He yanks the passenger door of his car open and then digs through a bag, pulling out what look to be antiseptic wipes that he carefully cleanses his hands with. As he finishes, each one goes in the trash.
“Something wrong with him that can’t be fixed?” Bohnes asks, appearing from the shadows on my left side. I glance over at him, catching sight of his pale eyes, alight with triumph and violence, glowing from the light of the bonfire.
He turns toward me, and the smile he offers looks more like a corpse’s grimace.
“Did you like that, Scarlett Force?” he asks me as I let my gaze shift past him. Widow is gone. He must’ve left right after the race ended. Too bad. I would’ve loved to see his reaction at losing this thing.
It could’ve given away so much. Like, does he give a flying fuck that I’m not an option for him anymore? Does he, as he stated, truly not give a shit at all?
Then again, why on earth would he challenge Bohnes with the sole request of keeping us out of each other’s beds. Why? There’s only one reason there that I can ascertain: he wants me.
I bite my lip as I look back at Bohnes.
“I think you’re an idiot and an asshole,” I say, and Bohnes’ grin gets even bigger, stretching across his sharp mouth like a disease. “You could’ve gotten yourself or Widow—or both of you—killed.”
He shrugs his broad shoulders, as if he wouldn’t mind either way.
I glance back at Alexei to find him slipping on a fresh pair of white gloves, panting heavily and then looking at his shoes like they’re dripping with pus and swarming with flies.
“Why did I come here?” he’s murmuring, over and over and over again. Meanwhile, Pete has been set up on a picnic table and one of the girls is ripping his pant leg open with the knife she pulled out of his thigh. There’s some blood but not an excessive amount of it. Pete’ll be just fine.
Alexei takes a handkerchief and raises it to his forehead, dabbing off some of the sweat and then throwing that in the trash can along with everything else.
“You okay there, buddy?” I ask, and the look he throws me, it’s pure venom.
“Leave me alone,” he hisses out, and then he’s climbing back into his car and taking off. Well, he’s rolling off more like, as if trying to minimize the amount of mud on his vehicle.
What a strange character that one is. I’ve seen plenty of weird rich boys in my day, even more weird poor ones, but this guy is certainly one of the most unique.
Also, he officially wins the award for priciest car I’ve ever seen at the track—nearly double the value of the Shelby Cobra which was the prior winner. I’d have appreciated the Miura more if tonight hadn’t been such a twisted clusterfuck. Frankly, I’d put my body up for grabs to race that beauty in exchange for borrowing it for, like, a week.
“I’d offer to drive you to the party, but I know you’d refuse,” Bohnes says as I look back at him, raising both of my brows in his direction. “See you there, Scarlett.”
He moves away and climbs into his Chevelle as I look back to see both Basti and Nisha approaching Lemon. She’s still stuck to Aspen’s side, which is predictable but absurdly annoying.
Pulling in a deep breath, I join my friends, locking eyes with Aspen Kelly first and foremost.
“How are your eyes?” I ask him, smiling prettily. He stares at me for a moment, and then forces a smile that looks cracked at the edges. Not like something well-worn and used, more like something brand-new and shiny that’s being put under a lot of strain. Once again, he’s got those pricey diamond cufflinks on, and he reeks of heavy cologne. “Were you able to get the detergent out easily enough or did it require a hospital visit?”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Lemon snaps, but Aspen looks down at her with a commanding stare.
“Be quiet,” he snaps, and she shuts her mouth like a well-trained dog.
The entire situation infuriates me to no end.
“What is going on, Lem?” Nisha asks as I reach out and, much as I hate to do this, end up wrapping my fingers in Lemon’s hair and dragging her forward. Aspen doesn’t stand up for her, but Bastian does.
“Scarlett, what are you doing?” he grinds out as I throw our friend to her knees in the mud. When she tries to stand up, I put my foot on her back and shove her the rest of the way to the ground.
