F*ckboy Psychos

by Stunich, C. M.

  I watch them go before turning back to look at Bohnes.

  “You’re too nice,” he whispers to me as Nisha and Bastian maintain their positions as sentries, almost obstinately in the face of the fire in this room. My body suddenly aches and my fingers itch to touch Bohnes.

  I’ve never had a guy give me a pervert’s severed fingers before.

  It’s my new benchmark for total romance.

  “I’m too nice because I gave a guy back his fingers?” I query, not even bothering to hide my surprise. “Really?”

  “That’s why you need me to protect you,” he continues, rising to his full height and looking down at me. “You’re too kindhearted.” He chuckles, the sound deep and dark and velvety, and then he’s slipping past me and swiping his crimson fingers on the front of his already bloodied white shirt. “Also, you owe me.” He points at my crotch and smirks. “The panties. I won the race.”

  Shit.

  He did, didn’t he?

  With a small grumble, I slide the panties down, stepping out of them in my heels with one leg and then the other. I pass them over and Bohnes offers me up a grin.

  “Many thanks, Force.” He tucks them into his back pocket and then opens the door that leads to the bar, leaving the three of us alone in the semi-darkness of the single bulb.

  I turn to look at my friends.

  “Oh,” Bastian says, gritting his teeth. You’d think we might be a skosh more upset about the machete thing, but believe it or not, I’ve seen much worse. “Girl, you are fucked.”

  “Break this off now before it gets worse,” Nisha says, grabbing my arm the way I might grab Lemon’s. I look from her hand to her face, but I can’t find it in myself to be upset. “Kellin has never been all there, and he’s only getting worse.”

  “That guy groped me,” I explain, gesturing loosely in the direction of the door. “He got what was coming to him.” I turn back to Nisha, doing my best to hide the slight smile that’s threatening to crawl across my lips.

  “Ay, Dios mío,” Bastian begins, lifting his hands up in prayer. “Please help my friend. She’s as stupid as my other friend when it comes to boys.”

  “Severed fingers are not roses and chocolates, Scar,” Nisha continues, but now I’m just grinning and they both know that I’m not displeased.

  “Nah, they’re better.” I shrug my shoulders as the two of them exchange knowing looks. “Anyway, don’t worry about me. I’m not Lemon. I’m not looking for Kellin Bohnes to save me from anything. He’s a stiff cock and that’s it.”

  “Sure thing, Queen,” Nisha says with a long sigh as I make my way back behind the bar, skirting around my girl and grabbing the bottle of Johnnie Walker by the neck. I bring it to my lips, swigging it as people turn to stare.

  Whispers and rumors are already circulating, and even though I can’t see Bohnes from where I’m at, I know where he is based on the way people skitter out of his way. I shouldn’t follow him, but …

  I take the bottle with me, heading up the stairs and into the relatively quiet living room area. He’s waiting there, turning to look over his shoulder at me with a horrible sharp-edged smile. He turns away again and moves over to stand in front of the window, staring out at the relatively quiet street in front of us.

  “Don’t touch what’s mine, eh?” I ask, pausing beside him. I take another drink of the whiskey. My entire body hurts in the best way. I want him to touch me. Better yet, I want him to grab me, ruck my dress up, and fuck me against the wall.

  First, I need to reestablish our boundaries.

  Bohnes says nothing, but his mouth twitches slightly.

  He reaches up to rub at his face, smearing a bit of blood on the side of his jaw.

  “I would’ve ground his fingers up in a garbage disposal,” he says, completely and utterly ignoring my question. “Why give them back?”

  “Because if he gets the fingers reattached, his uptight Fuller parents won’t look into the incident nearly as much as they would if he lost them completely.” It’s true. The Fuller neighborhood—where that guy clearly hails from—is full of those overexcited middle-class househusbands and housewives who get their panties in a twist over every little thing.

  I don’t want them over here protesting our very existence yet again.

  “So practical,” Bohnes purrs, moving away from the window and opening the front door. I have no idea where he’s going, but I follow him anyway. I’m not afraid of him. If I have to, I’ll kill him myself. “Except with me.”

  He stops at the bottom of the porch steps and looks up at me.

