Victory at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys #5) - C.M. Stunich Page 0,76

into the hill, cutting away the beauty of the forest. These hills used to be wooded and wild. Now, houses slice through the pretty evergreen forest like blemishes, scars that can never be healed. All these SoCal motherfuckers moving up here and turning Oregon into the strip-mall studded desert that they left behind. Pisses me right the hell off.

Should be no surprise that Brittany’s family moved here from LA.

We park in the driveway, but only I climb out. Brittany doesn’t need or want to see Oscar here. At least the garage door is open so I can see that her father’s Hummer isn’t parked inside. Dealing with that man makes me stabby as fuck. He’s so desperate to destroy me that I have to be careful here. If Brittany turns on me, Forrest Burr will drag me into this VGTF investigation and bury me.

“Hey baby,” Brittany says, sniffling as she opens the door. I do my very best not to sigh. I just can’t with all of this other woman drama. Never been a fan of it. I’m either fucking a chick or I’m not. And I am most definitely done with pretty little Brittany Burr. “Come in.” She turns away and heads down the carpeted hallway toward the newly renovated kitchen.

Britt’s sporting a long-sleeved pink sweater today, to hide all the scars on her back and arms. Our crew fucked her up good at the cabin. They didn’t stop there, either. After I changed the plan to throw blame on the VGTF, Cal decided her face wasn’t exactly off-limits.

Before she opens the fridge, she turns to me, her eyes slightly less bruised and swollen than the last time I saw her. Even with as much animosity and resentment that I feel toward her, seeing her like this makes me sick. Thinking about what happened to her makes me sick. Watching my father knock my mom around, reading the police report on what he did to that prostitute … I just can’t handle seeing women hurt.

It’s my greatest weakness. Bernadette says it’s a strength, too. Guess something can be both. Life exists in dualities and contradictions, doesn’t it?

During the Prescott High Massacre—as the press calls it—I put my gun up to a man’s forehead, pulled the trigger, and found myself spattered with his brains. It didn’t bother me the way seeing Brittany’s cut and bruised face does, her burned wrists, her baby bump hidden beneath that sweater.

Shit.

I scrub at my face.

“You want a soda or something?” she asks, but I shake my head. It’s a struggle to play boyfriend and baby daddy, especially with Bernadette waiting for me. Especially with the miscarriage. It’s funny, isn’t it, how afraid I was when I found out that Brittany was pregnant, and how fucking excited I was when Bernie told me the same damn thing. Of course, that joy only lasted a split-second before it was crushed with the hammer of reality.

A miscarriage.

Caused by the GMP.

On the turf of my fucking school.

My hands squeeze into fists so tight that my knuckles pop through my inked skin. Brittany notices and turns back to the fridge.

“Never mind then,” she murmurs, but I snag the red Coke can from her hand anyway, popping the top and downing the fizzy bubbles as I watch her warily. It’s been almost three weeks since her visit to the cabin, and she’s been too freaked-out to ask me for sex. But it’s coming. I can sense it. Just a little longer, I remind myself, studying her as she pours herself a glass of milk. Eventually, I’ll get the pleasure of telling her that her cabin visit was punishment for betraying Havoc.

For now, we use her.

Whatever it takes to keep our family safe.

“Where’s your dad?” I ask, because that’s why I’m here. For information. She’s already told me all sorts of fun things since I lied about the DNA results in front of Fuller High: Neil was a dirty cop working for the GMP, the VGTF is planning a raid, her father thinks he can get Maxwell Barrasso on RICO charges for the school shooting.

Britt snorts at me and scowls, tossing blond hair over her shoulder as she looks me over with a gaze I’m well familiar with: you are pathetic. I only want you because my father hates you, and you’re a bad boy, and you can fuck. In reality, I want to marry a Ken Doll with a 401k who can give me a white picket fence and a