“Get the fuck away from me, and I'll meet you after school in the library. Isn't that how this thing is supposed to work?” I narrow my green eyes on him, running my tongue across my lower lip and tasting the waxy texture of my lipstick. I’m wearing a line called Naked Heat today, and the color is Scorched, this metallic copper shade that tastes even better because I stole it and I didn’t get caught. “I call Havoc, I set the terms.”
“More or less,” Callum purrs in that rough, husky voice of his, reaching up to run his fingers through his golden hair. He flips the hood on his sleeveless navy sweatshirt up. “But don't push it, Bernie.”
He stands up and stalks out of the room as my hands shake, and I pick the carton of chocolate milk up. Milk. Like a freaking elementary school student. I drink it anyway and pretend like hearing Cal call me Bernie again doesn't bring back horrible memories.
The Havoc Boys are more than just bullies; they're a full-fledged gang.
Once upon a time, they took me down.
This time, I'm sending them on a mission of my own. I just hope this transaction doesn't leave me broken and bleeding like it did last time.
This is such a stupid, fucking idea, I tell myself as I pace out back of the campus' main building, smoking a cigarette and trying to calm myself down. The only way I can face the Havoc Boys by myself is if I steel my nerves first. Otherwise, I might have a full-blown panic attack.
“Run, Bernie, but don't stop. If you do, we'll find you. And you won't like what we do to you if that happens.” I choke on the memory, and the cigarette, before ashing it on the side of the broken cement step I'm sitting on and tucking it away again. Can't waste any of it, it's not like I have an endless supply.
“Bernadette Blackbird, were you smoking back here?” Vice Principal Keating asks me, her mouth pursed into a thin line. I give her a smile and a shrug.
“Not me, VP,” I say, batting my lashes. “You know me: straight and sober.” She sighs, her shoulders drooping, fatigue lining her beautiful face. Ms. Keating is only thirty-two, but she looks fifty. She looked twenty when she started here two years ago. That's what Prescott High does to people: drains the life right out of them.
“You're a good kid, Bernadette,” she tells me, pointing in my direction with a freshly painted pink nail. Oh, well, if she's still getting her nails done, then there's hope for her yet. Maybe her soul hasn't been killed by this place? Mine has. “Don't get sucked into this crap.” I wonder how many other schools have VPs that say crap? Or worse. I've heard Ms. Keating drop the f-bomb on a bad day. “You're better than this, and you are so close to getting out of here forever.”
“With straight Cs, I should be able to get into the community college of my choice!” I cheer, giving her a sarcastic smile and flipping my pink-tipped white-blond hair over my shoulder. “Have a nice day, Ms. Keating.” I turn and hike my ratty backpack up my shoulders, marching into the library in my dark jeans, boots, and leather jacket. The whole goal here is to scare people off before they get on my ass, not after they've already set their sights on me as a victim.
It's like, to survive at this school, you need a warning system, like a porcupine with spines, or a blowfish with spikes. My piercings, tattoos, and leather outfits help with that. But only a little.
When I head into the library, there's another set of metal detectors, and a campus security guard in the corner. He's not looking at me though, he's looking at the Havoc Boys, his hand hovering over his stun gun. Not that a stun gun has much of an effect on these assholes anyway. Trust me: I tried it once.
“Bernadette Blackbird.” Oscar Montauk greets me, standing up from his seat and staring down at me through a pair of rectangular-framed glasses. With his dark hair, aristocrat face, and sharp smile, he should be at Oak Valley Prep with all the rich dickheads. The thing is, Oscar Montauk isn't rich, and even if he is tall, and slender, and wears glasses … I once saw him curb stomp a guy. Plus, he's coated in ink and piercings like all the rest of them. They stop at his neck, fingers of color crawling out from under the collar of his shirt. “You've come a long way, from eating dirt and bleeding out on the gym floor, to hiring us. Something tragic must've happened.”
“Seriously fucking tragic,” Vic says, kicking his boots up on the table. I glance over my shoulder, and find the librarian looking our way, like she can barely stop herself from saying something. She knows better though, and eventually she turns away and buries herself in a stack of returned books.
I glance back, from Vic to Callum, from Oscar to Hael. Aaron is missing, but that's not a surprise. I'm glad he's not here anyway. The less I see Aaron, the better.
Memories of fingers gliding down my bare belly makes me shiver. Of lips on my collarbone. Of his body moving inside of mine …
No. No, fuck Aaron.
“Alright, Bernie, sit and talk.” Vic drops his feet to the floor and then kicks a chair out from under the table. He waves his hand, and I take a seat. I'm not worried about anyone listening or overhearing. Even if they do, they won't be able to use my words against me, not without incurring the wrath of the Havoc Boys. Everybody knows how seriously they take their assignments. “And don't talk in circles around us. We don't like that.”
“He should say, we really don't like that,” Oscar tells me, taking a seat on Hael’s other side. Cal is sitting perched on top of another table, eating corn nuts and watching me like he'd very much like to see me run again, so he could hunt me down.
My fingernails dig into my denim-clad thighs.
I look across the table at the four fuck-heads, and I force myself to breathe, closing my eyes for a moment to brace myself. I think of my sister, Heather, and what could happen to her if I don’t do this. The thought calms me, and I open my eyes.
“I need my vengeance; I want my revenge.”
“And that means what, exactly?” Victor asks, cocking his head to one side, his tongue sliding across his lower lip. He cracks his knuckles as he leans back in his chair, his sweatshirt peeling open at the zipper and flashing all the ink on his neck. “Like I said, be direct.”
My eyes flash up to his, those two black pits, endless and full of shadows.
“My life is just a series of failures,” I blurt, hating them, hating them the most, those Havoc Boys. If I could, I'd set them on themselves. The best I can do right now is sic their monstrous cruelty on everyone else. “I want them all rectified.” Victor scowls at me, and I get the idea that I'm still being too cryptic for his liking. “I need you to … torture some people. I mean, like, the way you tortured me.”
I've practiced saying this so many times in the mirror that I don't even flinch.
The lenses of Oscar's glasses flash as he turns to look at me. The shine fades, and I can see the sharp interest in his gray eyes.
“Who, and how many?” he asks, as he glances down the line of Havoc Boys, like he's checking on their reactions. Victor looks interested, Hael looks bored, and Callum is staring at me with a handful of corn nuts in his palm.
“Seven. If we come to an agreement, I'll tell you their names. Not before.”