  “Why is that anyway? Why let me pop your cherry, Scarlett Force?”

  I cringe at his crudeness, gritting my teeth and debating whether or not I want to hit him over the head with the liquor bottle.

  “I don’t belong to you, Bohnes,” I explain, and he shrugs. “If I want to fuck someone else, I’m going to do it.”

  “Someone who isn’t Widow,” he corrects, and then he lets his head fall back with happy laughter. It’s a disturbing sight, the moonlight turning his white hair pewter, the blood smeared on his jaw and staining his t-shirt. “Anyone who isn’t Widow—for now.”

  “For now?” I clarify as he turns away again, and I come down the stairs. “And that means what, exactly?”

  “I’m happy to be your fuckboy until you admit that you want me,” he says, moving through the shadows like he was born to them. He was, I think. We all were, in one way or another. Growing up around here comes with special challenges that nobody but a true Prescott brat can understand. “You can screw whoever you want,” he continues, guiding me around the side of the house and then turning so suddenly that I almost take a step back.

  Almost. Because I’m Scarlett Motherfucking Force, and I’m not scared of Kellin Bohnes—not even after watching him machete some bro’s fingers off. He snatches the whiskey from my hand and chugs it, his throat working as he swallows several shots worth in a single go.

  Bohnes drops the bottle down from his mouth and looks me over as I raise a brow that I’m not sure he can even see in the dark.

  “Somehow, I don’t believe you for shit,” I tell him, and he laughs again. The sound is decidedly unhinged. He lifts the bottle a second time, finishes it off, and then throws it against the sagging fence, shattering it.

  The glass sparkles in the light from the last remaining streetlamp before Bohnes is grabbing me and slamming me into the side of the house. I can hear the music from the basement echoing faintly into the quiet night.

  In this neighborhood, buried in shadows between the fence of an abandoned house and the side of one condemned and ready for demolition, I should be scared. This is where Prescott’s darkness truly bleeds out and taints everything it touches.

  Thing is, I’ve allowed myself to become one of those things that haunts the shadows. That’s the choice around here: hunt or be hunted.

  Bohnes and I, we’re both hunters, and I’m not scared.

  Instead, I’m so turned-on that my nipples hurt. I can feel them straining against the fabric of my little black dress.

  Bohnes wets his lips in a very crude, very lascivious sort of way.

  “You don’t believe me?” he asks, blinking at me. His eyes are so pale that I can actually see them, even in the dark. “Why not? I have no reason to lie to you.” He laughs again and reaches down, yanking my dress down my tits and letting them spill out into his waiting hands.

  I moan and bite my lower lip as he squeezes and kneads the tender flesh, paying special attention to the painful points of my nipples. Bohnes drops his mouth down and lets his hot, sharp tongue tease them just enough to get them wet, so that the cool air feels like torture.

  “I’m not getting with you until you admit it,” he says, lifting his head up to look at me. His white hair shimmers orange under the flickering streetlight. Moths flutter around near it, searching for a poor urban substitute for the moon.

  “Admit what?” I ask, and Bohnes grins, his teet
h as orange as his hair in the strange light.

  He pauses, and a disturbing frown comes over his mouth as he turns his head, watching as a car pulls up on the overgrown lawn to my left. New partygoer? I hardly care, but Bohnes seems to.

  It’s a nice car, I’ll give you that. A ‘68 Ford Mustang Fastback in silver with black hood details. Worth maybe a hundred and twenty grand or so. Not nearly as bourgeois as the Cobra or the Miura we saw tonight, but holy hot damn, it’s a beautiful car. I can just imagine being laid across the hood of that beauty …

  A figure climbs out and my blood chills. I can tell who it is, even in this light.

  With a growl, Bohnes reaches out and wrenches my dress up to cover my tits. That’s when I really start to get worried. He’s possessive as hell, and he shouldn’t be. I explained this whole situation to him. Besides, the only time we’ve ever spent together is while we’re fucking or arranging business deals.

  It’s not like we hang out. It’s not as if we talk. We’re virtual strangers.

  I shove past him, making my way over to Aspen Kelly.

