Mayhem At Prescott High (The Havoc Boys #3)(78)

I start off down the sidewalk when his long fingers wrap my wrist and yank me hard into the alley. He shoves me back against the brick wall and slams his palms down on either side of my head.

“Stop poking and prodding at me, Bernadette,” he snarls, but clearly, he dragged me in here for a reason. Oscar closes his eyes for a moment, giving me a chance to study his face. He’s furious right now, his skin taut, mouth set in a thin line. But at who, or why, I’m not sure. He isn’t human, remember? He opens his eyes to look at me again, and I can’t help but admire the watercolor-like effect of his gray irises. If you really look at them, I guess they’re blue, but there’s very little pigment. “Can’t you just be happy with four unworthy cocks vying for your attention?”

“My relationships with any of the other boys have nothing to do with my relationship to you,” I say, moving as if to duck beneath Oscar’s arm and leave. He stops me by putting his left hand on my throat and pushing me back into the wall. Before I can even think up what to say, he crushes his mouth to mine, kissing me with so much passion that my knees buckle slightly. My fingers dig into the brick wall behind me as Oscar’s left hand tightens slightly and then loosens, releasing me abruptly.

“Come with me,” he says, standing up and then fleeing the alley before I can get a read on his facial expression. I jog to catch up and then force myself to match his pace. It’s a punishing one, but I could use the exercise.

“Where are we going?” I ask, but he just glances briefly down at me and says nothing else. He’s so goddamn verbose and loquacious when there’s business to discuss. Bring up feelings and he shuts the fuck down. I decide that wherever we’re going, I should get some answers, at the very least, so I stick with it.

I’m rewarded with a small white house with red awnings on the windows and porch. It has that well-kept vintage look, even though it’s pretty obvious that the homeowners don’t have a ton of money. I mean, they wouldn’t live in the very heart of South Prescott if they did.

Oscar sweeps up the front walk and then removes a key from the pocket of his suit jacket, unlocking the door and then holding both it and the screen door open with his back. He gestures me in and, with my curiosity riding high, I do.

“Is that you, Oscar?” a voice calls from the kitchen, and I notice him shift me a look of warning.

“It’s me,” he confirms, shutting the door and locking it. It smells like fried potatoes and green onions in here. “I brought a guest with me.”

A woman comes out of the kitchen, smiling at me and holding a soda in her right hand. She has on tight jeans and a loose black tank top. I’d peg her in her early thirties. She looks a bit young to be Oscar’s mother, but then I do know girls who got knocked-up at fourteen and fifteen, so I guess anything’s possible. Then again, I also know for a fact that Oscar’s parents are both dead.

“Bernadette, this is my foster mother, Rebecca,” Oscar says, his gray eyes shifting from her to me. “Bernadette and I fuck on occasion.”

“Oh, stop that,” she chastises, smirking. “You’re his girlfriend then.” She looks positively gleeful at the idea. Rebecca takes a sip of her soda and chuckles, curly hair frothing around her shoulders, makeup well-done and very distinctly South Prescott. We like heavy lips and heavy eyes—day or night. Black or at least very dark liner, falsies, little to no blush. Classic.

“We’ll be in my room if you need anything. Please do your best to knock.” Oscar moves down the hall and I follow after.

“I’m making potato pancakes, in case you want any,” she calls out, her question clearly directed at Oscar’s rapidly retreating back. She smiles at me again. “You can call me Becca. If you need anything, just holler.” She disappears back into the kitchen as I move down the hall and out a back door to a small deck. There seems to be an addition on the side of the garage that has its own entrance. When I step inside, I find Oscar Montauk’s bedroom.

This is fucking weird.

The space is small with jewel-toned purple walls and a double bed with black blankets and sheets. There are a few obscure paintings on the wall, like maybe Oscar did them himself or something. Other than that, I see a dresser with some personal items atop it and a bookshelf crammed full of thrillers and true crime novels, and that’s it.

In short, the room tells me virtually nothing.

Oscar slams the door shut behind me, cutting off all of the natural light; every window in that room has its blinds down and curtains pulled tightly shut. It takes me a minute for my eyes to adjust, but Oscar seems to know exactly what he’s doing, crouching down and pulling a clear bin out from under his bed.

“Why are we here?” I ask, slightly confused. This is the Peters’ place? This is where Alyssa’s been staying? How did Oscar come to live here? I know his parents passed away, and that there was some scandal to it, but a lot of the information about the case was never made public. I remember the time it happened though, the way his face changed and never went back. I want to say we were around thirteen at the time.

“I have a meeting with Coraleigh today,” he says, pulling the top off the bin and tossing it onto the surface of his immaculately kept desk. “Ophelia is putting pressure on her to deflect to her side; she says she can protect her. I want to make sure she understands that isn’t the case.”