Victory at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys #5) - C.M. Stunich Page 0,38

tea and a plate of cookies and setting them on the coffee table in front of me. His eyes meet mine as he crouches down in front of me. “Zombie.” He makes a line across the front of his throat. “We need to get rid of Maxwell. That’s how we do it. There’s always infighting during a power shift; the GMP will turn its attentions inward.”

“You’re right, but,” I start, lifting up one of the cookies. They’re a bit odd looking, like discs of fudge or something. “What the fuck is this?”

“Ma mère les a fait pour toi,” Hael tells me, and I raise an eyebrow. He smiles, reaching out his HAVOC tatted hand to cup the side of my face. His skin is warm, and I swear that I can smell the sweet scent of coconuts. “Those are pralines, Blackbird,” he continues with a laugh, standing up and putting his hands on his hips. “My mom made them for you. I … maybe told her about the miscarriage.” He shrugs his shoulders loosely, but he doesn’t need to explain. He can tell whoever he wants. Before I fell asleep last night, he kissed me like he was drowning, and then tore himself away so he could head home and comfort his mom. She was hysterical—understandably—because of the shooting.

The whole of Prescott is hysterical.

And I swear to fucking god, it’s like every pair of eyes in this city are on us.

You let enemies into our turf; you let them hurt our kids. What are you going to do about that?

The only thing I can promise is that we aren’t going to let it slide.

Prescott High belongs to Havoc.

“A praline is made with sugar, cream, and nuts.” Hael lets a cocky smile slide into place and gives me an exaggerated wink. “We all know how much you love nuts. You’ve got ten delicious nuts just waiting around for an invitation.”

“She’s bleeding everywhere, fuck off,” Aaron growls at him, but I just smile. I smile because I like them both, even though they couldn’t be anymore different. Hael wants to laugh and play away the pain because it’s what he’s used to; it’s what makes him feel better. Aaron wants to coddle and protect me. I’m okay with both.

I take a bite of a praline and give Hael a thumbs-up.

“Okay, so we take out Maxwell Barrasso. How?” I scroll through a bunch of documents on Oscar’s iPad. He’s actually letting me touch it. If that isn’t love, I don’t know what is. Honestly, I’m not certain I shouldn’t be madly jealous of the goddamn thing. He’d probably fuck it on its period, too. You know, if iPads had menstrual flows. “His house looks like a military fortress.”

“It is a military fortress,” Oscar says, sitting across from me on the other sofa as Aaron drops a plate of pancakes on the table in front of me. Callum watches us, smoking a joint and looking like death warmed-over. His hand shakes as he lifts it to his pretty, pink lips, but I’m fairly certain it’s from fatigue and pain rather than fear or stress. That’s just not how Mr. Park rolls. “Electric fences, security cameras, guards, dogs.” Oscar shrugs one, elegant shoulder. The effect of his aristocratic evil isn’t lessened by the fact that he’s shirtless and wearing only ink on his top half. His sweats are threadbare and rachet, an old pair of gym pants from Prescott High. I think—although this is Oscar so who the fuck knows—that he wore them out of nostalgia.

“Don’t forget about Mason,” Aaron adds, arms crossed over his chest. His gaze has barely left me since he found out about the … miscarriage. What a strange word, isn’t it? I’m having trouble registering what, exactly, that means. The only thing I know is that I don’t want a baby yet. I figure if I can’t legally buy a bottle of vodka then I don’t want a kid. Besides, if I can hold out at least one more year, I’ll be the oldest mother on Pamela’s side of the family.

What can I say? Prescott blood runs thick and hot. We just can’t help ourselves.

“Mason Miller,” I start slowly, because I haven’t heard much about the guy. I look over at Callum and find him watching me with eyes the color of sorrow and melancholy. He’s always said that if someone in Havoc had to die, it would be him. Part of me wonders if he’s even really here or