F*ckboy Psychos

by Stunich, C. M.

Lemon surprises me by moving ahead of us and pushing her way through a small crowd wrapped around one of the picnic tables. Most of the Prescott brats who frequent the track stop by the drive-in—some fifties themed spot called Wesley’s—to grab food before heading this way.

  Us, too.

  Bastian’s got the bags of food clutched in his arms.

  “Well, well, look at Lem’s fancy new boyfriend,” he says, blinking in surprise at the sight of our friend approaching a guy in an expensive black suit, his ankles crossed as he leans back against the edge of the table. His eyes are so dark they might as well be black, and he’s wearing a pair of diamond cufflinks that scream money, one arm folded over his chest, the elbow of the other resting in his palm. He teases his lower lip with a single finger as Lemon approaches him.

  Uh-oh.

  The man is gorgeous, I will give you that. Young, too. Maybe eighteen, nineteen at most.

  He’s also dangerous as hell.

  Every warning bell I have inside of me goes off at the sight of this guy sizing up my girl.

  “Nisha, this is bad,” I whisper, but she’s already frowning. Our eyes meet and we both turn back to study the way Lemon’s rubbing herself all over Mystery Guy’s front. She’s a shameless hussy, I won’t lie. I used to find it amusing. Not so much anymore. Now it’s getting dangerous. “Just what I needed tonight,” I grumble, my eyes sweeping the crowd as I search for Widow.

  I fully expect him to show up here tonight.

  “Basti, can you go and watch the ‘Vette for me?” I ask, giving him a pouty expression that makes him roll his eyes. He flips me off with an inked hand, and I return the favor. We’re both flowing with color and design; it’s almost a requirement here. Easy, too, with the free availability of quality fake IDs.

  Bastian takes off as I spend another minute studying Lemon’s behavior with this guy. What was his name? Aspen?

  So, he’s named after a unisex tree, but never in my life have I seen someone who exudes privilege and expectation the way this boy does. There’s cruelty in the way he lifts his hand to grip Lemon’s pointed chin, fingertips digging into the sides of her face in a way that makes me twitchy.

  I said I liked psychos, but this man is as cold as ice.

  This is Lemon’s big-time boy, eh?

  “She’s going to get herself killed,” Nisha whispers as Jennifer sidles up to us. She doesn’t race either, but she likes to dress in skimpy clothes and lay on the hot boys’ cars while they fawn all over her.

  “Do you know who that is?” I ask her as she tosses her brunette waves and bites her lower lip in thought.

  “Mm. That’s Aspen Kelly—the mayor’s son.”

  “The mayor’s son?” I echo, eyes widening as I flick my gaze back to Lemon.

  Oh dear sweet baby Jesus.

  This is even worse than I thought.

  “He’s been living in L.A. with his uncle for the last year while Mayor Kelly came up here to campaign.” Jennifer tosses me a look to see if I might offer up any approval or praise for her words. She craves my attention in a way that makes me want to give it less. I know it makes me a terrible person, but I can’t stand the smell of desperation.

  Probably why you’re chasing after Bohnes like a bitch in heat.

  “He’s from L.A., too. The mayor, I mean. He only moved up here to campaign because he couldn’t get elected in any city in the Los Angeles metro area.”

  My eye twitches. Right. This hotshot from Southern California decided he’d descend on our moderately sized Oregon town for an easy win? Figures. I’m immediately wary. Even if I hadn’t seen Aspen in his ten-thousand-dollar suit, I’d have been afraid.

  Mayor’s son means scandals and hush money and hired hands.

  I need Lemon to finish up with this boy, get her heart broken (she gives it, even if Nisha doesn’t believe it), so she can move the fuck on.

  “Scarlett!” Lemon calls out, gesturing for me to join her. “Nisha!”

  My friend and I exchange yet another look before making our way over to where Lemon’s curled shamelessly up against Aspen. For his part, he seems entirely disinterested but for the way his fingers have curved around my friend’s waist, digging painfully into her side. I can see the way she tries to scoot subtly away from the harsh grip, only to be yanked even more firmly against the asshole’s chest.

  We are not going to get along well, me and this guy.

