Page 7 of Raise Hell

Enough to know Olivia Pratt would have to be an idiot to show her face here again.

But they have no idea what dark thoughts swim through my pretty little head.

Vengeful sugar plum fairies dancing in blood.

Outside, the sun is shining bright. It’s a nice counterpoint to the darkness in my soul.

I hear the loud roar of an engine. There is only a split second of warning before a flaming red Ducati Superlegerra with custom paint comes roaring up the road. I jump back on the sidewalk as it whizzes past, inches from knocking me flat on my ass.

It screeches to a stop a few yards away, next to a crowd of guys who are laughing and cheering. None of them seem all that concerned about how close they just came to witnessing vehicular homicide.

The gorgeous bike’s asshole rider pulls off a helmet painted the same flaming red and swings a long leg over the frame. He shakes a head full of short wavy hair that must curl when it gets long, chocolatey brown with hints of blond at the tips where it’s been bleached by the sun. Naturally tan skin that practically glows under the sun. Fashion-model good looks with a heavy touch of something more exotic than most of the WASPy, establishment types around here, makes it clear from afar who this is.

His mouth curves into a sensuous smile as a crowd of girls rushes up to welcome him back.

Drake Van Koch.

He is too far for me to see them, but I know his eyes are a piercing gray-green that stand out in stark contrast to the dark slashes of his eyebrows and vibrant gold of his skin. This is a guy who won the genetic lottery, making him as beautiful on the outside as he is ugly on the inside.

I recognize the other guys with him, too.

Cole Bryant.

Nolan Lennox.

Vaughn Ashbridge.

Havoc Boys.

I’d spent hours with school yearbooks studying the faces of every guy in Havoc House, in every pose and situation I could find. As I did, I tried to imagine which one of them could have done it. Which one of those smiles hides the soul of a psychopath.

A rapist.

An attempted murderer.

Those hands — the same ones they raise in triumph after a rugby win — bruised skin and broke ribs, led to internal bleeding so bad it was barely survivable. One of them left an innocent girl to die alone in the woods: unconscious, barely breathing and slowly bleeding to death.

One of them is going to pay.

Drake doesn’t bother to find a parking space for his bike. He just leans it up against a tree, swinging the keys around on his index finger while they all stride away. No one is going to tow his Ducati or threaten him with tickets if he doesn’t move it somewhere else. And the rule about personal vehicles not being allowed on campus obviously isn’t applied to everyone.

But I already knew that normal rules don’t apply to the Havoc Boys.

I watch them go, desperately wishing lightning would strike them all down despite the clear skies above. When I find out which of them is responsible for what happened, nothing will stop me from destroying him.

I’ll destroy them all, if that’s what it takes.

If I were the Wicked Witch of the West, right about now is when you’d hear that signature cackle.

I’ll get you, my pretties.

And your little club, too.

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