F*ckboy Psychos

by Stunich, C. M.

  On Monday, he started some eighties bodice ripper about pirates and then finished it up on Tuesday. Today, he’s got some flashy new release with a pretty dust jacket that he’s very careful not to crease, even though the donated book will undoubtedly be used and abused by his fellow Prescott hoodlums.

  I pretend to ignore him. Sort of. I can’t resist the opportunity to tease him when a book I come across needs to be shelved directly above his head. I stretch my body over his, fully prepared to put my tits right in his face.

  “Don’t touch me,” he grinds out, dropping his book to the floor and then putting his hot hands on my hips. The touch makes me moan in a totally inappropriate way, but then he’s shoving me and I’m stumbling back, and I’m just friggin’ pissed.

  “What is your fucking problem?” I hiss at him in a whisper that won’t upset the librarians. They’re my girls. No sense in upsetting either of them, especially not when they let me come and go as I please.

  “You,” Widow states, lifting his amber gaze to mine. “You are my problem. Stay the fuck away from me.”

  I curl my lip at him, bending down to retrieve his book so that I can read the description and tease him even more about it, when he snatches it up and gets so close to my face that I wonder if he might not try to kiss me.

  “Don’t touch my things either,” he growls out, his breath scented with mint, sharp and clean. I want to kiss him and see if he tastes like it, too, but I can’t do that.

  Because Widow lost to Bohnes, and he isn’t allowed to fuck me.

  But a kiss is different, right?

  I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It’s like, I’m desperate to wash the taste of Aspen Kelly out of my mouth by kissing somebody else. After he left the party on Friday, Bohnes disappeared into the crowd, and I couldn’t find him again.

  I ended up swing dancing with my girls and Basti for the rest of the night, passing out drunk in Jennifer’s arms, and waking up in my own bed with an insistent ache between my thighs.

  Fucking disgusting.

  I hate myself for even kissing Aspen, let alone having perverse fantasies about him. Swear to God, that man is the real-life equivalent of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Sometimes, when I see him, I hate him. Other times …

  Anyway, Bohnes has hit me right where it hurts, targeting the one guy I might actually want and crossing him off my list of possibilities. Even though I lie to myself and pretend that I wasn’t interested in Adrian Lawless before Friday, I’m most certainly interested in him now.

  I want him because I can’t have him.

  Does that make me fucked-up? I think it does. I think I like to chase after men that I know I can’t or shouldn’t have. It’s safer that way, right? Because if I go in knowing that they’re damaged and broken and twisted, then I won’t let myself fall any further than sex.

  “Don’t touch your things?” I query, standing up straight and putting my hands on my hips. “That isn’t your thing; it belongs to the library.”

  “I donated it to the library so until I’m finished reading it, and I return it, it is, in fact, mine.” Widow gets to his feet, his six-foot-whatever frame easily rising above my own—even with the heels on. He wrinkles his nose at me. “I should’ve killed you for touching my car. I hurt people who touch what’s mine.”

  That’s doublespeak if I’ve ever heard it.

  My skin prickles and I release a breath.

  “Are you coming to the track this weekend?” I ask instead, but he just shrugs his big shoulders, waiting for me to move. I don’t. So unless he wants to touch me again, he’s trapped against the chair and the bookshelves that meet in a ninety-degree angle behind it.

  We’re tucked into a corner back here. There’s nowhere to go. Students used to come here to fuck, but the current librarians—though both septuagenarians—are too vicious and too astute to allow such horseplay to take place.

  Unless … it were me. They don’t watch me the way they watch the other students.

  Not that I plan on fucking Widow. The rules of the track are too sacred to me. That, and he already used up his only given grace for mistakes by crashing my race with Aspen. Although, now that I look back on it, I’m sort of grateful for it.

  If I’d lost then I would’ve had to fuck him. Ask my pussy on Friday night if she woulda liked that, and it would’ve been a resounding yes. But earlier that same night? I couldn’t have been more repulsed by the idea.

  It makes no sense. I’m hot and cold with the guy, waffling between revulsion and lust.

  “Whether I do or not, it isn’t your business. Move.” His voice is a clear command, one that I refuse to heed. He wants to be an alpha male? By all means, he can shape the rowdy boys of this school into a proper crew the way I did the girls. But he most certainly won’t be telling me what to do.

  “Make me.”

  The challenge falls between us, a thrown gauntlet that Widow looks like he might very well take up.

  The person that’s watching me from the shadows probably wouldn’t like that, but I choose to ignore him too. He’s been here every day this week thus far and likely will continue his silent vigil. I dare him to intervene.

  Instead, one of the librarians—this one’s name is Agnes—pops her head around the corner.

  “Scarlett, we just got a new box of donations. I’d like you to stop shelving for now and come look through it, see if there’s anything worth keeping. Last thing we need in this library is another copy of Fifty Shades.” She snorts and moves away, and I frown.

  Widow crosses his arms, letting his own book dangle from one hand while he waits.

  Too bad.

  I’d been planning on standing here in challenge for the rest of the period and maybe even into the next class.

  “You got lucky this time,” I tell him, snapping my fingers and then moving away. But not before casting one, quick glance down at his jeans, just to see if I can’t get some idea of how he feels about me.

  He very purposefully drops the book in front of his crotch to hide any evidence. Fucking smart-ass.

