Victory at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys #5) - C.M. Stunich Page 0,107

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.

“Hey, what?” he asks, cocking a dark brow. My hands lift up to explore the masculine planes of his face. I use both of my thumbs to trace the beautiful curve of his lower lip. His tongue follows the motion, and my body gives an involuntary shudder.

“Think of the chemical pregnancy as a good thing. Like, it means I can get pregnant.” My mouth twitches a little since pregnancy and kids and shit are like, ten years too soon for me right now. “With my irregular periods, it was sort of a toss-up.”

Vic places his big hands over mine, pressing my fingers into each side of his face. Aaron watches us, but his body is relaxed, his expression soft. We’re settling into this together, into being a family, the way we should’ve been all along. Eight-year-old me should’ve lifted her chin up and stormed across that playground in her yellow rainboots and declared herself the keeper of these unruly boys. But since I can’t exactly go back in time, I’m making up for that now.

“When can we start on that by the way?” Vic asks, and I give a dry laugh. “Trying again, I mean.”

“You’re such a dick,” Aaron murmurs, glancing away toward the diner and the happy chatter from inside. We bounce back quick in Prescott. The shooting is a scar that streaks across the neighborhood, but we’re used to scars here. We live in the shape of scars, ragged lines that