The principal of Prescott High—yes, still the principal, even during this period of online schooling—stares at the six of us in his living room like we’ve just walked in infected with the plague. His eyes dart from Aaron to Victor to me, and then drop to the floor where they remain for most of our conversation.

“Anything else interesting you want to tell us?” Vic queries politely, relaxing on Vaughn’s couch and studying him in just such a way that he’s to be reminded to whom he belongs. Already, he’s told us all about the broken online system they’re using for the Prescott student body, how flawed it is, how much Ms. Keating despises it.

That information infuriates me to no end. Like, how is it fair that a school shooting is costing these kids even a meager chance at an education? It isn’t fucking fair and as soon as Vic has his money, we’re going to do something about it. Mark my words.

Vaughn whimpers, his injured hand clutched tightly against his chest. There are clean nubs where his fingers used to be. No way in hell this man had anything to do with setting Stacey up—he has even less backbone than he does fingers.

“Ms. Keating keeps asking about you,” Vaughn offers up, looking at me specifically. He hands me a business card with a personal number written in pen on the back. “You’re so cloistered up in that school, she hasn’t been able to get ahold of you. She asked if I’d seen you around or if I might be able to give this to you.”

“Good boy,” Vic praises, like he’s rewarding a stray dog with a scrap. “You’ve been well-behaved, Vaughn. I’m impressed.”

Scott Vaughn, the man who tried to convince me to be a cam girl for him, just shrinks in on himself in such a way that I’m reminded of Donald. Another monster reduced to rubble at the feet of bigger, better monsters.

It’s cathartic, it really is.

Havoc has delivered everything they promised me and then some.

I add Ms. Keating’s number to my phone and then tuck the card in my pocket.

And even if Principal Vaughn is nothing but a leftover stain from an old and painful life, one who has little to no information to give us about the school or anything else for that matter, I’m glad we stopped by because this is how I end up inviting the Vice Principal to my motherfucking high school graduation.

I’d invite the cop, too, you know. That is, if she weren’t already planning on coming.

With the weeks flowing through our fingers like quicksand, the Havoc Boys and I settle into a routine. We get up in the morning and drink coffee together, casually walk in the direction of the girls’ part of the school so we can see them, and they can see us, but nobody will know that we’re related.

Sometimes, I just push my sweats down at night and bend over so all five boys can use me, fucking me one after the other to slake my insatiable thirst and make sure that I’m taking care of theirs. Last week, Aaron asked if that bothered me, if I felt like I was being used.

I laughed and told him the truth: we all use each other, Aaron, but we all need each other, too. It’s perfect. What we do is perfect.

Standing in the kitchen now, I bounce on my toes and try not to think too hard about this morning when I bent over and put my palms on the wall of windows, spreading my legs for all five boys before class. Jesus.

A smile teases my lips as I blast Cardi B—I’ve decided I’m, like, her but in poor white trash form—and swing my hips to “Bodak Yellow” which is still my favorite of her songs though “WAP” is a close second. Embedded in the same playlist, I’ve got plenty of Megan Thee Stallion.

“Bernie,” Aaron murmurs, kissing the side of my neck and palming my ass. I slap him away but only for show. In reality, I crave his touch the way the ocean craves the shore. Even when it retreats, it always comes back; it simply can’t help itself.

I glance over at him, silhouetted in a loose cotton t-shirt with Wesley’s scrawled across the front of it. He’s casual, barefooted, dressed in raggedy denim jeans that cup his firm ass and thighs in a way that’s truly criminal. Those jeans must be old, because they cling and grab in certain places, as if Aaron’s gotten a bit bulkier after purchasing them.

“Aaron,” I reply carefully as he comes up behind me, sliding his hands along my ribs and kissing the side of my neck again. I swear, there’s a permanent scar where he bit me during our big orgy at the house. Sometimes, I think I can still feel it throbbing, and I love that. I love that there’s a mark I can recognize his touch by.

The way his sweet mouth turns sour, I know he’s got something wicked in mind. Aaron steps up behind me, shoves my sweats down, and then opens the fly of his jeans. We have a quick, wild rut there at the counter, his hands kneading my breasts, his lips making love to my throat.

Afterward, when we’re chilling on the couch, Oscar comes out of the first of the other two bedrooms, the one he uses as an office.

“Meeting,” he barks, twisting a finger in the air in that sharp, peremptory way of his. Of course, the only person that can truly demand or order anything is Victor. Our boss pads down the hall and pauses, giving his lieutenant a bit of a look.

“Meeting, huh?” Vic asks wryly, but then he yawns and scratches loosely at the front of his t-shirt before taking a seat on the sofa across from me and Aaron. Callum crouches in the chair while Hael lounges beside his best friend. Oscar remains standing, setting the iPad on the table so we can look at a map of Oak Valley Prep. “What’s up?”

“We don’t have many good choices but to rest on the reality of the VGTF raiding the school. Maxwell and Ophelia will be arrested. At this point, that’s a fact.” He crosses his arms over his chest with a deep-set frown resting on his sharp lips. Instead of a suit, he’s wearing a gray wife beater and silky charcoal pants that probably feel amazing brushing up against his bare cock.

I adjust myself in Aaron’s arms and he hugs me close. Last night, we sat together in the living room with a single candle burning and worked on scanning those old photos of me and Penelope into the cloud. We did the same with the documents in the cardboard box and then sat there, eating chocolate and reminiscing. He remembers my sister better than any of the other boys, Aaron does.

His fingers play absently in my hair, the way they used to do when we were fifteen and newly in love. Oscar watches us for a moment before glancing back at Vic.

“I’ve calculated the risks for a dozen different scenarios, and this is our best bet.” Oscar gestures at the iPad again and then folds his fingers beneath his chin, stroking the strong column of his throat. “It’s out of our hands now.”

The fingers of Victor’s left hand clench around the end of the sofa arm, fingertips denting the leather in just such a way that it creaks. I’m not the only one looking at him; the rest of the boys are watching. They know as well as I do that letting Ophelia go means spending months more on edge, fighting, struggling, plotting, planning. It also means that Vic might never get to cross his mother off his own, personal list.

A muscle in his jaw ticks, but he nods once, nice and sharp. An agreement.

“That’s it?” Aaron asks, sitting us both up from our snuggled position on the couch. He keeps his arms around me though. “That’s how we’re going to deal with these fuckers? They stormed our school, Vic. They killed Stacey; they almost killed Callum. Your mom …”