HAVOC
When I was a kid, I wasn’t a big ‘reader,’ but the library at Neil deGrasse Tyson High had a copy ofThe Outsidersby S.E. Hinton. The book was beaten to balls. I mean, the cover was torn, with the corners of the decayed pages dog-eared. I was half-afraid to crack open the damn thing, afraid it would crumble in my clumsy hands. Couldn’t say what drew me to the book, but once I got past the first chapter, a whole world opened to me. I fell into Tulsa, Oklahoma. I wasthere. Hinton put me in the 1960s, in that world with the greasers and the socs.
As an adult, I understand why I was fascinated with the story. When we were kids, we all heard the stories about Brighton. How its fancy people lived in palaces, like genuine royalty. Mayhem, they told us, is the antithesis of that golden fucking paradise. The people there aren’t just richer. Nah, they’re smarter. Better. The men are more handsome, the women prettier. God forbid any of us delinquents forgot it. There was always some pretentious adult to remind us of our place in society.
Someone to remind us we’ll always be Mayhem trash. Never anything more.
That’s why, along with the wordUnholy, each member of our gang hasMayhem Forevertattooed somewhere on our body.
Mine rests over my left rib cage, under my heart.
Mayhem is where we were born. Where we were raised. It’s for damn sure what we’re ready to die for, and as I drive past Brighton’s white-and-gold welcome sign (what a joke, this whole city is a country club on steroids), I lower the window and hock a mouthful of spit on the precious fucking pavement.
Korn’s “Somebody Someone” blasts from the radio as I follow the GPS that guides me through this pristine so-called utopia. But no place is perfect. Even Eden had a serpent. And guess fucking what? The sun doesn’t shine brighter here than it does in Mayhem. The stores that line the streets, okay, they’re nicer. Yeah, no shit. That’s expected since they’re high-end, whereas the ones in Mayhem are mom-and-pop shops. I haven’t even driven past a single bar. Instead, I see a gastropub and feel snooty just being this close to it. As if I can catch Pretentiousness from visual contact alone.
It’s hard to believe Kerri—my duchess—grew up in this obnoxious city. No wonder she had a stick wedged up her ass when I met her. How could she not when she had to survive in this place?
And fuck.
Now my mind is on her ass, and that’s dangerous when I should concentrate on the road because I’m way out of my element. I’ll get pulled over so fast it’ll give me whiplash if I don’t mind the speed limit to the exact number. I mean, Christ. What idiots, giving me side-eye as I drive by. Clutching their pocketbooks while walking their little frou-frou dogs. The fuck? Do they think I’ll jump out of a moving vehicle to rob them?
I’m a good criminal, but damn.
Whatever.
I remind myself this is for Kerri as I take a right on Woodrow and Essex. The manicured suburban neighborhood is nothing but gated communities surrounded by tall fences, and when the GPS instructs me to turn left, I do. The first barrier is an electric fence. I’d say it’s like the one that surrounds Sanctum, but it’s not. Ours is plain and functional. It keeps people out. Period. With its scrolling design, the wrought iron is as decorative as it is operational. I lower the window and punch in the code on the keypad on the side of the entranceway. Kerri texted me the number last night. The gate slides open, I drive through and…
…I come to another stop at a second obstacle.
This one is a mechanical arm protruding from a security booth. Out walks a hefty guard, his gray uniform starched damn near to death. If he grips that iPad any harder, it’ll snap it in his sausage fingers. He adjusts his company-issued cap, with the hint of salt-and-pepper hair peeking out from the sides, as he marches over. He inspects the exterior of my Super Duty. Peers inside. Eyeballs me. It’d be nothing for me to knock his fucking teeth down his throat. Or, at the very least, slap the suspicious expression clean off his bearded face. But I don’t. Instead, I keep my hands curled around the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white.
For Kerri, I chant in the privacy of my mind.
“Morning.” He takes a closer look at the interior of the front seat. “Name?”
“Havoc,” I spit out.
His bushy eyebrows shoot up. “Odd name, fella.”
My mouth twists in a sneer. “I’m an odd man, buddy.”
He mutters, “Hmm,” at me as he scrolls down the device. “What’s your full name?”
“Havoc Taylor,” I reply with a roll of my eyes as if men named Havoc are a common occurrence.
He keeps scrolling, and I have never, not in all my life, wanted to snap a person’s digit like I want to do to his index finger. And I’m aware I’m being irrational. The man is simply doing his job. But must he be smug?
Or is he?
Maybe I’m projecting like I do when I’m on the defensive. And I guess right now, massively out of my element and in a city I despise, I might be a bit more…irritable…than usual.
Sue me.
But the truth is, I want this man to keep people like me away from people like Kerri.
“Yep, found you.” He gives me a skeptical glare. “At the bottom. Says here you’re a guest of the Wards.” He glances at the iPad again, then back at me. “Looks like it’s an indefinite stay.”
“Seems it,” I grunt out in agreement.
