Mayhem At Prescott High (The Havoc Boys #3)(31)

“You're going to regret doing that,” Victor warns, but Oscar just nods once and then continues off down the hall.

“What the … fuck?” Hael asks, blinking like he's just waking up from a dream. “The hell was that about?”

“You okay?” Aaron asks, but I nod. My fingers are still at my throat, but not because I didn't like it. But because some fucked-up part of me did. To be fair, when I fantasize about Oscar, I usually fantasize about one or the other of us with their hands around someone's throat.

I grit my teeth.

“Fine.” I look back to find Callum on the back of the couch, still crouching, but somehow moved from the counter to this new spot. His face says, if Oscar went any further, I was here. I shiver and move back over to my bottle of wine, lifting it up in a salute. Victor is seething, Aaron is pissed, Hael is reeling, Callum … I think he's just observing for now. “To our wedding.”

“To our wedding,” Aaron says, and nobody misses the way he emphasizes the word our in that statement.

I throw back that bottle like a champ, wipe my lips on the hoodie sleeve again, and accept a baseball bat from Cal's outstretched hand. Well, shit, it really is signed by Babe Ruth. Sorry, man. I flip the hood up on my borrowed Aaron hoodie, climb on top of the counter, and heft the bat in both hands.

“Fuck you, Coraleigh Vincent!” I shout, slamming it down on a glass cookie jar in the shape of a mermaid. Porcelain shards explode outward, ricocheting off the backsplash, off my legs, the side of the refrigerator.

“Fuck you,” Hael agrees, popping the top on another bottle of wine. He chugs as much of it as he can, wine dribbling down the sides of his mouth, and then exhales sharply. “Fuck Oscar. Praise the fatherhood of Brittany's spawn—that is, praise the fact that he isn't me.” Hael chucks the bottle on the floor again, letting it shatter and soak a very expensive looking rug.

I hop from the kitchen island to another counter, swinging the bat and smashing a framed photo of Leigh and her husband, all cuddled up in a casino and holding a fan of green bills in their hand. I mean, come on? Come the fuck on? Once the glass is broken, I tear the picture from the wall and throw it.

Callum just laughs and laughs as Aaron lights up a cigarette and then puts it out on the fancy linen couch, marking the fabric with a permanent black scorch. He lights up again, takes a drag, and then does it again. When he's done with that, he parks the smoke between his lips, and takes out the knife that he wielded on Ophelia from his back pocket.

When he stabs the sofa and fluffing comes out, I start laughing, too.

Victor just watches us all with a dark gaze, sipping his wine and enjoying the mayhem.

“Oh come on, boss,” Cal urges, grabbing a floor lamp and ripping off the shade. He hefts the metal length of it up and offers it to Vic like a weapon. Victor accepts as Cal moves over to a small concrete statue of a turtle, lifting it up and chucking it against the kitchen island. It hits the stone countertop, cracking it and knocking off a substantial piece.

Vic pulls back with the metal lamp, as if it were a baseball bat, but pauses when Oscar comes back into the room, looking slightly mollified. His eyes flick to mine as I kick a ceramic crock full of spatulas onto the floor and break it.

“Come not within the measure of my wrath,” Oscar says, quoting Shakespeare again before he grabs a lamp from a side table and throws it against the wall. We're all very careful not to break the front windows. I mean, we couldn't really hang out in here the rest of the break if we did, right?

We smash the place to pieces, and then we drag the Vincents downstairs to look at it all.

“Do you see what you've done?” Oscar hisses, grabbing Coraleigh's chin in tight fingers and making her look at the destruction. True tears roll down her face, and I almost expect Oscar to lick one off. Instead, he shoves her face away and rises to his feet. “Where is the wine?” he asks, and Hael bounces off to comply, holding up a bottle from a laundry basket that he's filled full of them.

“How about this one?” he asks, turning the bottle over to check the label. “Screaming Eagle, it's called. I Googled it and it says it's worth about twenty-eight hundred bucks.”

“Smash it,” Oscar says, taking over the interaction with the Vincents as I sit on top of the counter, hood still up, baseball bat lying across my knees.

“Wait, wait,” Marcus says as Leigh just quietly cries, her brunette hair stuck to the sides of her face. “We can work this out. There's room for all of us in this thing. We can split our takes with you guys. Half and half. Fifty-fifty.”

“You can be rich,” Leigh pleads as Hael chucks the wine bottle into the big apron sink. It breaks, of course. “Think about it,” she continues, licking her lips as Hael pulls out another bottle.

“This one's in German, so I'm not even gonna try to read it. Aaron?” Hael calls out to my ex-now-current, uh, boyfriend? Anyway, he grins down at his phone before looking up.

“Worth about thirteen and a half thousand bucks, my friend.”

Hael takes it by the neck and slams the end of the bottle into the counter, flooding the floor with liquid.

“No!” Leigh screams, struggling violently in her chair. Isn't it incredible how attached some people are to things? So much so that they'd trade others' lives for more? “Listen to me. You can be out of South Prescott within the month. Alyssa is worth a lot of money. You—you—you—” she stutters as Hael takes out a black bottle and frowns at it.