Mayhem At Prescott High (The Havoc Boys #3)(74)

Bernadette Blackbird





On Sunday, I text Officer Young to let her know that I have a free hour or so before my husband needs his dinner. Eye roll. Having to pretend that I’m some weak cow, sniveling before the power of Havoc, is infuriating. I hate every second of it.

“Bernadette,” Sara says as she opens her door and smiles at me. It takes the power of every molecule in my fucking body to force a smile back. Why are you following me, woman? What the fuck? “Come on in.”

I nod and step inside Sara’s sweet-smelling little house. She’s very clearly a fan of Hobby Lobby—fuck that store and everything it stands for—because there are decorations on every available surface and crammed onto every single white wall in the place. You know the kind, the ones that say Beautiful Disaster or God Bless This Mess. I gag a little but manage to keep my shit together.

This place is literally the opposite of everything I know.

There’s a small, formal looking living room to my left, a dining room on the right, and a hallway that leads down to what’s probably the only bedroom and bathroom in the place. Sara takes me right, and I see that the kitchen’s semi-open to the dining area.

“Have a seat,” she tells me, gesturing at the country-white stools in front of the kitchen peninsula. “I’ll make you some tea.”

“Coffee, if you have it,” I say, and she gives me a very patronizing sort of look.

“Caffeine isn’t good for teens, Bernadette; you’re not done growing.”

I just stare at her.

“Uh,” I start, trying to figure out how to explain myself without coming off as a raging cunt. “I once got locked in a dark closet for a week with a bucket, some bottled water, and some granola bars. I’m not sure that I give a shit about the effects of caffeine on my growing brain.”

Sara just stares back at me, and this chasm looms between us, one that shows me exactly how difficult it’s going to be for me to connect with her. She likes inspirational signs and thinks coffee is unhealthy for growing kids, and I shot Billie Charter in the shoulder during a drive-by on Monday.

Hmm.

“Is that something you want to talk about?” she asks, dropping the whole coffee-convo and starting a pot without further prompting. I notice she buys Starbucks beans, and I frown even harder. Please. The coffee in South Prescott is next level; no corporately owned coffee place could ever compete.

“Not really,” I respond, trying to keep my lies to a minimum. My eyes rove around the cute, little kitchen with its Joanna Gaines influence and over to an exterior door that leads onto a small deck. Since there are no trees, all I can see are the sides of the neighbor’s houses, all of them in pastel colors. I turn back to Sara, itching to ask why she thought to start following us around. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to know she was there or not, and I won’t reveal my hand so easily. “Mostly, I was hoping you’d have some good news about the Thing?”

“The Thing?” Sara echoes, pouring us each a mug of steaming coffee.

My cup says Good Things Come to Those Who Wait on the side of it. I look at it instead of Sara as I respond, uncomfortable as fuck in the hideous yellow dress Oscar made me wear. The look of sheer triumph on his face when he handed it to me made me want to strangle him again. Or let him strangle you, you perv.

I sip the coffee black and Sara goes completely still, freezing with her container of Candy Cane creamer poised over her cup.

“You drink it black?” she asks, clearly surprised.

“You drink it filled with a chemically composed sugar syrup?” I retort back, and she sets the container down.

“What does ‘the Thing’ mean, Bernadette?” she asks, and I notice that she’s been careful to only call me Bernadette after I corrected Constantine about saying Bernie.

“Sorry, Neil,” I correct, taking another sip of coffee. “He isn’t worthy of a name, in my opinion. But then, I’m sure you think of him differently.”

This time, it’s Sara’s turn to just stare back at me, like she’s trying to test my mettle.

“Your stepfather is … a complex man,” she tells me, like she’s trying to be careful with her words. Sara sets her mug down—it’s covered in sparkly butterflies, gag—and sighs heavily. “Look, Bernadette, I want to tell you something, assuming you’re mature enough to handle it.”

Oh, here we go. She’s trying to play the tough savior role with me. It’s beyond annoying. Sure, Sara Young is nice enough, but she doesn’t understand me or anything about my life.

“Hit me with your best shot,” I say, my lips twitching as I remember listening to Pat Benatar in the Ferrari with Hael. Those memories just make me hot and sweaty, and I really don’t want to deal with wet panties right now. Must sip coffee. “Let me guess: you were fucking him too?”

Sara rears back like she’s been punched in the gut.

“He’s married to your mother,” she hisses, clearly furious. It’s obvious from her expression that it’s not that she doesn’t believe Neil would cheat, just that she, herself would never sleep with a married guy. I shrug, and Sara exhales sharply. I’m wearing her patience thin. “Honey, he told me that if anything were to happen to him, that it would be you who did it.”