F*ckboy Psychos

by Stunich, C. M.

  Did you know you can buy a handheld cell phone jammer for about two hundred bucks? Oh yeah. Technically, they’re illegal in most areas, but we’re about to rob this guy, so it’s not like that matters. Anyway, the one Nisha is holding has about a thirty-foot range. Not much, but enough to keep this private.

  Meanwhile, my other girls are watching the police scanner.

  Even with all of these precautions in place, it’s important to get this over and done with as quickly as possible.

  The darkened window finishes rolling down, and then I’m staring into the eyes of a guy about my age. I always prefer them a little older. It’s like, some of that cocky wears off a bit with age, and the rich assholes in these cars know better than to play games with us.

  But like, holy fuckballs. Who even is this guy?! He looks like a goddamn model.

  My body flushes hot from head to toe, and my thigh muscles clench together involuntarily. Damn it. I’m not supposed to be attracted to the dudes I’m robbing. This has never happened to me before. Also, I’ve never seen someone quite so pretty as this. Aristocratic, elegant, poised. All of those things.

  His eyes are a pale green, like sea glass, smoothed out by the ocean waves and left to shimmer on a sandy shore. His hair is a dirty blond, cut short but left slightly longer on the top, and his mouth … it’s a thin, flat line, as if he’s annoyed at the situation beyond anything else.

  “Take whatever you want,” he says, his voice as cold and empty as his eyes. “Just don’t touch me, and we won’t have a problem.”

  Don’t touch me, huh? Not the first time I’ve heard that recently.

  But damn if I don’t want to touch all over him, to see if his dick is the same flawless alabaster as his face, if what’s in his pants matches his arrogance. I sense BDE (big dick energy) surrounding this insouciant lord in the Lambo.

  The guy keeps his hands on the steering wheel, and I can’t help but notice that he’s wearing white gloves. The color is as pristine and perfect as Bohnes’ hair, untouched by dirt or grime. I can smell the new car scent from here, too. Also, he’s wearing an Oak Valley Prep uniform which is telling. Charcoal gray jacket with the academy’s logo embroidered on the pocket, a blue tie, matching gray slacks.

  “What have you got for me?” I query, holding out a palm for his wallet. In a world where everyone else seems to pay with cards or mobile devices, rich guys like this always carry cash. I assume it’s because they’re always up to no good. Either way, we can make this work. We have methods for dealing with credit cards, too.

  “There’s money in my dash,” the guy says carefully, nodding his chin in that direction. “Take it. There’s a gun in there, too. If you’ll carefully open the passenger side door to remove the items, I won’t move.”

  He stays right where he is, staring out the front windshield as I narrow my eyes at him. The hell is this piece of shit up to? He doesn’t look at me again, waiting patiently for this moment to be over.

  “Nisha,” I say, but she’s already on it, opening the door and digging through the dash. The driver of the car swallows strangely, beads of sweat appearing on his forehead as his eyes flick over, watching my friend hunt through his things. It’s not an entirely unsurprising reaction, but it seems a bit misdirected, as if the act of her touching his stuff is worse than the idea of being robbed at gunpoint or the fact that all four of his tires are now completely blown out.

  The headlights of a passing car sweep over us, but as they do, I lower the weapon and lean in, like I’m just here to help. Nobody stops. Why would they? Anyway, if the cops get sent our way, we’ll hear it on the scanner. I’m not concerned.

  The closer I come to the guy, the more nervous he gets, his attention shifting between me and Nisha.

  “Found it,” she grunts, tossing items onto the passenger seat and making the blond hottie cringe. As promised, there’s a revolver there that Nisha tucks into her waistband, opening an envelope full of cash and, after licking her thumb, riffling through it.

  That act, the act of her licking her thumb, is what really sets him off. I can visibly see the driver shudder, and he releases a slow, controlled exhale.

  “Is there something wrong with you?” I ask, almost conversationally, but with the slightest hint of violence in my voice. I’m not afraid to take things to the next level. This guy wouldn’t be the first target I’ve ever pistol-whipped.

