Mayhem At Prescott High (The Havoc Boys #3)(33)

“Tell me how it is that you know how to cook?” I ask and Hael laughs. Always fucking laughing, him and Callum. But while Cal, oddly enough, reminds me of the Joker, Hael is just … fun. His laughter is just that, a way to lighten the mood.

“Ma mère m'a appris à cuisiner, cher,” he purrs in French with a little Cajun touch, giving me this saucy ass shit-eating little smirk that both pisses me off and makes me want to fuck him on the cracked countertop. I lean forward and park my elbows on it instead, acting like I don't feel Victor watching us from the living room. Most of the debris has been swept into a pile, so we can still sorta lounge around in the detritus.

“That means … something about your mom?” I ask, putting my chin in my palm.

“En fait c'était à propos de ta mère mais tu n'as pas compris la blague, n'est-ce pas?” he asks me, cocking a brow as he stirs the meat with the spatula. I pick off a piece of the broken counter and chuck it at his face. He catches it, which annoys me to no end, and then flings it over his shoulder. It lands perfectly in the tiny prep sink. “My mother taught me how to cook,” Hael adds finally, face falling slightly. The song on his phone shifts to “My House” by Flo Rida and his lips twitch into a small grin. He loves this stupid ass song and, as much as I hate it, I can't help but feel something when I see him start to mouth the lyrics. “She didn't teach me to cook no turkey fucking tacos, but once you've got the skillset down …” Hael trails off as Callum appears, holding an apron.

“Let me put it on for you honey,” Cal murmurs in his beautiful voice. It's more than just gravelly or husky or broken, it's transcendent. When Cal speaks, his words carry emotion the way his dance moves do; he's just full of feeling.

“Why, thank you, sweet husband,” Hael chortles as Cal tosses the apron around his neck and then hugs his midsection.

“We should get freaky afterward, with you in such a skimpy little thing.” Callum slaps Hael on the ass and then, in one single motion, he hops onto the counter and crouches beside me. He stares at me as he grabs a cluster of purple grapes from the bag next to my arm and very carefully and purposely crushes one between his teeth. “I loved your swimsuit, by the way.”

Victor snorts from behind me, and I turn a glare on him.

“That wasn't a swimsuit; it was a husband's worst nightmare. Like some prologue to a porn shoot.”

“Hey, fuck you!” I snap at him, chucking some grapes his direction. He actually manages to catch one in his mouth as I glare. “If I want to swim naked, I will.”

“Just so long as you wax that bush,” Oscar chimes in, but he doesn't look up from the magazine on his lap. Hot heat fills me from my head down to my toes, like a kettle of boiling water. Would not be surprised if steam came out of my fucking ears.

“I'm going to literally kill you,” I grind out, and, without my even meaning to, my fingers find my throat. Oscar looks up then and our gazes lock, stealing my breath away and making me dizzy. “When I let you pin me before, I was being nice. Never forget that.”

“Why the fuck would you ridicule a girl for having hair where the devil put it?” Victor asks, giving Oscar a nasty look. “You've already infringed on the last of my nerves today. Next time you put hands on my wife, I'll crack your face open.”

“Besides,” I quip, loving the way both Vic's and Oscar's gazes swing over to me. “It gets chafed down there if you fuck as much as I do and leave it bare.”' I smile meanly. “I keep myself looking fly, I trim that shit. Maybe you should consider doing the same?”

“Shots fired!” Hael howls as Callum chuckles. Aaron pauses halfway down the stairs, hand on the banister, as he tries to figure out what we're playing at down here. “Tu es une putain de dure à cuire, Blackbird. One tough bitch.”

Oscar's eyes narrow, but apparently, he doesn't want to talk about the fact that he went balls-deep while I was bleeding and vulnerable underneath him. He doesn't care. He's just a sociopath with a pretty face.

“The kids are situated; the Vincents are secure,” Aaron says, coming over to stand beside me. When he comes close, I can feel him, like there's a charge in the air, some electrical connection between us that buzzes pleasantly against my skin. “I told them we could eat and then swim again.”

“Almost done,” Hael says, putting the top on the sizzling pan of meat before returning back to the avocado he was slicing up. “Did you know cartels control most of the avocado production in Mexico? We should get in on that shit.”

“Fucking cartels,” Victor murmurs, but he's also rubbing his chin, so clearly he's thinking about something. “Any word on how the Charter Crew did making up that twenty-grand in product?”

Oscar makes a sound of annoyance and then sneers, tossing the magazine aside. Pretty sure he wasn't even looking at it—what use would Oscar Montauk have for modern décor in a contemporary world.

“Since Mitch Charter is driving a new car, I would say they aren't hurting at all. They either have sources of income I don't know about, or else someone big is backing them.” Oscar pauses, narrowing his gray eyes on the floor as he spirals into his thoughts.

“What about the gang that supplied them with the product in the first place?” Aaron asks, but Oscar is already standing up and shaking his head. He is, once again, wearing a suit and tie. It's like he doesn't know how to relax for more than five freaking minutes at a time.