“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 sort of way. Unlike Vic, he doesn’t get any deeper than my exterior, doesn’t delve into my soul with a pair of flint-like eyes. Instead, his gaze takes in my tight leather pants, and black Harley tank with interest. “So, which do you prefer? The Camaro or the bike?” He gestures back at Vic’s ride with his thumb, and I give the shiny Harley a cursory glance. For such poor boys, they sure have nice rides.

It’s easy to deduce that they either stole them or, more likely, stole the money or parts to make them happen.

Havoc’s control isn’t limited to Prescott High. I know they have a network of assholes that run the city. It’s a little scary, if you think about it, these seventeen and eighteen-year-old boys running their gang. If they’re this bad now, what’s going to happen in five years? Or ten? That is, if they even make it that long. Like me, I assume they all live life under the assumption they’ve got an expiration date in the not-so-near future.

“I didn’t come to talk cars or bikes,” I say, glancing over at Vic, Callum, Oscar, and Aaron, all perched on the back steps where the food trucks make the weekly deliveries to the cafeteria. “Actually, I—”

“No,” Vic says, that one word spoken so quietly it barely breaks the sudden gust of wind across the lot. But it’s powerful enough to halt any further conversation in its tracks. “I said take the week.” He looks right at me, and I can see this is yet another test.

“You’ll do what I say when I say it.”

Fuck.

Aaron glares at me from green-gold eyes, smoking his cigarette and biting back whatever caustic, awful thing it is he wants to say to me. Bet Vic told him to keep his mouth shut.

As I stand there, I feel them looking at me, all five of them with different expectations, different wants. I should be scared to be out here alone with them, but as of right now, I’m a potential client. They won’t hurt me, not yet.

“Get lost, Bernadette,” Vic says, leaning back on the steps, his expression the most difficult one to read. Hael looks like he wants to bend me over the hood of his car; Oscar looks like he wants to do my fucking taxes; Callum has a much darker, scarier expression on his face. But it’s Aaron who looks like he might want to kill me. “Come find me on Friday to let me know your decision. Until then, stay lost, would you?”

Slowly, I back away and head inside, seething with anger.

And even though I try to hide it, a shiver takes over my entire body. As I sweep past, I know that even Stacey and her girls can see it.

Despite my bravado, I really am terrified, aren’t I?

But am I scared of Havoc? Or scared of what I might become if I give into them?

Vic is sitting in his front yard when I bike over on Friday, my boots crunching across the gravel as I climb off and head his direction. He barely glances my way, but I can see the tense set of his shoulders. If I were a threat, he'd neutralize me without a second thought.

“Bernie, what brings you to this side of the city?” he asks, slowly blowing smoke from between his full lips. He's lounging in a plastic chair on the front lawn of his father's run-down little farmhouse. I remember this place well; I spent a whole week in one of its closets.

“I'll do it.” The words scrape past my throat, like hot coals burning their way up my esophagus. My hands are shaking, but inside, I'm nothing but white-hot rage. I need this, and I hate Vic for making me crawl all the way over here to tell him that.

“Yeah?” He exhales smoke, his violet hair catching the sunlight. Vic just barely glances over his shoulder at me, the tattoos on his neck crinkling with the motion. “Then get over here and sit on my lap.”

My mouth purses. I don't like being told what to do.

“If you want this, you'll be our plaything.”

I must be fucking mad. And yet, the only things that motivate me are my sister … and my vengeance. I don't care about anything anymore, not even myself.

Moving forward, I squeeze between two overgrown bushes and toss my ratty backpack on the ground.

Vic's dark eyes follow me as I walk over and straddle his lap. The expression of triumph on his face is like an arrow to the heart, but my heart turned to stone a long time ago. I don't feel it at all.

My body likes his though, so much so that when I adjust myself and feel his hard, muscular form beneath me, I feel my breath catch.

Vic continues to smoke his joint, the sweet skunk-y smell of weed wafting around me. Pot smoke is so much denser that cigarette smoke, and I swear, it rolls off the lips like nothing else. I'm mesmerized, watching him. He puts one, big hand casually on my hip, studying me with a much sharper, much more intelligent gaze than I'd have ever pegged him for.

“Once you say yes to Havoc, that's it. Kiss me and seal the deal. There's no going back after that.” Vic spins the joint around and offers it up to me, a bit of ash catching on the breeze that flows between us. Across the street, I can hear two of his neighbors shouting at one another, but over here, in the sun, it's not so bad. When you exist in the ugly, you learn to live in the beautiful. “But first, smoke with me a little.”

“I don't feel like getting high,” I say, reaching for his cigarettes. Vic's free hand, the one that was resting on my hip, snaps out and grips my wrist, stopping me.

“Don't you ever have any fun, Bernadette?” he purrs, his voice this viciously beautiful sound, like a predator on the hunt. But a smart predator, one that doesn't expend energy unless absolutely necessary, one that stalks. I shiver, even though I can feel the sun on my back, even with the hot, hot heat of Victor's body between my thighs. I'm not shivering because I'm cold; we both know that.

“No, actually, I don't,” I say, but Vic doesn't release my wrist. He stays right where he is, waiting, holding the joint between us. Our eyes are locked, my green ones on his endless black, sharp as obsidian.

“Take the joint, Bern, and chill out a little.” His words, they're not a request. Narrowing my eyes, I take the joint and inhale, watching the cherry crackle down the length of the paper. My lips and tongue tingle as I exhale, blowing that thick, hot smoke. There's no helping the coughing, but Vic laughs at me anyway. There's no pleasure in the sound either, just a cold, cruel analysis of the situation.

He has me by the balls, and he knows it.

The weed hits me quick, sweeping over my body and making my hands and feet tingle. I exhale without even realizing it, like I'm taking my first real breath in a long, long time.

“Ahh, there we go,” Vic says as I take another drag, passing the joint back to him. He stabs it out in an ashtray, and then grips my hips with two, big, inked hands and then quirks a cocksure little smile that would have me feeling all kinds of pissed off if I wasn't high. “Now, kiss me and show me you really want this.” I lean forward, but Vic stops me, grabbing my chin in tight fingers. His frown is all sorts of cold hell. “Don't half-ass this, Bernadette. A deal's a deal, and we take our shit very seriously.”