  He’s dressed in a different outfit and driving a different car, but it’s undoubtedly him. Same feathered crow-black hair that teases his neck, same ebon eyes, same flat, angry mouth. He must’ve washed the makeup from his face because I can see the tiniest hint of the cut on his cheek.

  “You’re driving a Fastback when you have a Cobra?” I ask dryly, and he drops his dark gaze down to mine, making me shiver. I have a feeling that he’s as nuts as Bohnes—he just hides it better. “Whatever.” I gesture at the car as Bohnes moves up to stand beside me in his bloody t-shirt. “The Mustang is still a nice car; I’ll give you that.”

  Aspen looks over at Bohnes, studying the bloodstains with a curious tilt of his head.

  “Is it Halloween already?” he asks absently, but it’s a moot point. It’s always Halloween in Prescott. Bohnes says nothing which isn’t a good sign. Not at all. Aspen turns back to me and then says something in Japanese that I don’t understand.

  And if I don’t understand it, I’m going to take it as an insult.

  “You left your girlfriend to walk into town,” I remind him as Ash turns his head to look at the house, a slight frown creasing his mouth. “How twisted are you?”

  “How twisted are you?” Aspen retorts as I study his black cashmere sweater, gray slacks and classic red high-tops. He looks money, that’s for sure, but it’s a decidedly different look than the suit he was wearing earlier.

  I find it odd that he went home to change and switch cars before coming over here. Even his cologne has been washed off and reapplied, from that overwhelming black pepper stench to a light, airy floral kiss.

  “Me?” I query back. “I’m not dating the girl. You are. And you just left her there to suffer in the mud under my shoes. What sort of man would just stand by and watch his girl get her ass kicked? You’re even worse than I expected.”

  “Only a monster, surely,” Aspen replies, his voice slightly more accented than it was before. I swear, he had no accent at all earlier tonight, and now I hear the vaguest hint of one in his words. Not a Japanese accent however, but a British one which I find even weirder. I thought I’d noticed it the night Widow crashed our race, too. But not today, not until now. “She’s resting safely in that hovel she calls home. So you needn’t worry.”

  I curl my lip at him. I know where Lemon is because I had my girls watch to make sure she got home okay. But I’m still furious at him. He left her there and now he’s here, at a Prescott party?

  “Rich boys don’t get in without the right sort of gifts,” Bohnes breathes from behind me, and then he holds out his palm, the very same one with which he offered up the jock’s fingers. There’s still the faintest edge of dried brown on his skin. “What did you bring me, rich boy?”

  Aspen moves back and opens the passenger door of his car, withdrawing an eight-ball of cocaine and tossing it over to Bohnes. My fuckboy catches it easily, examining the drugs in his hand before nodding.

  “Access granted,” Bohnes purrs out, sending shivers down my spine.

  Aspen returns his attention to me, and I feel myself flushing all over and hating myself for it. He is undoubtedly a million times worse than someone like Bohnes or even Widow could ever be. That, and not only is he fucking my friend, but he’s stringing her along, wrapping her in his rich boy web and strapping her to the chrome of his bumper.

  By the time she realizes it, she’ll be cracked and broken in new and dangerous ways.

  “What can I give you to back off my friend?” I ask him, and this time, he smiles, and it’s absolutely terrifying. Or it would be if I were anyone but Scarlett Force.

  “I’m sorry to say, but there’s absolutely nothing you could offer that I could, in good conscience, accept.” He studies me again, and then his eyes flick to Bohnes. He absorbs the man’s presence in such a way that I can tell he knows how big of a threat he is—machete or no. “Not even yourself. My father has plans for sweet little Lucy Hall.”

  That surprises me. Lemon never tells guys her real name. Never. She says a name holds power, and it’s just better if they know her by her nickname. That way, there’s always some small part of her that they can never have.

  This isn’t good.

  “She tell you that or did you have your daddy’s goons sleuth it?” I ask, and Aspen grins wildly at me.

  “It was offered freely and without coercion,” he says, looking over at Bohnes yet again, like he isn’t sure if the man is about to kill him or not. It’s a valid concern. I can feel the quiet simmer of Bohnes’ instability behind me. It’s comforting, in an odd sort of way. “While she was stretched out on the bed, moaning and crying. I love you, Aspen,” he mimics with a desperate sigh, one that’s very clearly satire. “Oh, Aspen, Aspen, Aspen.”