  “Just take the money and go,” he hisses, pale green eyes still focused out the front windshield. “And for God’s sake, stop breathing on me.”

  That gives me pause right there. I continue to lean in toward him, until my lips are nearly pressed to the side of his smooth-shaven cheek. I’m tempted to push the envelope—pun intended—even further and kiss his mouth.

  It’s full and plump and pouty, too.

  I can imagine how it would taste: sweet, like the faint scent of vanilla and ivory soap that permeates the car. Maybe a little sterile, too. I’d like to taint this guy’s perfect mouth, just to see him shudder in revulsion. Does that make me sick?

  “Where’s your wallet?” Nisha asks, and the guy goes stiff. Before he can react, I’m reaching into the car, my right hand going for his ass—and the pocket where these idiots always keep their wallet—while my left keeps hold of the pistol.

  I don’t expect blondie to recoil the way he does, shrinking away from me like I’m a venomous snake intent on sinking its fangs in.

  “Wait, wait, wait,” he grates, the words snapping out more like a command than I feel like they should. I frown at him as he reaches into his pocket and withdraws his wallet, chucking it out the window and onto the ground by my feet. “There. You have what you want. Now, please leave me alone.”

  “You’re making this awfully intriguing,” I say as Nisha throws me a warning look from across the guy’s car.

  Her expression clearly says to leave this dumbass alone and move on.

  “What’s the matter with you?” I ask as Nisha slams the door and moves around the rear of the car in my direction. “Afraid that we’re going to have our way with you?”

  The driver carefully settles his gloved hands on the steering wheel, refusing to look at me.

  “I have nothing else to take. If you insist on pushing the matter, I’m afraid I’ll have to escalate the situation.”

  That makes me laugh, but then Nisha is right there, and her dark brown eyes are boring into me from behind the gold fabric of her balaclava.

  “There’s more than ten grand in that envelope,” she whispers, and I glance her way in surprise. These stops are usually pretty lucrative—which is why we do them—but we don’t usually score quite that much in cold hard cash.

  My curiosity is piqued, both by the boy’s disturbing level of aversion to us, his easy willingness to hand over this much money, and now his barely veiled threats.

  But, at the end of the day, this is a job, and it’s done. We’ve tarried too long as it is.

  “Alright, load up,” I say, giving the command to the other girls to get in their cars and leave. I’m the last to go, keeping the weapon in hand as I back away. At the last second, the guy directs his attention back to me, and our gazes clash in a sweeping wave of heat.

  I blink, and it’s gone. His window’s being rolled up, and then I’m climbing into the Pantera and taking off.

  I will not, however, forget that face anytime soon.

  Scarlett

  Later that week, I’m sent to the grocery store with a list of items for the house. My grandmother offers me her debit card to take, and I accept it—even if I don’t plan on spending any of the money in her account.

  Instead, I stop by an ATM and make a deposit, taking the rest of my share of the haul from our last ‘job’ with me. Since it’s my money anyway, and I’m in a mood, I skip the grocery store down the street, a spot where drug deals regularly take place in the parking lot, and I head for the fancy health food store in Eugene.

  Just crossing the bridge from one city to the o
ther is dramatic, especially when coming out of the southside and finding myself in the West Hills. Everyone here is what I like to call ‘a snooty hippie’. They drive Teslas and Priuses, and preen about how progressive and awesome they are while blowing hundreds of dollars on bottles of wine and fancy cheeses inside the uptight market.

  Its real name is Market of Choice but everyone in Prescott calls it Market of Cost.

  I’ll give you one thing: it’s a much more pleasant experience than navigating the overcrowded aisles of the supermarket near my house. There’s something inside of me that’s always been contrary, that’s always reveled in being able to piss other people off whilst doing absolutely nothing at all.

  I have but to waltz into that store in leather pants and a crop top, and all eyes are on me. I see a woman actively sneer after giving me a once-over, but I just grin right back at her and grab a cart.

  Everyone that looks at me, I greet with a polite hello, how are you doing? That throws ‘em off like crazy. If there’s one thing other humans don’t understand, it’s niceness. Freaks them all the way out.

