see Oscar inside of Hael's Camaro instead of the minivan.
“Pretty sure Vic didn't stutter when he said the van,” I murmur, sick and tired of Oscar's crap. This morning, I am precisely out of fucks to give. I climb in as Oscar tilts the edge of his sharp mouth up into a smile, turning the key and warming the engine up to a gentle purr. When I'm sitting in here, I feel like I can figure out where Hael's coming from. I know who he is. Saucy little playboy with a heart of gold, a love for cars and kids, and … an ex who could be dangerous to us in so many ways.
I slide my hands over my face again as Oscar reverses down the driveway, pausing at the next stop sign to select a song from his phone. Homicide by Logic and Eminem starts to play, and I frown hard.
Maybe I only think I know Hael Harbin? Shit, maybe I don't know any of them?
I haven't forgotten what I overheard at the party.
The boys castrated Donald. They carved the word Rapist into his forehead.
What the actual fuck are they going to do to the Thing?
I also haven’t forgotten what I heard after the party.
“We have a video, of him with your sister.”
But I need time to process that, along with everything else. Some part of me wonders if I’m suffering from some sort of emotional shock.
“I want to talk about the next name on my list,” I start, and Oscar laughs. It isn't a pretty sound. No, actually, it sends chills down my spine. I flick my gaze his direction, trying to align the boy who made a paper princess dress for me in elementary school to the whip-smart gangbanger sitting beside me. There's no correlating the two.
“Of course you do, Bernadette. We can't let such an important matter slip through the cracks. Perhaps we should talk about you flashing me first?”
“Oh, you’re still on that?” I quip, feeling this warm, gooey sense of smug satisfaction steal through me. “And here I thought only the idea of Vic’s bare cock could get you going.”
“If it’s between him, and that terror you call a cunt, then I’ll choose him every time,” Oscar agrees, maliciously smirking at me. He’s acting like he doesn’t care, but it’s quite clear that he’s got my naked body on the brain. “Do you need me to set you up with a waxing appointment this weekend? Bushes like that haven’t been in since the seventies.”
“Don't start with me this morning,” I warn, giving him a sideways look and wishing like hell I'd brought a hoodie with me. It is cold as fuck this morning. Leaning forward, I turn the heater on and sit back as warm air drifts over my chilled skin. “I put my hands around your throat once; don't make me do it again.”
“You think you're tough, don't you, Bernadette?” he asks me, his voice deceptively mild. If he thinks I don't notice the way his fingers curl around the steering wheel, then he's grossly underestimated me.
“No, I don't think anything. I've proven it. I want to go after my social worker, Coraleigh Vincent.” Oscar’s eyes widen slightly at the name, like he expected me to mention the Thing or Kali. But even I understand they’re a bit more complicated than some of the other names on my list. As far as Principal Vaughn … I have no idea what to think.
“I know all about Ms. Vincent,” Oscar says, his smile growing in depravity. It's practically obscene now, almost wantonly uncivilized. “She's been promoted, you know, since you last saw her.”
My jaw clenches as I think of Coraleigh Vincent and her plastered faux smile, her murmured words of comfort, her promises.
“Don't worry, Bernadette. Everything will be different here; you can start a new life.”
She delivered me into the hands of a monster, my foster ‘brother’, Eric Kushner.
A social worker who takes money to deliver pretty girls to ugly monsters.
She handpicks ‘em, girls who seem like victims, who don't have any extended family that might care what happens to them, girls who are pretty.
I've always hated being pretty.
I wish the scars I had on my soul showed on my face. Touching gentle fingers to the bandage on my cheek, I wonder if I’m not already on my way to getting that shit granted.
“Promoted, huh?” I ask, thinking about how a woman paid to rescue children from bad circumstances cares more about money than actually