  “Enough,” I snap, my voice like a whip. “Would you race me for the right to see her?”

  “Would you put your body on the line again?” Aspen asks, and I feel Bohnes tense up beside me. I can’t help the scowl that takes over my mouth, twisting my expression into something wicked and grotesque.

  “Somehow I have a feeling that you wouldn’t give her up even if I did,” I snap, and he shrugs, sliding his hands into the pockets of his charcoal-colored slacks. A moth lands on the roof of the Mustang and he glances over at it, holding out a finger. The moth climbs onto it and he lifts it to his face to look at it.

  For a second there, I wonder if he isn’t going to pull its wings off, but then it takes off and he drops his hand by his side again.

  “You’d be right on that account,” he agrees, shrugging loosely.

  I know I shouldn’t bother talking to this skid mark, but there’s a certain sense of curiosity in me that I can’t stifle.

  “By the way, what the fuck is wrong with your friend?” I query, and Aspen pauses, his frown deepening.

  “Who?” he asks, and I have to resist the urge to roll my eyes. He doesn’t deserve such a garden-variety expression.

  “The guy with the gloves,” I explain, feeling my nerves pinch with annoyance. My fingers itch, and I can tell you right now that if I had Bohnes’ machete in hand, I might actually use it on this idiot. As if he doesn’t know who I’m talking about. What a smart-ass.

  It takes him a minute, like he has to actually think about it to put two and two together. Either he cares so little about Alexei that he barely remembers who I’m talking about or else he truly is as insane as he appears to be.

  “Oh, him.” Aspen’s frown deepens further, and he stares down at my shoes instead of my face, still dirty from fucking Bohnes like a wild woman in the woods. With Widow watching. I mean, he said he wasn’t, but let’s be honest. What else would he be doing out there?

  “He has some issues. His mother got sick and passed away a few years ago. Since then, he’s been strange with the gloves and the wipes and whatever else it is that he does.” Aspen shrugs as if none of this matters to him, but I can’t help but
be intrigued by Alexei. “Why? Did you like him?”

  There’s a hint of a tease in those words, but something else, too. Jealousy? What the fuck?

  Bohnes makes an annoyed sound behind me, more like a hiss than any actual human word in any known language.

  “You want to fuck other guys?” he asks, looking between me and Aspen. “Why not start with him?” He gestures in Aspen’s direction, scowling at me as he does it. He circles around to my other side, challenging me.

  I can see it in his eyes in that moment, that I have to make a move now or I’m going to end up with a real problem on my hands. As much as I liked the gift of that perv’s fingers, I can’t let Bohnes mark me as his property. I’m just not that sort of girl, and I can’t allow him to consume me the way Lemon lets men consume her.

  Clearly, he sees my repulsion toward Aspen Kelly. This is a safe bet, right? He got Widow away from me—arguably the only other man in Prescott that I’ve showed even a remote interest in. But my questions about Alexei? My conversation with Aspen?

  It’s triggering every jealous, possessive, psychotic impulse that Bohnes has.

  He doesn’t think I’m going to do it.

  I shouldn’t do it.

  At times, I find Aspen Kelly so repulsive that I truly want to kill him, that I find my murderous impulses almost impossible to ignore, a tide that threatens to drown me beneath cool, foamy waters. Choking on salt. My body slammed against sharp rocks.

  At other times? Like right now, with the moth, and the scent of roses, the way he stares at me like I’m something intriguing …

  I step forward, my eyes a challenge, my body language daring either of them to stop me. I put my arms around Aspen’s neck, my fingers teasing the silken strands of the dark hair that brushes against the neckline of his sweater.

  His gaze lights up, and his tongue darts out to wet his lower lip. By the time I rise up to my toes and press my mouth against his, he’s ready. His arms tighten around me, squeezing me close. I can feel his heart thundering as his lips slide against mine. I make sure to use my tongue first, and he lets out a smooth, almost criminally polished laugh as I take over, forcing myself down his throat.