“Did you not hear me when I told you to stay out of Prescott?” I ask, my voice calm and level, even as I’m screaming on the inside. It brings me no pleasure to treat my friend this way, but I don’t have great choices here.
Everyone here heard me tell Lemon not to come back until she’d gotten on her knees and apologized. Our world isn’t made up of rainbows and kitty cats, trigger warnings and apologies, second and third chances.
Oh no.
It’s cutthroat, and I didn’t get to where I am by being nice.
“Aspen!” Lem cries out when really, she should be begging for Basti. He looks like he might actually tackle me off of her, but I lift my gaze up to meet his, and I can see that he understands the severity of the situation.
He doesn’t want to lose control of Prescott anymore than I do.
We deserve some credit here. As brutal as it is to crush my childhood best friend in the mud beneath my heels, I’m not a terrible queen. There have been—and surely will be—worse people who attempt to run the streets around here.
“Apologize to me, Lemon,” I say, grinding my heel into her back when she attempts to stand up, palms sliding in the mud. Her fancy haircut and her new makeup, the pretty dress that Aspen bought her, none of that matters right now. It’s just me and her and all of this unresolved bullshit between us. “Apologize and tell Aspen that you’re done with him, and we can put this all behind us.”
“Eat shit, Scarlett!” she screams, and I lean forward, putting so much pressure on her back with my heel that she collapses into the mud and chokes on it. Spitting and screaming and flailing around while Aspen watches, clearly unimpressed with the entire situation.
“Well, now I won’t be able to give her a ride home,” he says, and then he’s moving around us and heading for his own car. He pauses once as Lem cries his name, turning to look back at me.
“Aspen, wait!” she pleads, and that sound … the desperation in it, that just breaks my little black heart into pieces. “Aspen!”
“I’ll be back,” he tells me, looking straight into my eyes. “Over and over and over again, until I finally have you squirming underneath me and begging for more.”
“Please. Greater men than you have tried.” I spit at him, and the wet globule lands on his cheek. Icy fury flares in his eyes as he swipes his hand down his face and then smears his palm down the front of his black suit jacket.
He says something low and cruel under his breath, and even though I can’t quite hear what he’s saying, the threat in his words is apparent.
Aspen takes off while Lemon howls and Nisha looks at me with a tight facial expression, like she knows this is the right thing to do but doesn’t envy me my position in the least.
Bastian squats down beside Lem, reaching out to swipe some of her muddied blond hair back from her forehead.
“Just apologize, girl, and we can be done with this. You can come back to school, and we’ll help you graduate—”
“Leave me alone!” Lem screams as I step back, allowing her to rise to her feet. She looks like a fresh-born foal, floundering around on new legs. Nobody moves to help her as she struggles to stay standing. “You’re a bully, Scarlett Force.”
“I’ve heard that one before,” I agree with a slight nod of the head. “But if I truly were, I wouldn’t just teach you a humiliating lesson and send you on your way.” I step toward her, daring her to escalate this fight to blood and fists. I truly hope not. I truly hope we haven’t come to that point in our friendship, a crossroads that can never be backtracked, that final move from argument to enemies.
But I have to test her.
“Aspen is taking me to a fancy di
nner with the mayor,” she hisses out at me, as if she thinks I would ever care about something like that. The mayor? Like, what the fuck does that even matter?
“Lem,” I start, putting my hands on my hips as I look her over with a tired sigh. “If you think that sort of statement would ever sway me then clearly, you haven’t been listening or looking for the last thirteen years of our friendship. Aspen is a snake, and if you don’t extricate yourself from his coils now, you’re going to find yourself suffocated and bleeding from the eyes.”
I look up, raising my voice so that everyone gathered around can hear.
“Nobody gives Lemon a ride or helps her out in any way. No phones, no bus fare, nothing.” I don’t bother to check and see if she has her phone on her. The dress she’s wearing is too tight and short for her to be carrying it around—and her boobs are too small to use my personal favorite phone storage locale—so I figure it’s probably still in Aspen’s car.
