Victory at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys #5) - C.M. Stunich Page 0,138

with joy. Instead, I’m so twisted up in rage and hate and melancholy that I can’t even appreciate it.

As tired as I am, I feel like I have to keep moving, like if I don’t, the reality of what I’ve been avoiding since the day after the school shooting will come crashing into me like a tsunami. With ice-cold fingers, it’ll drag every last part of me that’s still good and hopeful out into the sea to drown.

“Where are my gym clothes?” I snap as Callum leans in the doorjamb, watching me as the other boys stay where they are in the living room. Somehow, they’re really good at taking turns with their one-on-one time. It’s like, being together as long as they have, they can read each other without having to ask, without having to hash things out with words.

“For what it's worth, this particular incident wasn't just Victor's fault. Some boys just don't know how to share their toys.” Oscar said that to me once. The other four boys made Aaron give me up as his price for joining Havoc because, in part, they were afraid that they couldn’t handle seeing us together all the time. When Aaron and I were a separate entity from Havoc, two pure untouched beautiful things, it was okay. But not in the context of the group.

But that was only because they hadn’t realized how it always needed to be between us: there is no pairing off. Not for anything more than a brief period of time. We’re as interconnected as the strands in a spider’s web.

“Bernie.” This time, Cal’s voice is much firmer, much more commanding. I pause briefly with my fingers curled around the handle of a dresser drawer so that I can look up at him. “Maybe you should take a moment and tell me what happened?”

“I just …” The words won’t come out. They’re trapped. I’m frustrated. I wish I’d killed Pamela when I had the chance. But noooo, I had to get all savior-y and fuck things up with my Goody Two-shoes bullshit. I was looking for redemption in someone who had no such thing to give. “I want to go for a run.”

“A run?” Cal asks, tilting his head slightly to one side. He knows as well as I do that Bernadette Blackbird does not go for ‘runs’. First of all, running around for fun is a privilege not afforded to people who live in Prescott. It’s very likely that a girl will end up stalked or raped or at least beaten on their way around the block. I hate that. I hate rape culture. And I hate rapists. And I hate Pamela. And I hate Neil.

“Yeah,” I say dryly, standing up and popping a hip out. I’m looking for a fight, but I don’t want one with my boys. I really, really don’t. Closing my eyes, I take in a deep breath and try to steel myself. “Can you please help me find my gym clothes, so that I can go out and run this shit off?”

My eyes open as Cal pushes up off the doorjamb and comes over to stand beside me. He seems to know exactly what he’s looking for, opening the top drawer and handing me a pair of sweats and a tank top. He doesn’t even bother pretending that he isn’t looking as I strip down, wrangling my tits into a sports bra that might as well be a fucking tourniquet, and slipping into a pair of sneakers.

He goes with me when I head for the front door. Not surprising. I couldn’t run alone here either, not with the GMP still looming over our heads. Thus far, our planning has reached a bit of a dead end. Getting rid of either Maxwell or Ophelia is a problem; getting rid of both feels like an impossibility. If we take care of one of them, that’ll tip the other off. We have to get them both at the same time, and we have to do it while they’re under the watchful eye of the VGTF.

Talk about a rock, an erection, and a hard place. We are most definitely trapped.

“If we’re not back in thirty …” Cal says as I slip out the front door and he follows me to the elevator. As soon as we step outside the lobby of the building, I start running, my feet pounding the pavement so hard that I have to grit my teeth to keep from clacking them