Victory at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys #5) - C.M. Stunich Page 0,73

in my life. Stacey’s girls never did appreciate being ordered around by people with dicks. They’d much rather deal with other women. Can’t say I blame them.

“We know all about the funeral, thank you,” Oscar purrs, looking down his nose at Vera. “Hundreds of mourners, an open cemetery, private security. Complete waste of our time.”

“Oh, yeah?” Vera quips back, popping her hip in that uniquely tragic Prescott style. I love that she’s wearing a cropped pink shirt that says Hot Girl in forty-degree weather. That’s Fahrenheit, by the way. I don’t know shit about Celsius. This is urban America, yo, not fucking Europe or some shit. “Do you know about the reception Maxwell is having at Kay’s?”

“Reception?” Victor echoes, exchanging a look with Oscar. Swear to fuck, put the two of them together, and they think they know goddamn everything. “And where the fuck is Kay’s?”

Vera just laughs and shakes her head, focusing her attention on me.

“They all must have huge dicks for you to put up with that crap,” she tells me, confident enough in my hold of Havoc’s leashes to prevent any clapback from her snide commentary. “Kay’s—we usually call it KKKay’s because the GMP is racist AF—is a gang-owned strip club near West Burnside Street in Portland. Mason has already ordered a bunch of call girls to attend. He’ll do what he always does: pick a girl and take her upstairs to his bedroom. That’s how often he’s at the club, enough to have a private room.”

There must be something in my gaze that tells Vera I’m not about to back down from the boys and their overprotective stares. As soon as we get home, I’m restarting this argument, setting it on fire and refusing to leave until I’m on my way to playing undercover hooker.

“Listen …” she starts, exhaling sharply and reaching up to run a hand over her shaved head. “I’ve been thinking about this since you came to my auntie’s place. I want to help avenge Stacey. Letting you do it by yourself seems … cowardly somehow. But I’m also not willing to send in any of my girls. I’ll make you a deal: I’ll go if you go.”

“It’s a deal,” I say, reaching out a hand and then shivering as Victor slides his palm over mine, drawing my hand away from Vera’s outstretched one. She snaps her gum at him and narrows her eyes to slits.

“No,” he repeats, and the wicked heat in his voice causes several other people in the crowd to step back as he glares down at Vera with crow-black eyes. “And this is non-negotiable.” My other hand shoots out and snatches Vera’s before Vic can stop me.

“Deal,” I agree, and then I tear away from Vic to go sit with Sara Young. In fact, I move one of the metal chairs right beside her and get comfy. I purposely avoid the stares of the boys as the service begins and the crowd moves in to observe the proceedings.

After this is over, I’m going to get it.

But that’s okay.

Because I already have a plan forming, one that involves the feds, the strip club, and Mason Miller. Cruel subtleties, that’s Havoc’s signature. I’m ready to sign this shit in blood.

Hael Harbin

Blood trickles over my split lip as I run a hand across my jaw, smearing crimson and letting out a low, dangerous laugh that Martin Harbin does not take seriously enough. Swear to god, if I didn’t have fucking pigs watching my house in their shiny police cruisers, I would kill this motherfucker today.

“You want to hit me again?” I ask, standing up straight as blood drips to the front of my white wifebeater. Ironic, considering I’d rather grind up my father into hamburger meat than beat my wife. Well … Victor’s wife. For now. At some point, I’m marrying that girl—whether it’s legal or not. Shit, if this country ever gets its head out of its Puritan-rooted ass and puts polyamory on the ballot, I’ll vote that shit in and take Mrs. Harbin down the aisle.

Because there won’t ever be a different Mrs. Harbin.

I’ve known that for a long time now.

“Do you?” I repeat when Martin doesn’t answer, scoffing at me as he sits down to take off his muddied boots. “Punch your son until he’s black-and-blue all over? You used to love that, seeing me cower. Well, guess what, cowboy, I’m a hell of a lot bigger than you now.”

“Shut your fucking mouth, you little punk,” Martin barks out