Mayhem At Prescott High (The Havoc Boys #3)(67)

“Believe it or not,” I whisper after I put my poem on Mr. Darkwood’s desk, and then turn to lean over Kali’s. I can see she hasn’t written a fucking thing on her own page. “You don’t factor much into what I do. I have everything you ever wanted: the respect of this school, a body you could only dream of, and the love of Havoc.” I move in even closer and put my pink-painted lips up against Kali’s ear. “So get fucked, bitch. I am done with your ass.”

I stand up and head for the door as she starts to shriek behind me.

But I’m not listening. I don’t care. I got to fuck Vic and Aaron at the same time, and it was glorious.

“At the same time,” I say to Principal Vaughn when I come out of the classroom, lighting up a cigarette and laughing at the confused expression on his face. Once upon a time, I was almost afraid of him. Of Kali. Of the world. Not anymore. “Next time: all of them. Every single one!” I hold my cigarette up as I howl, and half the hallway joins in.

Vic better be working on that motherfucking crown because I am here for that shit.

Besides, I might be a shitty poet, but I’m a damn good queen.



Every year, Prescott High holds an absolutely hilarious dance that the administrators have the audacity to call the winter formal. There are a couple of reasons that the name—and the concept—are so damn funny.

First: there isn’t a student at Prescott High that isn’t dirt poor. I’m talking, you’re lucky if your mom works part-time at the convenience store for minimum wage type poor. The idea of a formal dance of any kind is stupid as shit since none of us can afford the clothes needed to fit the theme.

Second: we don’t even have the budget some years for prom. Or homecoming. The only homecoming I’ve ever been around for at Prescott is the one that I didn’t go to. The one that Kali wore my dress to. The night that I fucked Aaron even though I shouldn’t have.

Third: this is South Prescott. You think anyone wants to go to a party run by the administrators? Are you fucking kidding me? We throw our own motherfucking parties.

But, but, but … that being said, we do all look forward to that Friday before Christmas break. In fact, we’ve readjusted our traditions here at Prescott High so that ‘the winter formal’ is now known colloquially as ‘Snow Day’.

Here’s what happened: once, in the early nineties, this stuck-up dickface from Oak Valley Prep decided he wanted to get into a coveted Prescott party. Back then, Prescott students didn’t allow Fuller High or Oak Valley or anyone else to attend their parties. You’d have to be invited by someone who knew not only where the party was being held but also someone at the door, so you could get in.

Anyway, this too-rich-to-shit asswad bought a ton of cocaine, drove it out to the party in his sportscar and used that as a bribe to get himself and his dickhead friends in.

Ever since, we’ve been tolerant of other schools at our parties—provided they behave. Oh, and provided Oak Valley Prep ponies up and brings the goods to Snow Day. They donate a shitload of money, too, so that we can have our gym decked out with a DJ, catered food, and decorations.

The only thing that stays rachet are the Prescott students.

Freshman year, I wore an adorable pink dress that Penelope stole for me from Pamela’s closet. But junior year? I wore red leather pants, a black leather bra, and a black denim jacket with stilettos. Stacey Langford stole a four-hundred-dollar gown from Nordstrom, but her best friend got caught and lost her gear. She came in her PE clothes, hair and makeup done to the nines.

Where am I going with all of this?

Well, unlike last year, I have people I can actually dance with on Snow Day. In freshman year, I had Aaron, and not having him the two years in between … that killed me. Not having Penelope around … that wrecked me. She was just a year older than me, so at least this time, I can pretend like she graduated and that my senior year is everything it’s supposed to be …

I shake my head and rub my hands down my face.

I’m standing outside the hall to Studio C at the Southside Dreams Dance Company. Last time I was here, I was furious. I threw Oscar’s iPad at the wall, broke the mirror, nearly rage-screwed Callum Park … Okay, Bernie, focus, focus, focus. It’s only been four days since Vic gave us the go-ahead.

None of the other boys have touched me since Tuesday morning, but the tension is starting to get thick. I feel it every night when I crawl into Victor’s bed and let him mount me like an alpha in heat. Gah! I shove open the doors to the studio and find Callum stretching on the floor in the middle of the studio.

“You going to teach me to dance today?” I ask, heart thundering. Now that we know Sara Young is following me around, we have to be extremely careful with what we do. Having me come here to dance, now that’s a great way to throw her off our trail.

“More like … I’m going to show you how to find the dancer inside of you,” Callum murmurs, leaning over and folding his body in half. He presses his chest into his thighs, hands wrapped around his feet. Impressive. “Get changed and start the playlist on my phone.”

I nod, and head up to the front of the room to dig through his duffel bag. He’s packed me some pink leggings with a matching sports bra, and a loose black tank to go over the top of it. The ballet slippers with the ribbons are in there, too, just waiting to kiss my toes and carry me across the dance floor.