuck and eat and chat like normal teenagers. Nothing to see here, folks. We totally didn’t just murder a nasty fucked-up pervert named Mason Miller. I have to say, I most definitely will not be seeing his ghost or James Barrasso’s ghost now or ever. I’ve got absolutely zero guilt about their metaphorical blood tainting my fingers.
“That,” Victor repeats with a long sigh, finally turning back to me. That stark possession in his gaze makes me shiver all over, and I know that when we get back to the hideous refuge of our safe house, I’ll probably spread my legs for him and submit beneath the wild, primal thrusting of his hips. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“It wasn’t even really a miscarriage,” I start, but that’s sort of a cop-out thing to say. “It was a chemical pregnancy—meaning the egg is fertilized but it never fully implants in the uterus. If they hadn’t drawn my blood at the hospital, I might not even have realized …”
“Don’t downplay that shit to me,” Victor says, and his words are rough and very close to the cadence of his usual orders. But there’s pain there, too, and I have to remember that I wasn’t the only person that experienced that. It hurt him, and if it hurt him then it hurt me, too. I give him an apologetic look and he sighs. “But I’m glad you’re okay.”
“I’m not okay,” Aaron says as Callum rejoins us, chucking the spray paint into the nearest garbage can before he crawls up onto the hood of the Camaro and crouches there. Hael watches him for a moment, but then turns his attention back to me. I remember that day outside Billie Charter’s rachet ass trailer when Vic warned me against touching Hael’s car. Guess his sweet little bromance with Callum also allows for an exception to that rule.
“I’m not either,” Hael adds, shrugging his big shoulders. “But I feel marginally better knowing that Mason is a smear of crimson on the wall of KKKay’s.”
I shove the rest of the ice cream come into my mouth, chewing it thoughtfully.
“This will garner us a lot of respect among the lesser members of the GMP,” Callum muses as Victor hands him the rest of his chili cheese fries. Cal takes them, parking the basket between his booted feet as he maintains his crouch on the hood.
Across the lot, I see Vera climbing out of the passenger side of another pretty little vintage car. She’s wearing a completely different outfit than she had on at the club, and she pauses briefly on her way inside to wave at me. I wave right back.
“Frame-off restoration, mad respect,” Hael murmurs as he checks out her date’s car. He knows every student at Prescott with a classic car, and far too many details about their restoration projects. Sometimes, he forgets the person’s name but remembers the make and model of their vehicle. We all ignore him as he rubs his crotch the way Aaron did when it came to my sexual sucking of the ice cream cone.
“Mason’s death will make it even harder to convince any of his lower-level employees to come after us. Factor in James’ death, and the loss of Russ Bauer and Will Market, and there won’t be an asshole in that gang who volunteers for the project.” Victor is still watching me like the loss of that pregnancy is still weighing heavily on his mind. He’s talking business, but he’s thinking personal shit.
“Hey,” I tell him, sliding off the hood and moving over to stand in front of him. He isn’t about to just let me stand there, so he grabs me and yanks me into his lap instead, reminding me of that day he took me to the abandoned jailhouse and told me how much we both needed each other.
“I need a way to let my demons out, and you need a way to confront them.”
Fuck, that was sexy. How did I not just die on the spot? My fingers trace up the rounded curves of his tattooed arms, his sweater discarded so I can better examine the pull of his threadbare cotton shirt across his strong chest. No wonder Ophelia is afraid of her son. She should be. Their beef is far from just professional—it’s extremely personal. When I let myself think about baby Vic suffering under the cruel hands of rich perverts, I start to crack around the edges with the desperate need for violence.
