Havoc.

Blood in, blood out.

I look around at the five of them, hands clenching and unclenching at my sides.

“I want to go out,” I say, but I don’t tell them where or why. I’m not entirely certain that even I know the answers to those questions just yet. “Call the fucking valet.”

Sara’s protective detail follows us to the store to grab supplies where the boys look at me like I’m nuts for purchasing several dozen white candles. In addition to that, I grab some blankets, a new tube of pink lipstick called Finish Lines, and a chocolate cake.

Afterwards, we drive over to this Thai food place that I’m obsessed with to pick up takeout. While I’m waiting for the order to be filled, I pretend that I need to use the bathroom, slip out the back door of the restaurant, and sneak around to the front of the liquor store that’s next door.

I’m in and out in a jiffy with two bottles of stolen Fireball Cinnamon Whiskey. The tagline for this brand is Tastes Like Heaven, Burns Like Hell. And if that isn’t the most apt slogan for my life right now then I’m not sure what is.

Sounds difficult to steal something as large as a one-point-seven-five-liter bottle, right? Let alone two of them. The thing about thievery is, most stores have little to no security. And even when they do, their security officers are usually neutered to the point where they can only ask for you to return said merchandise and take a seat in their office. They can’t even fucking touch you. So, the answer to how it is that we manage to steal shit is twofold. One, it’s far easier to steal things than anybody thinks. More often than not, you can waltz right out of a store with an entire cart worth of crap and nobody can or will stop you. Second, Havoc is exceptionally good at what we do.

“I want to go somewhere quiet, somewhere remote,” I say, after I slip back in the Eldorado where Oscar, Aaron, and Victor are waiting. For once, Vic didn’t bring his Harley. I think he knew that I needed to drive, and I also think he couldn’t bear to be separated from me. Not today. Not today when … I don’t let myself think about it.

Not yet.

I think, if they’d had the choice, Hael and Callum would be in here, too. But even though the Caddy can technically seat six, it wasn’t meant for five beefy boys with rippling muscles and attitudes the size of Alaska. Plus, it’s sort of a safety thing with us. What if one of the cars breaks down and we’re in a sticky situation? It’s always best to have two, at least.

“Let’s go to my grandmother’s house,” Victor says, and I glance over at him, sitting in the front seat with Aaron between us. “It meets all of your requirements.”

I think about that for a moment because, ultimately, this is my decision to make.

Today is a monumental day in so many ways.

It’s my day.

The day my mother died.

Something strange catches inside of me as I start the car and send us screeching out of the parking lot. The Camaro follows and so do the cops, but I don’t really care if they know where we’re going. Even if we did outrun them again, they’ll catch up to us. And if we remove the trackers, well, that’ll just rouse Sara’s suspicions even further.

“Should we really trespass with the cops on our asses?” I ask, and Vic gives me a small, secretive little smile. It’s Oscar, however, that’s the one to answer from the backseat.

“We’re in escrow,” he tells me, folding his arms on the front seat and watching me as I drive, fuzzy pink dice swaying in such a way that they catch his attention and cause him to scowl in feigned annoyance. He pretends like Hael’s cuteness and quirks bother him, but that’s a total heap of crap. He loves the guy just as much as I do. “When we inquired with Ophelia about holding the wedding there, we discovered that the property was in the process of transferring hands to the city.”

“Unpaid property taxes,” Vic explains as Aaron snorts. “We agreed to pay those off in exchange for the city offering us a onetime use permit.” Victor leans back in the seat, crammed up against Aaron and me. “And now, yeah, we’re in escrow. The city liked our offer.”

“Where are we getting the money for this?” I ask, because I imagine that fifty-grand we had in our account is nearly gone. I haven’t much had the head for finances as of late. And anyway, that isn’t the king and queen’s job: it’s the accountant’s.

“Let me worry about the finances,” Oscar purrs, reaching out to stroke some hair back from my face. “You have noticed we haven’t been giving out weekly allowances? We’ve sold off the rest of the weed and the cars from the garage; money is tight, but a dilapidated house on the edge of the city doesn’t cost much.”

“What they’re both trying to say in so many words,” Aaron continues, letting his fingers trail up my thigh. “Is that you don’t have to worry about anything tonight.”

I nod, but there’s something strange in my throat, something breaking up the melancholy that’s creeping through me like evening shadows. Happiness? Pretty sure that’s what this thing is. We’re buying Victor’s grandmother’s house? It seems surreal. Also, it seems very Havoc. It’s a very Havoc thing to do.