  A man with his wife glares daggers at me but only after checking out my tits. I cook up something extra special for him.

  “Hey baby, I haven’t seen you in a while. Why’d you stop coming by?”

  The look his wife throws him before storming off with the cart is priceless. Pretty sure I’ve just ruined his day.

  With a chuckle, I move past irritating bourgeois customers and onto the list at hand, grabbing the best version of everything while I’m flush with cash. Grandma wants tomatoes? Organic, locally grown heirloom tomatoes it is. Aunt Anita is craving chocolate? There’s an ethically sourced dark chocolate bar crafted in the fancy sweets shop next door. Alexis wants a new face wash? Handmade goats’ milk cleanser right there.

  I’ve even snagged one of those fancy wine bottles for myself (thank you, fake ID).

  I definitely don’t expect to run into Aspen Kelly in the personal hygiene aisle.

  I pause between the shampoo and the soap, my eyes widening at the sight of him dressed in a gray cashmere sweater and jeans that are sculpted over his ass like they were handcrafted by organic angels.

  Well, fuck me, I think as I greedily drink in his tight, perky ass, and his long lean body. Bent over like that, I can just imagine him crawling on his hands and knees to worship my needy cunt …

  I shake my head to clear it, tossing my long braid over one shoulder as I make my way down the aisle and pause purposefully next to him, waiting for that moment when he turns his dark eyes my way and my attentions go from lustful to violent.

  He doesn’t acknowledge me for several long seconds, rising up to his full height and flicking a disdainful glance my way.

  “What did you think would happen if you stood there long enough?” he asks, almost conversationally but with an undertone of pure, unfiltered rage. “That I would greet you warmly and offer to cover your grocery bill?”

  He takes note of the items in my cart and lets this disgustingly vile smirk stretch over his pretty mouth.

  “Can you even afford the items in there? Or were you planning on rushing the door? I’ve heard your sort of people—that is, poor ones—are good at that kind of thing.”

  I don’t even think, I just start moving forward, gaining a bit of speed until the cart slams into Aspen Kelly and makes him grunt. He actually stumbles back, and I slam into him again, knocking him into this pretentious wooden shelf covered in glass jars. They’re full of fancy-pants washing powders and bath salts, that sort of thing. There are several wooden scoops and tiny glass jars with corks meant for parceling it out.

  Because rich people just can’t buy laundry detergent in cardboard boxes with little plastic scoops like the rest of us.

  I let go of the cart, coming around to grab Aspen by the throat, digging my nails into his skin as he reaches up and takes hold of my wrists—which is exactly what I want.

  He walks me backward and slams my back into another wooden shelf, huffing and panting, his eyes wide as he stares me down. He’s stronger than me which is fine—it’s a biological fact that men and women are built differently—but it’s not insurmountable.

  Intelligence matters, too.

  “What are you promising Lemon?” I ask, allowing him to maintain his grip on my wrists as he presses them hard into the shelf’s rounded edge. He’s shaking now, his teeth gritted, and I can see that I’ve really and truly gotten under his skin. Nice to see the cut on his cheek is still there. “What did you offer her that’s gotten her so twisted up?”

  “You think I offered her anything but my cock in her mouth?” he queries back at me, as if he’s genuinely confused by the question. Rage spikes through me, hot and poignant. My original plan was to let someone else walk down this aisle so that they could see this fucker manhandling me. Nothing would please me more than to see him thrown out on his ass. But then the mood shifts, and so does my plan. “Your friend is a mindless idiot with more hormones than brains.”

  His eyes shift from mine down to my lips, past that, to my breasts, his breath hitching as his lids droop, and he adjusts his body to press more firmly against mine. I can feel every hard plane of him, can sense the frantic rhythm of his heartbeat, can feel his breath stirring my hair.

  Against my own will, my body responds, my nipples beading, my pussy throbbing with need. It doesn’t help that Aspen is tall and pretty with a patrician bearing. His mouth is full and ripe, the top lip slightly fuller and plumper than the bottom. I heard through the grapevine—meaning Jennifer—that his mother was a famous Japanese actress while his father, Mayor Kelly, is an upper-crust East Coast career politician.

