Marie would be safe.

But Havoc would be down a man. I’d lose Bernadette. It just isn’t worth it.

“Je t'aime Maman,” I whisper, giving her a kiss on the forehead as she parts the curtains, searching for an enemy that isn’t there. Her visions always get worse when Martin’s around, as if, having a real monster in the house, she tries twice as hard to find one elsewhere. Anything but accepting the truth.

And this, this is part of the reason why Victor’s inheritance is so important. I can buy Marie a nice house, put her in it, and hire security to keep Martin away. That’s all I want, my girl and my mom, safe and sound.

“Fuck.” I swipe my hand down my face and head outside, pausing next to the Camaro with a frown on my face. I’ve had my guys at the garage on this shit for the last few weeks. Have to say, there’s always a cheap thrill in trying out different models of cars. The Firebird is nice. I like the Bronco. But the ’67 Camaro is where my heart is. In a sense, this is my Blackbird in car form. “Alright, girl, let’s see what you got.”

I run my hand over the fresh paint job, heading for the driver’s side and climbing in. I leave the Firebird in the driveway for one of our crew members to pick up and back into the street with my favorite police officers on my ass.

“How did it go?” Oscar asks, already seated in the passenger seat. My hands tighten on the steering wheel. I’d almost forgotten I’d brought him along with me. I glance over to find him watching me from above the black rims of his glasses.

“Martin deserves a hole in the ground and a grave marker so I know exactly where it is that I should be taking a piss when I visit the cemetery.” I dig a pack of cigarettes from my pocket, attempting to light one while I drive. And holy shit, I have to say, I missed driving this motherfucker. “The King of Sexy,” I breathe and Oscar sighs like I’ve torn out one of his fancy little nipple piercings. “Come on, man. If a car were going to get you hard, it’d be this one, am I right?”

“I can hardly see getting it up for an automobile,” he quips, but then, he’s also dicking around on his iPad.

“I call bullshit,” I snort, cig dangling from my mouth as I turn toward the bourgeois middle-class bliss of the Fuller neighborhood. Instead of heading back to Bernie and the mildew infested shit-stain of a safe house, we’re off to see my ex. Fucking Brittany. “You’d lube up and dick that iPad into the mattress if you could fit your cock into any of its holes.”

“You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?” Oscar returns, his voice slithering like a snake from that flat, angry mouth of his. It’s all a front, though. A façade. I’ve seen this motherfucker cry before. It’s been years, but I’ve seen it. He’s just damaged as shit. More damaged than I am. Makes me feel like I don’t have a right to complain about anything. That’s how we are here in Prescott, always comparing our tragedies and finding ourselves wanting. “If this car is the King of Sexy, then you are the king of sticking your dick into whatever hole will fit it.”

I snort, but he isn’t wrong. I was a fucking whore. I’m surprised Bernie even wants me with Señor Virgin Dick over here. He can wear a pretty white wedding dress for her, seeing as he saved himself and all.

“At least I know how to keep a lady entertained,” I retort, because my experience has come in handy. Blackbird appreciates it, I know she does. “Not like I nut five thrusts in the way you do.”

Oscar laughs at me, and the sound is reminiscent of nails on the rough surface of a gravestone. Much as I find the virgin thing funny, I’d never mess with this fucker. Cal, either. Shit, poor Aaron and I are definitely the least scary members of Havoc.

“I can assure you: I have no problems with performance. You should know: you’ve seen it.” Oscar scowls as we turn up the winding road that digs into the hill, cutting away the beauty of the forest. These hills used to be wooded and wild. Now, houses slice through the pretty evergreen forest like blemishes, scars that can never be healed. All these SoCal motherfuckers moving up here and turning Oregon into the strip-mall studded desert that they left behind. Pisses me right the hell off.

Should be no surprise that Brittany’s family moved here from LA.

We park in the driveway, but only I climb out. Brittany doesn’t need or want to see Oscar here. At least the garage door is open so I can see that her father’s Hummer isn’t parked inside. Dealing with that man makes me stabby as fuck. He’s so desperate to destroy me that I have to be careful here. If Brittany turns on me, Forrest Burr will drag me into this VGTF investigation and bury me.

“Hey baby,” Brittany says, sniffling as she opens the door. I do my very best not to sigh. I just can’t with all of this other woman drama. Never been a fan of it. I’m either fucking a chick or I’m not. And I am most definitely done with pretty little Brittany Burr. “Come in.” She turns away and heads down the carpeted hallway toward the newly renovated kitchen.

Britt’s sporting a long-sleeved pink sweater today, to hide all the scars on her back and arms. Our crew fucked her up good at the cabin. They didn’t stop there, either. After I changed the plan to throw blame on the VGTF, Cal decided her face wasn’t exactly off-limits.

Before she opens the fridge, she turns to me, her eyes slightly less bruised and swollen than the last time I saw her. Even with as much animosity and resentment that I feel toward her, seeing her like this makes me sick. Thinking about what happened to her makes me sick. Watching my father knock my mom around, reading the police report on what he did to that prostitute … I just can’t handle seeing women hurt.

It’s my greatest weakness. Bernadette says it’s a strength, too. Guess something can be both. Life exists in dualities and contradictions, doesn’t it?

During the Prescott High Massacre—as the press calls it—I put my gun up to a man’s forehead, pulled the trigger, and found myself spattered with his brains. It didn’t bother me the way seeing Brittany’s cut and bruised face does, her burned wrists, her baby bump hidden beneath that sweater.

Shit.

I scrub at my face.

“You want a soda or something?” she asks, but I shake my head. It’s a struggle to play boyfriend and baby daddy, especially with Bernadette waiting for me. Especially with the miscarriage. It’s funny, isn’t it, how afraid I was when I found out that Brittany was pregnant, and how fucking excited I was when Bernie told me the same damn thing. Of course, that joy only lasted a split-second before it was crushed with the hammer of reality.

A miscarriage.

Caused by the GMP.

On the turf of my fucking school.

My hands squeeze into fists so tight that my knuckles pop through my inked skin. Brittany notices and turns back to the fridge.

“Never mind then,” she murmurs, but I snag the red Coke can from her hand anyway, popping the top and downing the fizzy bubbles as I watch her warily. It’s been almost three weeks since her visit to the cabin, and she’s been too freaked-out to ask me for sex. But it’s coming. I can sense it. Just a little longer, I remind myself, studying her as she pours herself a glass of milk. Eventually, I’ll get the pleasure of telling her that her cabin visit was punishment for betraying Havoc.