Victory at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys #5) - C.M. Stunich Page 0,67

not doing them.

“Maybe we will go to the funeral,” Sara says, surprising me. Constantine, too, if the look he throws is her any indication. He can’t possibly fathom why she’d want to waste her time at the funeral of a dead whore. Anger rises up in me, hot and filthy, but I push it aside. Save it for later, as Vic might say. Wield it like a weapon. I really should trust his advice, considering how goddamn similar we are. “Why don’t you give me the details and we can speak with Callum after?”

I stare right back at her, and I swear, the look on her pretty face is a challenge.

The thing is, I’m a dog of motherfucking war. I know exactly how to hold the stare of another predator and win. After a moment, Sara takes out her phone, unlocks the screen and passes it over to me.

After a split-second of hesitation, I take it and type in the address. Stacey’s funeral is being held at a different cemetery than the one where Pen is buried, thank god. I’m not sure if I’m ready to go back up there just yet. And not necessarily because of the trauma Neil put me through, but … because I don’t how to face my sister just yet.

It wasn’t the Thing with his twisted appetite that finally snuffed out your sweet light? It was Mom? Pen, if you were so scared of Pamela, you should’ve told me … You should’ve told me everything. We could’ve run away together. We could’ve taken Heather with us.

My breath catches because I know that, even in my desperate dreaming, a plan like that never would’ve worked.

“Starts in two hours,” I say, studying the two VGTF agents. Keep your friends close, your enemies closer, am I right? And I intend to keep Sara tucked up right beside me until we get through this. “For now, you can fuck right off. Prescott doesn’t like pigs—be they from the SPD or the FBI or the motherfucking CI-fucking-A.”

“Why don’t you see if you can’t get the F-word into your speech a bit more frequently?” Constantine jeers, turning away and heading for the passenger side of the car. “Shows off how much class you’ve got.”

“Oh, Constantine, baby,” I call as Sara starts after him, pausing to give me a look that clearly says don’t get started with him. “You have no idea how classy this bitch can be.”

I let out a throaty chuckle, eyes shifting to the right as I hear a monster sound system throbbing from down the block. Not entirely unexpected in this neighborhood, but …

“Hael’s back.” Cal dips his chin briefly and then lifts a hand up to indicate the pink and white convertible rolling toward us. The top is down, the vintage beauty clearly responsible for the music pulsing in the gray February afternoon. The song that’s playing is “Girls in the Hood” by Megan Thee Stallion. My lips twitch. Really, Hael Harbin? Really?

“You motherfucker,” I murmur, putting my hands together in a prayer position and touching them to my as-of-yet unpainted mouth. Don’t worry though: I’ll correct that later. I have an idea for a custom blended color for the funeral. Prescott girls know their lip color; I can’t disgrace Stacey’s memory with something basic.

Hael pulls the car up alongside the curb behind the maroon-colored Subaru that Sara’s been driving. The paint is shiny and fresh, almost glaring in the tumbledown neighborhood with its overgrown lawns, faded apartment buildings, and moss-logged roofs. We have some mad car culture shit in Prescott, but you won’t find any residents here leaving their vintage beauties outside to be stolen. Happens all the time. The rule at Prescott High is: if you’re stupid enough to get your car stolen, then it doesn’t belong to you anymore. Get over it.

Rumor has it that’s how Scarlett Force met her main squeeze—by stealing his car and then totaling it.

“Hael Harbin,” I warn as my heart thunders, and I forget for a moment that I’m supposed to be pissed off at the two VGTF agents standing in my yard. “What the fuck is this?”

But, of course, I know exactly what it is.

This is my ’57 Cadillac Eldorado, the one he promised to restore for me.

Promise, delivered. There’s even a bow on the motherfucking hood.

“Girl,” he says, turning the song up and then opening the door and revealing the bloodred leather interior. “Your man doesn’t say shit if he doesn’t mean it.” He lights up a