“Five o'clock?” I choke out, pushing up to my feet and heading for the door. I'm no longer wearing my bloodstained clothes from last night, just an old t-shirt I stole from Aaron's dresser. The smell of it—like sandalwood and rose, like Aaron himself—lulled me to sleep last night. Underneath, I’m not wearing shit, but luckily the shirt is long enough to cover me. We're all about casual here, in fucking Havoc House. “Hey,” I say as I open the door to find my sister, along with Aaron's sister Kara and cousin Ashley. “Sorry we slept so late. We … had a long night.” I clench my jaw against the stark reality of that statement.

It’s Friday today, a school day, but only technically speaking. Prescott High would’ve been a ghost town. Nobody in the southside goes to class the day after Halloween, regardless of what day of the week it is. I do feel kind of shitty about not taking the girls though.

“We don't care,” Heather says, peering past me to see both Aaron and Vic in the bed. How weird is that, that we all slept in there together? A tingle passes through me, and I have to wrap my arms around myself to keep it contained. It feels like a sparkle, and I don't like sparkles. They're nothing but bullshit covered in glitter. “We played video games with Hael and ate chips and Twinkies. Ashley puked on Hael's jeans.” She points back at Kara's younger cousin, and the little girl hides behind Kara like she has something to be ashamed of.

I just roll my eyes and run my fingers through my hair.

“Anyone would throw up after a night of candy and a day of junk food.” I glance back at Aaron, sitting in bed with a bandage on his arm, his muscles those of a man, his boy’s body shed along with his old life. What was I thinking? He hasn't been a kid for a long time, and neither have I. “I'll cook something. I just need someone to take me to the store.”

“You'll make tacos?” Heather asks, clasping her hands together in a prayer position. The golden highlights in her light brown hair remind me of Penelope. So much so that I find that I suddenly can't breathe. Shit, fuck, bitch. This is all Vic's fault. And Aaron's, how dare he almost die on me. That's so not freaking fair for him to do that, to trick me into thinking I might lose him so that my walls could come tumbling down. And Callum? He just risked life in prison to save me.

Screw these Havoc Boys, and everything they stand for.

If I were smart, I'd just take Heather and run.

Instead, my blood is thick with vengeance, and the more the boys push, the more of my emotional walls they knock down, the harder I want to fight. The more I hurt. For myself, for Penelope. Like a caged cat, my claws are out.

“Oscar can take you in the van,” Vic murmurs, surprising me. I glance back, but his crow-black eyes are still closed. I'd have known if they were open and boring into me; I'd have felt them.

“Fan-flipping-tastic,” I growl, stepping out of the room and closing the door behind me. As soon as I do, I feel a brief moment of respite. Victor is a lot; Aaron and I have baggage. I just need a minute.

“Shall I make a list?” Oscar asks, looking up from his iPad to stare at me through perfectly clean lenses. I've never seen them with a smudge or a speck; they're almost too clean. He's practically inhuman. “I don't like to dawdle in supermarkets, especially when we're in the middle of a turf war.”

“I'm not exactly the list-making type,” I quip back, giving him a look. He stares right back at me, cutting through me with a slate-gray stare, and then lets his attention dip to my thighs. The shirt is just barely long enough to cover my crotch, leaving little to the imagination.

“Well, then, I suppose I'll make the list while you find something appropriate to wear.”

“How's this for appropriate?” I snap back, lifting the front of the shirt and flashing him tits and bush, all in one go. The girls have wandered out the back door to the yard, so they don’t see it happen, but Oscar most certainly does. An unreadable expression crosses his face before he goes right back to making a list on his iPad, seemingly unaffected by my naked body. Psycho. I drop the shirt back into place and grab the booty shorts I wore beneath my cheerleading skirt last night. I yank them on, twist my hair up into a messy bun, and use the hair-tie on my wrist to keep it in place. “Let's go.” Slipping my feet into my combat boots (the tennis-shoes are covered in blood and should probably be burned), I head for the front door, exhaling sharply as soon as I step out into the wet, cold November morning.

November.

Just last night, there was a harvest moon, a Halloween party … and a murder.

Speaking of, as I close the door behind me and rest my back against it, gathering a bit of peace for myself, I see Callum on the edge of the sidewalk, the hood of his navy-blue sweatshirt over his head, the sleeves torn at the shoulders, his muscular arms and scars on vivid display.

“Hey,” I start, moving across the wet grass to stand beside him. The cold dew seeps through the laces on my boots, chilling me to the bone, but I ignore it, crossing my arms over my chest to ward off the frigid air. My breath escapes in tiny, white clouds as I pause next to Callum, our shoulders pressed as close as I was with Aaron just a few minutes prior.

But between Callum and me, there's a hell of a lot less baggage.

I scoot a bit closer, so that we're touching.

“Good morning,” he says, giving me one of those cryptic smiles of his. The look in his blue eyes is telling, a somber sort of acceptance. “Sometimes pain is pretty, to the people who have too much of it.” Callum Park has already accepted that his life will never be what he wanted, that he will never achieve his dreams. He's come to the realization that some of us just exist in nightmares. “Taking off so soon?”

A shudder comes over me at the thought of returning to my mother's house, of sleeping under the same roof as the Thing. I'm not sure that I can do it, muster up that level of courage just about now.

“Not really. More like, I can't feed the girls junk food for dinner, not after a day of eating chips and cake.” My mouth twitches into a bit of a smile as I remember playing with Penelope, running around the house dressed in Mom's fancy dresses and laughing, stuffing our faces with snacks. When Pamela came home and saw what we were doing, she cracked Pen across the cheek so hard that her face swelled up for almost two weeks. Mom told the school she'd been stung by a bee, that she was allergic. “We're going to the store for supplies.”

My smile disappears as quick as it came.

“Well,” Cal starts, giving that husky laugh of his as he pulls out a pack of cigarettes from his hoodie pocket. “If you need something to do today, stop by the studio.” He lights up, the orange glow from the lighter pushing away the shadows in his face, warming up the darkness inside his hoodie. Beneath all the scars and the bullshit, Callum looks tired and stretched thin.

Nothing I'd ever thought I'd see from a Havoc Boy.

“Yeah?” I quip as the front door opens and we both glance back to see Oscar stepping outside, the gray glare of the sky cutting the lenses of his glasses in half. I can't see his eyes, and I don't like that. There's no telling what he might do if he isn't watched. And if he thinks I've forgotten what he said to me last night—You know I can’t stand you; go bother somebody else—then he's got another thing coming.