Havoc at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys #1) - C.M. Stunich Page 0,8

up and peep in the bathroom door to make sure that Heather’s still situated in the tub, playing with her toys and reminding me that I not only have a reason to stay, but a reason to fight.

If I make this deal, Neil Pence will pay. I don’t know how, but the Havoc Boys have a certain finesse to their cruelty. It’ll be something good, something worthy of my sister, Pen, and of Heather, and of me …

It’s Saturday night, and I’ve already had plenty of time to think.

I’ll do it.

It doesn’t matter what happens to me, doesn’t matter what Vic or his cronies have in store. I’ll be their plaything. Who cares? I was in love with Aaron once, I’ve been lusting after Vic since … forever. They’re all undeniably gorgeous, if a little cruel for my tastes.

Fuck.

Am I really going to do this? I’ve fought my entire life to keep my body to myself. And trust me, men have tried. Men like the Thing. Men like my temporary foster brother. Men like Principal Vaughn.

But then I hear the front door open, and the Thing’s voice booms from downstairs, sending a shiver down my spine.

There’s nothing worse than him, the ultimate villain in my horror story.

A cop, the son of a well-respected judge, the brother of a prosecutor.

Untouchable, impossible, the epitome of evil.

Whatever it takes to bring him down, I’ll do it.

Even if it means getting in bed with Havoc.

I march into Prescott High on Monday ready to make a deal, but I’m already running late, and the school is on lockdown. I have to check in at the office, wait for the gates to be unlocked, and scurry to my first class. I’ve forgotten that we’re having an active shooter drill, so I spend the next few hours learning how to find random objects around the room and use them as weapons.

My first period teacher isn’t pleased when I suggest ramming a pencil up the shooter’s ass from behind. But at least he doesn’t have to hide his disgust with me for long because the lunch bell rings, and I’m off, searching the campus for Havoc.

“They’re out back by the dumpsters smoking,” Stacey Langford suggests, taking pity on me when she sees me searching the halls. She’s barely spoken a dozen words to me since she got shipped here during sophomore year. I figure she’s just afraid I’ll include her in whatever deal I make with Havoc, and she’ll get her ass kicked. As far as queen bees go, she’s not so bad. The bullying thing isn’t really her angle.

“Thanks.”

I head outside and find five boys in black, smoking cigarettes and sitting around some hot rod car that looks far too fancy for the dirty parking lot. Must belong to Hael. He’s got a serious hard-on for vintage rides.

“Nice car,” I say, and he snorts at me, flicking his cigarette in my direction and standing up with this cocky swagger that makes me grit my teeth. In another school, another life, he’d be the king of the elite, some badass ruling over the high school in preparation for a life of luxury. But that sense of entitlement must’ve been hard-earned because I know Hael Harbin doesn’t have a cent to his name. One time, right after my mother lost the house my dad had bought for her, we spent the night in the same homeless shelter.

“Nice car?” He leans against the roof and taps the cherry red door with his tattooed knuckles, honey-brown eyes glittering. He smells like fresh leather, coconut, and motor oil, a much different scent than Vic. My eyes flick that direction and find him watching me carefully, probably waiting for my answer. He doesn’t think I’ll accept. Well, fuck him. Him and his idiot friends came up with this whole ‘Havoc’ thing. Name the job, hear the price, pay up. I’m going to fulfill my end of the bargain, and for three years now, the Havoc Boys have been fulfilling theirs. “This is a ’67 Camaro. It’s a fucking collectible.”

“That’s not a ’67 grille,” I say, gesturing at the front end. “It’s too wide. A ’68 maybe, but not a ’67.” Hael gapes at me for a moment, and then smirks. Hopefully he’s impressed, but really, I don’t know shit about cars. I overheard him talking to a buddy in shop on my way to the bathroom last week.

“Smart chick,” he says, and then looks me over, his eyes sweeping me in a calculating