  “Scarlett, Nisha, this is …” Lemon thinks on her choice of words long enough that Aspen’s dark eyes flash with cool indifference. His gaze is shallow and slick, as if perhaps there’s no soul underneath that pretty façade, just a monster hiding in human skin.

  “Aspen Kelly,” he says smoothly, his voice oiled and almost disturbingly perfect. Nobody should ever sound like that, like every word out of their mouth has been carefully selected, groomed, polished, examined, and then forced out like a weapon. “I take it you’re the infamous Scarlett Force? Queen of this shithole?”

  My jaw clenches in frustration, but only for a second. Then I’m smiling and remembering all the other rich assholes who’ve crawled desperately out of the swamp that is their own greed and misery looking for a cheap thrill.

  Go race the poor Prescott kids, they said. It’ll be fun, they said.

  But although I’m certain that this man-boy-whatever doesn’t attend our local asshole academy—Oak Valley Prep is the name of that one—I know that he’s that sort of money. Blue-blooded and cutthroat and dangerous as hell.

  “That’d be me,” I say, allowing my naked lips to swing into a cocky smirk. I can see right away how Aspen’s eyes narrow to dark slits, the edge of his own mouth twisting up into an annoyed sneer. I’ve barely spoken and already, he can sense the alpha female crouching inside of me. This should be fun.

  Nisha clears her throat in warning, but I’m not listening. I don’t give a shit. If some rich idiot wants to come down here and show the whole of Prescott High what a pathetic asshole he really is, I’m down. Besides, there’s a buy in. It differs for each person: we all put something up on the table and if it’s accepted by the others, then it’s written down, signed by the participants, and off we go.

  People who renege on their promises are brought swiftly to justice by the Prescott High collective. Me and my girls or whoever else hates the tongue of a lying snake. Don’t offer it up before the race if you’re not willing to give it.

  “You here to get taken to the cleaners?” I query, lifting both brows as Aspen shoves Lemon aside so hard that she actually stumbles. Holy crap. I’m immediately reaching for my knife when a hand comes down to press against mine.

  Bohnes slips past me, barely human, barely there, as per usual.

  He glides right by without saying a damn word to me or this Aspen guy or anyone else, but that slight touch of his hand on mine was either a warning or … it was an invitation.

  I wet my lips as I turn back to this Aspen prick, struggling to control my unruly temper.

  “I want in. I’ll put five grand down to race tonight.” Aspen wets his mouth, but not in a similar fashion to me. His eyes are wild, and he looks like he’s greasing his lips with venom for the kill.

  I’m filled with this unshakeable certainty that he is a bad person who does terrible things. I don’t want him anywhere near this racetrack, but if I refuse him, it’ll only make him want it more. That’s how all of these rich boys are.

  It’s better to race him, kick his ass, and then enjoy the look of sheer rage on his features afterward. The humiliation is usually so complete that they never come back. In the rare cases that they do, I’m happy to quickly hand them their ass again and send them on their way.

  “Five grand?” I snort, removing my hand from my knife and crossing my arms. Aspen’s eyes drop immediately to my breasts, and I feel myself wrinkling my nose in distaste. “Are you fucking with me? We’re poor, not stupid. Five grand isn’t worth shit here. I can steal a purse worth more than that in less than five minutes.”

 
Lemon stands awkwardly off to one side, rubbing at her arm as Nisha tries to get her to look in her direction. Lem refuses to even glance at our friend because she knows damn well that she won’t get any sympathy from Nisha or me.

  She knows we’re both going to warn her away from this man—and with good reason.

  “Fifty then. Not a penny more. Don’t tell me you can steal that much in five minutes, too?” Aspen leans in toward me, his smirking sneer almost more than I can take. He reaches up with a single finger and attempts to curl a strand of raven-black hair around it.

  I slap his hand away, determined to go for my knife again if needed.

  “I assure you: it’d be best to keep your hand to yourself.” That’s all I need to say, and then a good dozen of my girls are turning toward us, just waiting to beat down on a pervert. We love it, too, to kick pervert’s asses. There is nothing in this world that’s more grotesquely satisfying than watching some douchebag get his nuts ground to the pavement by a hot girl’s heels.

  “Done.” I need this money, I think to myself, and not just because Aspen ‘the mayor’s son’ is a filthy pig who needs to learn his place.