Despite him leaving her here tonight, I know that the two of them are far from finished with one another. He already knows that she has a high threshold for abuse, and it’s been made quite clear that he has a purpose for her other than just sex.
“Scarlett …” Basti starts, but then I whip a look his way, and he understands.
I’m not his friend, Scarlett Force, right now.
I’m the Scarlett who runs Prescott High like a tight ship.
“Let’s go,” I say, and even though Lemon continues to scream obscenities at me, we ignore her, climb in our cars, and head for the old speakeasy.
Widow
I pull up front of the halfway house where I live, parking the car and putting my forehead on the steering wheel. I grind my teeth together in frustration and then sit up, punching the dash several times, until my knuckles are scraped and bleeding.
I shove the driver’s side door open and climb out, pausing to examine the damage to my car. There’s a bit of curb rash on the rims, and some scratches on the finish, but nothing that I can’t buff out.
That motherfucker.
Every cell inside of me screams that I should go hunt Kellin Bohnes down and kill him.
At the same time, those same cells are begging me to find Scarlett Force, bend her over, take her from behind.
I kick the tire and slam the driver’s side door, panting heavily.
The only way I’m going to be able to revoke the rules of that race are to challenge Bohnes again.
That thought gives me pause.
Challenge Bohnes again?
Why the fuck would I do that? What do I care that I can’t fuck Scarlett Force? Who is she to me?
Nothing but a pain in my ass.
I stand there for a minute in the dark, listening to the murmur of the wind in the trees. The halfway house that I live in sucks, but at least I have my own room. That’s more than most of these places offer.
With a snort, I reach up and run my fingers through my hair, trying to find that inner calm I’ve held onto for so long. Certain things—like people touching my stuff—will trigger me, but everything else? I once stood by while blood spattered my face and watched a guy kill his cellmate.
In juvie. That’s just juvie around here. Imagine what the prison must be like.
I’ve promised myself that I won’t end up there.
I turn toward the steps that lead up to a wooden front porch and then pause when two guys come out of the shadows. Clearly, they’re looking for trouble. Cleary, I am not in the fucking mood.
“Nice car,” one of them says, but I’m not here to play games or posture with men twice my age. Instead, I move around to the trunk of my car and open it, selecting a wooden baseball bat from inside.
In my experience, wood is better because it acts as a sort of litmus test for how hard you’re beating somebody. Metal can make mistakes more easily, and I’m not about to kill some thugs and go to jail—for real this time.
I’ll be eighteen in just a few months; I can’t risk it.
I turn around to see that both men have approached me. I figure they’re both in their late thirties/early forties. I’m sure I seem like easy prey, seventeen and alone in the world with nothing to my name but this goddamn car.
“I’ll warn you both,” I tell them, sizing them up. “I’m in a mood tonight.”
“You’re in a mood?” one of them asks, and then he’s coming at me, and I’m cracking the baseball bat against the side of his head, sending his body slamming into the side of my ‘Vette. He crumples almost immediately, but the second guy is smarter than that.
He draws out a gun and levels it on me, but I don’t give a shit.
I swing the bat up, the wood connecting with his elbows as he lets out a howl and drops the weapon to the pavement. I hit him again, right in the stomach this time, and then I keep hitting him until he’s lying on the ground and groaning next to his buddy.
There’s some blood there; I can feel it hot and acrid on the side of my face, but the two men will live.
“Next time I tell you to leave me the fuck alone, listen.” I spit on them as I walk by, hefting the bat up to my shoulder—but not before wiping the blood off of it with my shirt—and then pounding my way up the steps.
My room is on the second floor which is fine, but I make sure to check for my parole officer before slipping up the staircase. If I get caught with a baseball bat, well, it isn’t a weapon. I could have feasibly gone out to play some sports, but it wouldn’t look good for me.
The floors creak, but I don’t hide my progress. I don’t have anything to hide, now do I?
