Victory at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys #5) - C.M. Stunich Page 0,77

golden retriever.

“You are going to need to get over your shit with my daddy,” she says in that grating way of hers, the one that makes me wonder how I ever got it up to fuck her in the first place. I take a sip of the soda and wait while she sighs and slides onto one of the stools at the peninsula. She looked better with the dark hair she had on Halloween—not that it matters to me—but she looks even less attractive than usual to me. Or maybe it’s just because I’m in love and the only girl in the world that matters is Blackbird? “He’s working.” She sips her milk as I grit my teeth and then force myself to exhale to relax. The more of a dick I act like, the tighter she clams up.

“Working on what?”

Her brown eyes snap over to me and she scowls again.

“I’m not some informant for you to shake down, Hael. I’m the mother of your child”—only in your fantasies, bitch—“so you better learn to start treating me nicely.”

“Britt, if you know something, you should tell me. I won’t be much of a baby daddy if I’m dead or in jail.” I move over to stand in front of the peninsula across from Brittany, resting my elbows on the tile countertop. “You know we’d never hurt your father.” Not unless we have to, too risky. “What’s going on?”

“I’m not a mole, Hael,” Brittany grumbles, looking away from me to where a show’s playing on the TV. It’s The Queen’s Gambit, some chess drama about a wonder-girl that Bernadette’s been obsessed with for the last few days. I only watched, like, half an episode last night before I whipped my cock out and slid into the silken heat of my girl’s pussy. “Ugh, this show is ridiculous. Talk about ramming woke culture down your throat. It’s nothing but a femi-Nazi mess.”

My eye twitches, but I manage to keep my thoughts about that to myself. Bernie loves The Queen’s Gambit. Brittany looks like she wants to puke. Polar opposites. And there’s only one that I’m attracted to.

Brittany uses an app on her phone to turn the TV off and then turns back to look at me.

“Dad is worried. There are, like, a ton of missing Prescott kids.” Brittany opens a plastic container and pulls out a powdered doughnut, frowning down at it for several seconds before she finally takes a bite. She’s always had eating disorders, but I guess being pregnant makes starving yourself a bit harder. I take a doughnut for myself, waiting for her to continue with this train of thought. After all, we’ve only got limited time before the gig is up. As soon as the kid is born, she’ll know he isn’t mine. Rich Pratt, the real father of the baby she’s carrying, is black. I might not be as white as a virgin’s wedding dress the way Bernadette is, but Brittany will know the kid isn’t mine after taking one look at him. “He says I’ll be lucky if you make it to the baby’s birth. Apparently, that Nazi Portland gang is killing all your, like, crew? Is that what you call them? Crew?” Brittany takes another bite of her doughnut and then sets it aside with a deep frown. “They’re bringing in cadaver dogs next week to search some property near Veneta.”

A chill takes over me, but I hide it by sipping the Coke in my hand.

Property near Veneta … means Tom Muller’s property.

Means our bodies, dug up and exposed to the light of day. The only thing I can say about that is, we were very careful about leaving any evidence behind. If the VGTF finds our buried friends in the woods, they’ll connect them to the GMP. This could actually be a blessing in disguise for us, a chance to wash ourselves of our sins and start with a clean slate.

“Anything else?” I ask, and Brittany turns a look on me that’s so poisonous that I stand up and set the soda can aside.

“If you came over here just to grill me for gang crap, you can go.” She stands up and storms off down the hallway. Using my well-adjusted man-whore senses, I can tell she wants me to go after her, grab her by the shoulder, throw her into the wall and kiss her.

I’m more likely to plant one on Principal Vaughn, if you know what I mean.

I turn to head for the door