  If I win this, I could buy into the classic car races that take place in Portland on the last Friday of every month. I’ll have to coerce, cajole, or otherwise threaten some rich idiot for an invitation, but once I’m in, I’m in. Then I can start kicking ass there to really make a name for myself, a name that translates into real-world possibilities and a true one-way ticket out of Prescott.

  I’m a senior this year, and if I don’t figure out where I’m going and what I’m doing, I might get stuck here.

  “Do you know what I want?” Aspen asks, looking at me in such a way that I know precisely what it is that he’s interested in. Seen it before, many times. I’ve had dozens of men ask for my body as their reward for winning a race.

  If I’m confident, I say yes.

  I’m always confident.

  So, screw it.

  “You want to fuck me?” I ask with a long sigh, and Lemon’s eyes widen in disbelief.

  The Aspen guy throws his head back, letting out this grating, genteel laugh that has my skin crawling. Always could smell a deviant from a mile away. He drops his gaze back down to me, rubbing at his chin with a hand decorated in too many rings.

  “You read my mind, sweetheart,” he purrs as Lem’s expression takes on this cast of stricken betrayal. I try to meet her eyes, but she won’t look at me. Goddamn it. She must know that I have no interest in this guy, right?

  I just want him off my track; this is the best way to accomplish that without inviting unnecessary trouble. If we refuse him outright, this guy will return with backup. Maybe even hired guns. Who knows? Anyway, the best way to get rid of a pompous rich kid is to kick his ass and send him scurrying off with his tail between his legs.

  “Word on the town is that Prescott pussy is the best there is.” Aspen rakes his eyes over me again, tearing apart my clothes with his gaze. My blood might be boiling, but I remain stoic, raising a single brow at him as Nisha tries to catch my attention. She doesn’t want me to do this, but I’m going to anyway. She should know by now that I never back down from a challenge. “Not only that, but everyone says you’re the one to beat.” His dark eyes sparkle as he takes me in. “I do enjoy a challenge.”

  “Prescott pussy is the best there is,” I agree, glancing over at Lem. I know she isn’t Aspen’s girlfriend; he knows she isn’t his girlfriend. But does Lemon know that? See what I mean? Nisha was wrong. Lemon might pretend to be tough—she can certainly handle herself in a fight, despite her small size—but her heart is raw and broken. She keeps looking for someone to put it back together.

  Take it from someone who knows all about heartbreak: the only person who can cobble those jagged pieces together is you, yourself, and you.

  “Alright, I’m in.” I glance back at Widow’s Stingray, wondering if I’m not getting too cocky here. With the Devil, I could take this asshole on easy. I’d crush him into the mud and drive right the hell over him.

  But this is a new car, and it’s untested on the track.

  Somehow though, I have a feeling that Widow knows his cars.

  Screw it. I’m drivin’ the ‘Vette.

  “Lem, can I talk to you for a minute?” I ask as Aspen lets his dark gaze shift over to her. He looks bored already. She really thought this guy was her ticket out of town? He’s not even a weekend pass.

  “Sure,” she says, her voice tight, clipped. I look over at Nisha. “Give Aspen a rundown of the rules for me.”

  “Yes, Queen,” she says, licking the edge of her mouth in annoyance. Lem moves away from Aspen as I reach out to grab her arm, aware of his eyes on us. I drag her a short distance away, over to where Bastian’s sitting in the Stingray as he chows down on a burger and fries.

  I grab Lem by the shoulders and lean down to look into her eyes.

  “Aspen Kelly, the Mayor’s son, that’s your hookup?” I ask as gently as I can. She won’t look at me, her lips pursed into a thin line. “Lem, come on. You know me. I’m not going to lose to this guy. I’d never agree to his challenge if I thought there was any chance in hell I’d have to screw a pervert like him.”

  That causes her to whip her gaze back around to me as Bastian whistles under his breath and turns away, fiddling with the radio and starting up KMZI 66.6. “I Am the Stripclub” by Iggy Azalea is playing.

  “No chance in hell, huh?” Lem asks with a bit of a scoff, tearing herself away from me. “Why don’t you go and find Bohnes then? Since he’s such a better prospect.”

