“Good,” Hael says, and then he grabs me by the cunt and presses his lips against my cheek, so I can feel his words when he talks. “Think about this when you’re talking to James.” He lets go of me suddenly, and I struggle to straighten up without letting anyone see how easily he just got to me. “And now you may go and enjoy the party.” Hael laughs and then moves away before I can even ask him which character in the game he’s supposed to be. Hopefully it’s the asshole because then he wouldn’t have to act like anything other than himself.

“I’m the murderer,” Cal says, flashing his booklet at me for a second. The way he smiles tells me he smells trouble in the air, and he’s going to go off in search of it. “If you need to end the game, you know the answer.”

He takes off, slipping into the small crowd and disappearing into a hallway that leads toward the back of the house. If I didn’t know to watch for him, I’d have never seen him leave at all.

“I’ll be watching,” Aaron says, leaning back against the wall, the fingers of his right hand curling and uncurling in frustration, like if he does it enough, maybe the cast will just fall off on its own. It doesn’t make him any less beautiful though, any less my savior with chestnut curls and a dimple that shows only when he’s smiling like the world isn’t a broken and desolate place. “If you leave the main area, I’ll follow.”

“You? The cripple of the group?” Oscar says, which is probably a pretty fucking offensive term to some people. “Don’t bother. I’ll watch over her. You make conversation with some of these idiots and see if any of them know Kali, Ophelia, or Tom.”

Victor’s already leaving, slipping away to go talk with Trinity. Just seeing him standing next to her fills me with a fury that I can’t put a name to. It’s the color of Kali’s hair, the green half of it anyway, and it reeks of envy.

I move across the room with a purpose, finding myself in front of James. According to Oscar, he’s the apple of his father’s eye, more like a friend or a brother rather than a son. He should have at least some idea of what the GMP is up to.

“Three guys?” James asks me, leaning back against the wall. His dark hair is tousled, but obviously styled. It’s just this side of too much for me, but he isn’t hideous or anything. If I didn’t sense the uneasy character of the man at first glance, I might’ve looked at him twice just to appreciate the view. As things stand, I’d rather just be done with him. I’m obviously not interested, and I’m actually bored at the prospect of being pursued. As soon as I joined Havoc, all the advances stopped. Not just at Prescott, but around the city, too. “Or is it all five?”

“Are you fucking Trinity or are you fucking Trinity?” I ask, because there’s only one reason he would be here. Besides, if I’m too nice to him then he’ll know I’m totally full of shit. “Wait, don’t answer; I’ve already figured it out.”

James ignores me, lighting up a cigarette and offering me the pack. I decline by lifting a hand, palm out.

“I like your outfit,” he tells me, opening his eyes as he studies me with sea glass blue ones, less like Callum’s endless winter sky eyes and more like empty vessels. There’s nothing deep or introspective in that gaze. Actually, there’s little there but primal want and selfish greed. “Are you planning on holding a séance later?”

“Did you know who the fuck you were messing with when you asked to dance with me at the club?” I cross my arms over my chest, over the planchet, and try to see if I can feel any of my Havoc Boys watching me. If I concentrate, I can, I fucking swear it.

“I did,” James starts, pushing up from the wall like he’s going to come for me. I back up, but it’s not out of fear. I just want distance between us; I don’t like his aura. To be quite honest, he reminds me of the Thing in the way he moves, the way his eyes dart around the room like every woman in it belongs to him.

“You really shouldn’t have,” I warn him, and then I retreat back to the bar for some alcohol. Victor watches me pass by; I know because I can feel his stare, too. He can also see when James follows and comes up behind me at the bar. The asshole’s hands hover too close, and I have to resist the urge to headbutt him.

“Can I make you a drink?” James asks, lowering his voice to a seductive purr. I listen to it, compare it to the way Hael’s fingers etched my skin like lasers, and decide that I’ve been truly and utterly ruined by Havoc. I’ll never be able to have anything less than what they give me.

“I’ll make it myself, thanks,” I quip, adding some vodka and Red Bull to a glass. A little raspberry syrup and voila, the fanciest drink I know. Pam used to make me mix them for her when I was in seventh grade. She went through a sugar-free kick, so it was always sugar-free energy drinks and sugar-free raspberry syrup—to make it healthier, she’d say. Anyway, my naturally bitchy personality seems to be coming in handy.

I don’t want James to think this is going to be easy. I mean, that’s what he thinks anyway. I can see it in the way he licks his lips, or the way his eyes follow me. That, and the fact that he finds it amusing that I might have five lovers.

I turn around, my drink in my hand.

“What’s that called?” James asks me, because he thinks he’s slick. He’s got girls all over the States and even a few in Mexico and Canada. I sip my drink. Obviously, I’m making all of this up, but that’s what it feels like. I’ve been looked at like this since I was eight. Maybe younger. Like a conquest, like a challenge, like a checkmark on a man’s ugly list.

I’m used to it.

But that doesn’t mean I like it.

“Vodka and Red Bull, usually called the Heart Attack Special.” I down half the glass and smile through the overwhelming sweetness of sugared raspberries on my tongue. “When I add the syrup, it becomes mine.”

“It’s pretty,” James says, smiling at me in a way that says he thinks he’s already won. “But not as pretty as you.”

I laugh in his face and push past him.

“It’s the color of blood,” I tell him matter-of-factly. “There’s nothing pretty about this drink.”

“It’s the same color as your hair,” he informs me, but I ignore him, moving through the crowd and pausing by some girls who are busy discussing their character cards.

“I’m fucking the master of the house,” I tell them, pouting slightly, the way the French maid in my stereotypical imaginings might. “But don’t tell anyone. Last night, I saw blood on his shirt just before I took it off.”

The girls all stare at me like I’m an alien creature, most definitely not used to the presence of someone from Prescott High at one of their parties.

“You’re the Havoc girl, right?” one of them finally asks, finally choosing which switch inside her privileged brain to flick. When I first approached them, I could tell they were torn between ripping me apart for being different and falling in love with me. One of the girls is already breathing heavily, like she’d fuck me in the bathroom if I so much as asked.

“That’s me,” I tell them, lifting my glass in salute. “Forgive me if I’m a little off. Fucking five dudes on the regular is exhausting.” That’s a lie, it’s thrilling. You just don’t want them to know how fucking thrilled you are. You love this, love being bad and finding yourself in trouble and feeling emotions like thunderstorms.