  When I tried to Google the Kelly family, however, information was limited to the mayor’s recent political exploits with scant mention of the fact that his political adversary—a man named Larron Van Gordon—disappeared during the election a few years back.

  As far as his son? Not much except to say that he graduated magna cum laude from his highfalutin boarding school in Europe. Apparently, Aspen also has a brother, but information on him is even more limited.

  Far as I could tell, he’s nuts. He was shipped off to a boarding school in the middle of buttfuck nowhere Arkansas called Crescent Prep—a place infamous for taking the black sheep of rich and powerful families and removing them from public view.

  Aspen stares at my mouth for a hot minute before his dark gaze lifts up to my eyes. Something strange passes between us, something that makes me absurdly uncomfortable. His hand ends up on the side of my neck, and I tense, my own hands coming up to snatch his wrist.

  Instead of squeezing my throat like I figured he might, he leans in and whispers something to me in Japanese that I don’t understand but almost like anyway.

  Told ya I was psycho.

  My lips parts slightly as he considers kissing me, really and truly considers it as his lids droop and he gazes with carnal delight at the way I flick my tongue across my lower lip. His other hand settles on the deep curve of my waist before sliding up and cupping my left breast.

  In the melee, one of the silver lids on the numerous glass jars—which are designed so that the top faces outward and is angled slightly up, for easier scooping—has fallen to the floor. As soon as Aspen is thoroughly entranced by my body, I reach my hand into the jar and grab a scoop of sweet-scented powder, tossing it into his face and making him howl.

  “Tell Lemon to fuck off. Stop sleeping with her. And stop telling her lies.” I grab the cart and yank it away as Aspen curses at me, leaning back against the shelf and panting heavily. When he lifts his gaze up to mine again, the whites of his eyes are red, and there’s so much fury in that stare that I can feel it in my very bones—especially in that horrible spot on my right leg, where I shattered my tibia.

  See, I told you I could sense incoming storms in my bones. This might not be a weather pattern, but it’s a tempest, nonetheless.

  “I’ll be at the track on Friday,” he h
isses at me, his words clipped with pain as tears roll unbidden down his cheeks. Hope I blinded the fucker. “You should make sure you’re on the pill because I hate condoms.”

  He storms off, heading in the direction of the bathroom—likely to rinse out his eyes—and I head for the cash register. People are staring at me, but I can’t decide if it’s just my ratchet ass outfit or if they heard the commotion in the aisle.

  Not that any of them would’ve intervened anyway; I don’t know what I was thinking. Sometimes, I imagine the whole world is as involved as I am.

  I load my items up on the belt, wait for the clearly annoyed employee to ring them all up, and then feel myself scowling as Aspen reaches over my shoulder and taps his credit card to pay before I get a chance to dig out the cash from inside my back pocket.

  “Consider that prepayment for the pussy I’m going to be enjoying this weekend,” he snaps, and then he’s out the door, and I’m left wanting to throw something. In the end, I head outside, twist the cap off the wine, and chug most of it before throwing the bottle against the market’s exterior wall.

  I take off in the Devil before anyone can chew me out over it.

  Alexei

  Losing that cash the other night has left me in serious trouble.

  I stalk down the hall toward my father’s office, not even bothering to knock before I swing around the corner and move into the room. He’s sitting at his desk, head in his hands, eyes closed. He seems stressed. He’s been stressed a lot lately, but it isn’t like we maintain an open dialogue about such things.

  “Papa,” I say, licking my lips. They’re dry. They’re always dry. My hands, especially. I had to wash them a hundred times after the robbery before I felt clean. Not only that, but I soaked myself in scalding water until my skin was red and painful.

  The Lamborghini is currently being deep-cleaned by our staff. As if I would dare drive it again after those dirty girls smeared their hands all the fuck over everything. Just thinking about the way the pink-masked one licked her fingers before touching the money …