  The blood drains from my face as Basti whips his head around to stare at me.

  “Bohnes?” he chokes out, but I ignore him, focusing on Lem instead as I release her shoulders and stand up straight. I’m five-seven without heels, five-ten with the boots I’m wearing. I tower over poor Lem. “What’s going on with Bohnes?”

  “I saw you guys last weekend,” Lem whispers accusatorily at me. “You gave your virginity up for him of all people? Aren’t you always telling me that Prescott boys are trash? Bohnes is the worst of them all. He’s a mercenary who worships cash over morality. That’s the kind of guy you wanted to give it up to?” She scoffs at me as I stand there in silence, feeling like a total asshole.

  This is what happens when you don’t tell your friends the truth.

  I deserve to have egg on my face.

  “But sure, tell me how you’d never deign to sleep with someone like Aspen Kelly. At least he has money. At least his family has connections and prestige. What does Kellin Bohnes have? A one-way ticket to hardcore prison time.” She turns away and storms off, and I let her go.

  I have a terrible temper—even with my friends. I have yet to learn how to control it, so I practice avoidance instead.

  “Fuck,” I curse, resisting the urge to kick the black rim of Widow’s ‘Vette.

  “You … screwed Kellin Bohnes?” Basti asks, peering up at me from dark brown eyes like I’ve betrayed him in the worst possible way. “We talked about this, Scar.”

  “I know,” I groan, running both of my hands down my face and wishing I was already on the track. I’m ready to hit the throttle and grind Aspen’s stuck-up nose into the mud. If I don’t, I’m going to end up in another fight. Last week, some douchebag motherfucker would not let up on me despite several very clear warnings.

  I beat his ass so hard that his friends had to load him into the backseat of their ’65 Ford Fairlane and take him straight to hospital. I broke his goddamn jaw; it’s currently wired shut.

  Thankfully, we practice the rule of snitches get stitches here at Prescott High. Nobody will say anything. Mostly, they know now to leave me the fuck alone. I don’t say things that I don’t mean. A muttered, “Back off before I break your face,” is more than just conjecture with me.

  Basti stands up, clearly frustrated as fuck with me, and rightfully so.

  “You and I both agreed that we would call each other and t
alk about it before it ever happened. You were my cherry buddy. Who’s supposed to be my buddy now?” He throws his hands up in frustration. “You know what? You watch Widow’s car. I need to take a walk.”

  He storms off, his white cowboy boots splattering mud everywhere as he heads in the same direction that Lemon just disappeared. He’ll go after her, and they’ll comfort each other. That’s how it always goes.

  “This is a bad idea,” Nisha warns me, pausing just behind me as I turn to glance her way. “This guy is arrogant, cocky, and inexperienced. You could get hurt out there, Scar. You could die.”

  I shake my head at her, knowing that Lem and Basti will keep my secret and let me tell Nisha on my own time. Lord knows they don’t want to be the ones to break the news.

  “I’ll be fine. I just … need to decompress before the race. Watch the car for me?” I snap my fingers in the direction of the Corvette and Nisha nods, slowly, almost reluctantly.

  “Where are you going?” she asks, but I just slide a pack of clove cigarettes from my pocket in explanation. She sighs and gestures in the direction of the trees. “Go have your moment,” she tells me, because I always do this.

  I’ve done this since I was sixteen, taken a quiet moment for myself before every race.

  There’s one thing though that I’ve never done before: and that’s Bohnes.

  Well, I mean, I’ve done him six times so far, but you get my meaning.

  I take off for the shadows of the trees, my heart in my throat, and my body flushing with an impossible heat. Why the hell does it feel so good to do something so wrong?

  Scarlett

  This is life in South Prescott: we steal cars, and we race cars, and we fuck people, and oh … except for me. I don’t fuck people except for Kellin Bohnes. Nibbling on my lower lip makes my mouth taste like the sheer cherry lip gloss I just applied, and then I remember that I fucking hate having chapped lips and force myself to stop.

  “What’s the matter?” he whispers from behind me, like I’ve summoned a ghost whose cold hands are sliding up and under my shirt. I shiver as I adjust to the temperature difference, arching my back a bit so that I press into him. As usual, we don’t talk. Much. “Afraid I wouldn’t show up?”