Yanking my keys from my pocket, I unlock my bedroom door and slip in, slamming it shut behind me and then leaning the baseball bat in the corner. For a minute there, I just stand still and stare at the floor, at the mud on my boots, and then I grit my teeth and shove off the wall.
A quick glance in the mirror shows the blood on my face. I reach back and wrench the t-shirt over my head, swiping it off before tossing it in the laundry hamper, and then I put my palms flat on the old, worn piece of furniture and stare into the mirror at my expression.
It’s dark, thunderous, almost scary. And not just because I lost tonight or because of what it means.
Scarlett Force is now off-limits, and the taboo always seems to hold a certain sort of sway over me. I shove back from the dresser and grab the plastic tote that holds all of my bathroom shit, storming down the hallway in a rage.
God forbid any other asshole in here dares to take a shower while I’m in the room. I’ve made it perfectly clear that I don’t—that I won’t—share with anyone else. My time is mine alone, and I’m willing to fight for it.
Luckily, at this time of night on a Friday, it’s empty. Most of the guys are still out, eking out every last second before curfew. They won’t be back for at least another hour or so.
I take advantage of that, starting the shower and letting the water run hot as I kick off my muddy boots and jeans, stepping beneath it and scrubbing at my face vigorously with both hands.
“You will never fuck Scarlett Force.”
My teeth grit again, and that wild rage sweeps over me.
I hate that, that I can get this worked up over a girl that I don’t even know.
Sex is a curse. I’m convinced of it. It’s disgusting. Primeval. Base. Almost alien.
It makes people do horrible, unspeakable things.
So why is my cock rock-hard, and why is my hand squeezing the base of it and stroking? Why are my balls so tight? Why do I feel like I’m going to explode and spray the wall of this tiled shower with cum?
“Fuck!” I scream, releasing my dick and ignoring the ache in it, the need, the almost blinding curiosity of what it might feel like to slide into someone like Scarlett Force, hear her moan my name the way she moaned Bohnes’.
I can’t get it out of my head, her underneath, him on top, their pelvises grinding away, their mouths frantic and hungry as they kissed with too much tongue. Because even though he did warn me last wee
k, I watched anyway.
I won’t be told what to do by anyone, least of all someone that’s fucking Scarlett Force on the regular.
Bohnes cornered me in the bathroom last week, dressed in a fucking hoodie that was ripped in half, showing off the muscles in the lower half of his torso, like he had something to prove. Said he doesn’t like to be watched. More importantly, he doesn’t want anyone to watch his girl.
The thing is, I’m not sure that Scarlett sees herself as his in the slightest.
Not only does she call him a fuckboy more often than I’d ever allow, but … the way she looks at me. The way she bends over in the library. And then … there’s that.
The incident.
The incident that had me screaming and digging the heels of my hands into my eyes to keep from having a fit. Forty-nine percent of me was certain that I should murder her for what she did … the rest was thrilled.
The rest, that pesky fifty-one percent, is what convinces me to wash my hair quickly, brush my teeth, soap my pits, and then head back down the hall with a towel around my waist. I make sure my door is locked and my TV—the shitty ancient crapbox from thirty-years ago—is blasting a black-and-white movie.
It’s some mobster film that has great cars in it but which I ignore as I take my phone—the one I bought with the last of my remaining money—and pull up the video from the dashcam that I installed in the Stingray.
There she is, red-cheeked and panting, full mouth slightly parted, fingers diving into her greedy pussy. I lay back on the bed and get some lube from my nightstand drawer, dripping it across my aching shaft, and then I fist myself and fuck my hand while I watch.
I watch the video over and over again, just like I’ve been doing all week, jerking myself off more times in a single night than I did in all my years of juvie. Even as I’m cleaning myself off with a wad of tissues, I’m grossed out.
Grossed out by the juice she purposefully left in my car, grossed out by my reaction to it, grossed out by the white fluid leaking from the tip of my dick.
F*ckboy Psychos Page 16