Once we get to the property, the police pull off at the end of the long drive, leaving us to trundle down it and park by the sagging front steps.

I climb out, slamming the door behind me, and look up at the imposing Gothic Revival structure in front of me. It’s bathed in shadows, its dark windows like the empty eyes of a wicked spirit, haunting this quiet, dusty place on the edge of nowhere. The only reason I actually know what sort of house it is, is because Oscar told us the first time we arrived. Otherwise, like I said, Prescott High and architecture … ehh.

My mind shifts from the image of the soaring three-story house and right back toward Pamela again. Like, I hated the bitch. Like, she killed my sister. Also, she’s dead.

She’s dead.

My mother is dead?

And she killed my sister.

My brain fucking hurts when I try to stop and make sense of it. Maybe some things aren’t meant to be parceled and pulled apart and overly examined? Can I just feel sad about it without understanding why? Can I just mourn for the sake of mourning?

“Bernie.”

The soft sound of Aaron’s voice draws me away from a nightmare and into the impenetrable darkness of the countryside. We’re not ten minutes outside of town, and you literally can’t see your hand in front of your face.

What I can see, however, is Aaron. He’s standing beside me with a candle in his hand, the dancing white glow illuminating all the beautifully masculine lines of his face. He smiles at me and hands it over, taking another one off the hood of the car and lighting that, too.

“Let’s go inside?” he suggests, and I nod, listening to the distant rustle of tree branches and the haunting call of an owl from somewhere beyond the small circle of light cast by the Camaro’s headlights. Hael leaves them on while he and the boys gather up our things, carrying them inside the house for me.

Best part of dating five strong dudes: I don’t have to do any heavy lifting. It’s a tad sexist, I know, but I figure after centuries of patriarchal domination, it’s the least they can do for me.

The steps creak as Aaron and I walk up them, using our candles for light. We could use our phones, but that’s boring as fuck, isn’t it? There’s nothing magical about the glowing face of a Samsung or an iPhone. Technology, in its own way, is sort of tragic. I’d much rather exist in the sorcery of candlelight.

I find that the boys have set up our blankets in the parlor, the room immediately to the left of the front door. It’s the same room where I gussied-up for my wedding. This is the same house where two pedophiles died a much kinder death than they deserved.

Already, the boys are spreading the candles around the room and lighting them, turning the place into a witch’s den where I can nestle with all my dark and dangerous thoughts. There’s a sense of ritual to it, which I so very much need right now. Even if I don’t believe in anything spiritual or religious or magical, it never hurts to carry out a ceremony of sorts, something to mark a special occasion.

And—whether good or bad—this is a very special occasion indeed.

Because it means my list is done.

That fucking list I scrawled on the back of an old envelope in Aaron’s now defunct minivan.

It’s in the pocket of my pink leather Havoc jacket, and even though it weighs less than an ounce, it feels like a thousand pounds, like it’s weighing me down and making my knees buckle.

I end up kneeling in the nest of blankets with Aaron by my side. He takes my candle and sets it aside, watching as I strip off my boots and toss them into the corner. It feels like a night to be barefoot, doesn’t it?

Glancing up, I see cobwebs and dust, crumbling plaster, and a ceiling medallion that I already know I’m going to try to save. Poetry might be my artistic medium, but once an artist, always an artist. If you can find beauty in decay, then you’ve just learned what it means to be human. The meaning of life, in so many words.

Love. Art. Compassion. Empathy.

I’m not sure why people act like that’s such a difficult question. The meaning of life is obvious. It’s to fucking live it.

“It’s so creepy in here,” Aaron murmurs, pushing chestnut curls back from his forehead as my heart seizes painfully in my chest. That’s a trigger for me, seeing him touch those goddamn curls. I want to fucking eat them they’re so beautiful. He gives me mad schema.

“You don’t sound like you think that’s entirely a bad thing,” I murmur as Callum crouches beside me, setting the bag of takeout in the center of what’s shaping up to be a circle. Hael sits next to him, then Victor, Oscar, and right back to Aaron. A circle. A sphere. A shape with no beginning and no end.

I reach for the food and find my box of pad Thai sitting on the top.

“A little creepy now and again can be a good thing,” Aaron says, giving Cal a look. For his part, Callum just chuckles and lifts a single shoulder in faux apology.