Victory at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys #5) - C.M. Stunich Page 0,16

do you do? where are you going in life and why?

“I was worried about you, too,” I say, my eyelashes fluttering as Oscar takes my face in inked fingers and then swiftly drops his mouth to my lips, tasting like mint and cucumber water. I bet they gave him that to loosen him up, to make him feel less like a prisoner and more like a friend. But people like us are not their friends. And they’d best remember that.

Oscar draws back from me slightly, looking me right in the face from a distance that’s both physically and emotionally close. Right now, in this moment, I know he can see every single part of me—bad stuff as well as good.

“We need to call Ophelia,” Oscar says, turning his head away sharply, like the level of intimacy between us in that kitchen is too much for him. He keeps touching me, and I remember my question from the ski lodge: do you want me to keep touching you?

He confirmed it.

Look, I’ll give credit where credit is due: he was marginally better after that night. Of course, that was only two nights ago. Trauma does, of course, accelerate things. Emotion. Trust. Those tight bonds that hold you together when the whole world is trying so desperately to tear you apart.

His hold on me is endless and eternal; it isn’t unbreakable because the possibility of being broken was never even an option. It just is. A fact. As sure as the moon rises.

I swipe a hand over my face to clear the poetry. Jesus, give me a traumatic moment, my fingers buried in some sister-fucker’s eye sockets, and endless amounts of blood, and I start thinking my everyday thoughts in purple prose. What I was trying to say is: I’m glad that Oscar’s back. Because I love him. And I know that, in his own special secret way, he loves me, too.

“I visited Ophelia,” Vic says, surprising me. He hadn’t mentioned that until now. To be fair, we haven’t been here for all that long. Two or three hours, tops. Most of it spent speaking with our crew via text or phone—oh, and that quickie fuck in the bathroom. “She was with Trinity, at a restaurant in one of those fucking tree neighborhoods.”

I smile at that, but it’s a sad smile. It’ll remain that way until I see the other boys. Callum, in particular. How is it that we just got Aaron back and now Callum is missing? That doesn’t seem fair, does it? In books and movies and shit, isn’t it always the girl who gets kidnapped and spirited away? Patriarchal bullshit, to be sure, but I’d trade my life for any one of these boys in an instant.

Bet they’d be pissed if they knew that. Probably spank me some more, too.

I better tell them, just as soon as we’re all together again.

“Well?” Oscar asks, an edge of annoyance making the single word feel sharp, like broken glass. “What did they have to say about the … incident?”

Prescott High Massacre.

That was the title of the article I read, written by a reporter by the name of Emma Jean. Fakest fucking name I’ve ever heard in my life, but shit, maybe she’s on the run from someone or something? Who the fuck knows? The reason that I recognize her name is that she was infamous for being able to get Scarlett Force, the locally famous female racer with the three boyfriends, to give exclusive interviews.

I shake my head, reaching up to rub at my temple with two fingers. I got the ever-living shit kicked out of me today and the bruises to prove it. My body is mottled and purple, like a corpse, just after the blood settles and discolors the skin. Shiver. Shit, I’m even creeping myself out now. Cal would be proud.

My throat tightens as I cock a brow at Vic.

He stares back at me, eyes like crows, a mouth of lush heat, muscles that get every feminine part of me to purr and rub like a cat in heat. I blink a few times and he sighs.

“Those persnickety bitches are acting like they didn’t know about the hit,” Victor tells Oscar, looking at him instead of me. Oscar remains right where he is, pressed up against me, fingers splayed on my hip and against my right cheek. It’s like … we’re frozen in that wardrobe all over again, like he’s stuck here, glued to me against his will. I know