Victory at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys #5) - C.M. Stunich Page 0,29

perfectly creased gray sheets, staining them crimson.

“Hey,” I whisper, crawling up on the bed and reaching out to put my hand against his forehead. His skin is cool and clammy, but he’s still breathing, blond lashes flutter as he finally cracks his eyes open. And then, despite everything, despite how far up shit creek we are right now, he manages a smile. “Are you sure you won’t go to the hospital? How much blood have you lost?”

“The neck wound was shallow; it’s stopped bleeding.” Cal forces himself to sit up with a groan, body quivering as he shoves up one sleeve of his bloodied hoodie to show me the fucking hole in his arm. “Gunshot from a forty-five. Went straight through.” He wets his pretty pink lips and then uses two fingers to spread the torn fabric near his shoulder. “Broken board got me here.”

“What the hell happened to you?” I breathe, my words calm but my hands shaking as I pour a glass of orange juice and hand it out to him. Cal takes it with a small nod of thanks, continues to smile at me, and then tosses the rest of it back.

I stare at him, and I can’t help but remember the first day of school when he sat down across from me at a table in the cafeteria. “Bernadette, right?” he’d asked when he damn well knew what my fucking name was. When he’d been stalking me.

If I were talking to any other woman besides myself—especially someone like my little sister Heather—then I would tell her to get the fuck away from these guys, run as far and fast as she could. Stalking isn’t sexy. It’s fucked-up. And yet, when Cal holds out his glass for a refill of juice, my heart just melts for him and I know that even if he is a creepy psycho stalker, he’s my creepy psycho stalker.

“I love you,” Callum tells me, just as I start to pour the juice. I end up sloshing an inordinate amount on the bed, but I guess it doesn’t matter since it smells like wet pennies and mud from the bottom of Cal’s boots. “You know that, don’t you? I’m sorry if I haven’t said it in so many words.” He reaches up and ruffles his angelic blond hair with his slashed and splinter-filled fingers. I’m going to need a pair of tweezers to get most of them out.

Cal downs the second glass of juice and passes it back to me while I consider my response to his statement.

“Callum …” I start, and he chuckles, reaching out for the medical kit. Flicking it open with shaking fingers, he removes a sterile wipe and begins to clean a spot on his inner elbow, swiping away the blood and grime. I reach out and snatch a pair of gloves, slipping them on before I take over the task from him. “Pretty sure I’ve loved you since I was eight.” I take an unopened needle from the bag, tear it open, and attach it to the saline bag.

I’ve done this before, but only on cats. Penelope once found a litter of abandoned kittens in a trash can on our street. She took them to the nearest vet but since we didn’t have any money, they refused to help. I guess the guy felt bad because he showed us how to give saline and sent us home with a bag and some needles. The kittens seemed to get better until Pam found them.

She drowned each and every one in the bathtub. When Penelope and I saw what she was doing … Only one cat was saved, and he lives with a nice family whose kids go to Fuller High.

Anyway, I check Cal’s inner arm for a vein and then do my best to slide the needle in with a single, easy motion. It’s as if my body can sense that the shaking isn’t helping either of us, and as soon as I touch that metal to Callum’s skin, my hands go as still as a surgeon’s. With the needle in place, I lift the bag up and give it a gentle squeeze.

“Say it to me,” he breathes, his face far too close for comfort. We can’t be like this, desperate and needing each other the way we are. Even though this is definitely not the time or place for it, I crawl into his lap and straddle him. He palms my hips with a long, deep sigh, closing