Chaos at Prescott High by C.M. Stunich Page 0,64

determining their relative safety. It’s what he lives for, after all, to protect his girls. “It’s Vic. He’s too intense for his own good. Havoc might be an acronym of our names, but it’s his brainchild.” Aaron turns back to me, expression softening as he taps his fingers against the side of one of the boxes. “Don’t let him get to you, Bern. If you want to be with him, fine, but don’t let him rule you.”

There’s no time for me to respond to that. Heather comes slinking around the corner, like she thought she might be able to eavesdrop on us for a minute. Too bad for her that I’m a master at that game.

“Ready to go?” I ask, ignoring her inquisitive stare as she tries to puzzle out what I’m holding in my hands. Luckily for me, Aaron has the pregnancy tests, so she doesn’t see shit.

“Yeah, I guess,” she says, getting pouty on me. She doesn’t like how much time I’m spending with the boys. She hasn’t said anything, but I can see it in her eyes. The thing is, she doesn’t understand the half of it. I’m not just hanging out with friends here; I’m seeking justice for Pen. For her.

For myself.

We head to the front and Aaron pays in cash, taking the paper bag in his right arm as I lead the way to the door.

I’m not two steps into the parking lot before I realize something’s wrong. The air smells strange, like gasoline and burnt rubber.

“What the hell is—” I start as Aaron reaches out and grabs me by my upper arm, yanking me back and out of the way of a speeding car. Several boys in clown masks lean out the window, chucking Molotov cocktails at the rear windshield of Aaron's van. They smash right through it, turning the vehicle into a blazing inferno within seconds. The fire sweeps over it like a gluttonous demon, gobbling it up with orange tongues and oppressive heat.

“Say hi to Vic for us!” one of the boys shouts as they speed off in fits of laughter.

Meanwhile, the girls scream, the van burns, and people come pouring out of the store to watch.

Guess that's it, isn't it?

This war is officially fucking on.

“Hell is empty, and all the devils are here,” Oscar murmurs, frowning as Aaron paces ruts in the freshly mowed grass of his backyard. That’s the first thing he did when we finished with the police and got Vic and Hael to pick us up, mowed his damn lawn. He did it shirtless, too, with a lit joint hanging out of his mouth.

Despite the shitty turn our Friday afternoon has taken, I won’t lie about my panties being soaked from the sight. Sitting in a plastic chair with my knees to my chest, I wrap my arms around my legs and give Oscar a strange look.

Apparently, I’m not the only one here who thinks that was a weird thing to say.

“Dude, what the fuck are you talking about?” Hael asks, shaking his head and shoving his sunglasses up and into his red hair. He had to cut his date with Brittany short, and, since he only has four passenger seats in his car—I rode with Vic on the Harley—he had to drop the bitch off here before he could come to the police station for the girls and Aaron.

Brittany’s inside now, sitting on the couch and scowling as she browses TikTok videos on her phone.

“It’s a Shakespeare quote,” Oscar replies smoothly, clearly annoyed at us for having to explain his intellectual prowess. “Which you’d know if you actually managed to pass your classes. It was a reference, to explain our current situation. Victor?”

Vic is watching Aaron carefully, like he expects him to fly off the handle at any moment and go batshit. He rubs at his chin, proving that he’s already deep in thought.

“Our plans for this weekend don’t change,” he says, and Aaron turns on him, the joint toppling from his parted lips.

“The fuck?” he asks as Callum kicks a leg up onto the plastic table between us and lights up another joint. He offers it up to Aaron, but he’s not paying attention to anyone but Vic.

“We need to be proactive, not reactive,” Vic says, which is probably true. My attention shifts to Aaron. Every fiber of his being screams violence. It’s written in the tenseness of his muscles, the tightness of his jaw, the clench of his teeth. “Next weekend, we will deliver a

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