  I move away, but not before casting another glance in his direction.

  Our eyes meet, and a thrill sparks in me.

  He’s interested, even if he doesn’t want to be.

  But the only way he’s ever going to be able to approach me would be to race Bohnes again.

  I’m not sure if Kellin would accept that request … or keep his advantage.

  Either way, unless Widow is willing to make another bet, this is as far as we’ll ever go.

  On Thursday, I gather an armful of books and head down a particularly narrow aisle. I’m paying more attention to the authors’ last names on the spines than on where I’m going. I end up running headfirst into a strong, broad back.

  The smell of ripe fruit and forest sweeps over me as several of the books tumble to the floor and Widow turns around to look at me, his face lit with rage. When he sees that it was me who bumped into him, that expression shifts slightly. It doesn’t get any less angry, but a new emotion enters the fray.

  Lust.

  It’s written plain as day across his handsome features, across his full mouth, in the way he breathes, deep and slow, in the clench of his fists at his sides.

  “Didn’t see ya there,” I quip as he backs away from me, silent and annoying as he’s been since he started here three weeks ago. He still has yet to make any friends, still sits in the hall or on the front steps strumming his guitar. And I think, if given the chance, he’d still park in my space.

  I’ve been careful about keeping the opportunity out of his hands. I’d rather not go head-to-head with him because I have a feeling that one of us would end up dead. It wouldn’t be me, but I can say this: murdering people is not an idea that appeals to me. It leaves my careful future on the line in a way that I don’t appreciate.

  There’s always the chance of being discovered, of going to court, of being locked up.

  I don’t want to open myself up to that.r />
  I don’t want to fear every knock on my door for the rest of my life, wondering if I’m not about to be arrested and tried for a crime that happened ten, twenty, whatever years ago. Although, I’ve already done something like that, allowed myself to do something like that.

  It’s the reason I hate the color red. Or rather, one of the reasons tied in with all the others, inextricably entwined. Just another fucked-up red thread of fate binding my pinky to the pinkies of six dead people.

  Not that I killed all six, but you get the idea.

  I turn purposefully, putting my ass to Widow, and then I bend down to collect the books. A quick glance between my legs shows that he’s still standing there, watching me. Not that I needed to see him to get confirmation of that. I can feel his gaze on me, this hot, sultry, but utterly resistant monster.

  He doesn’t want to want me.

  Even without Bohnes’ edict in place, I don’t think he’d have sex with me anyway.

  I finish with the books and then stand up, tossing a look over my shoulder that he meets with a cool, almost stoic expression, as if he’s done his very best to hide the lead of his lust in the dark shadows of his soul.

  Without a word, I turn and leave the aisle.

  I don’t see Widow again for the rest of the day. The next day, however, is a different story.

  He’s in his usual chair, and I’m rocking a skirt that’s so short that Principal Vaughn—this corrupt loser who honestly deserves a long walk off a short bridge—stops in the hallway and opens his mouth like he’s going to chastise me.

  I just wait for it, staring at him in defiance until he finally turns away with a sigh.

  We’ve had it out before, more than once. At this point, I’ve proven that his words mean less than nothing to me and any attempts to derail me from this school will be met with violence.

  I left him a card on his desk to tell him that I know what nursing home his mother lives in. Not that I’d ever hurt an old lady, but there’s threat apparent in the act. I would be willing to go to his house and set it on fire while he slept inside.

  Anyway, the skirt is so short that I feel breezes in places that don’t often see the sun. When I move to put a book on the bottom shelf nearest Widow, I make sure to aim my ass right in his direction.

  The hot swipe of a finger along the silk of my panties makes me draw in a deep breath. I shoot to my feet, turning to look at him over my shoulder, but he’s flipping the pages in whatever new book it is he’s reading and ignoring me entirely.

  I distinctly see the words cock and cunt on the very page he’s reading.

  I wet my lips, juggling the stack of books, and then continue on with my duties until another book comes up that needs to be placed near Widow. The entire time, my body is throbbing, my pussy so thoroughly soaked that I’m sure he’ll be able to see the wet spot the next time that I bend over.

  I casually walk his way, searching through the titles, and then I bend over a second time.

  This time, I can barely hold back a moan when a strong finger strokes down the silky, wet crotch of my panties. I don’t stand up quite as quickly this time, pretending to struggle with the book while Widow strokes two, three more times.

  When I stand up, my legs feel like jelly, and I can’t help throwing a look his way. He ignores me, but he does lift a single finger up to his mouth and suck on it.

  Oh God, please stop. The tension between us is thick enough to cut with a knife, hot enough to spill blood. I want more of what he’s offering. More, more, more.

  We play this game for the rest of the period, me bending over, him stroking me with a single finger outside the underwear.

  By the time the bell rings, I’m dripping, and I can’t stop squeezing my thighs together looking for release. Widow casts me a dark look before leaving the library. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t mention our game, just walks right out and disappears in the rush of students filling the hall.

  With a curse, I swipe a hand over my face and wonder if I’m not walking this thing too close to the edge. Bohnes’ win gave him the right to determine whether Widow and I have sex or not. But is stroking a few times outside the panties sex? Am I playing with semantics to justify my own bullshit?

  After putting away the final book in my arms, I head into the hall with a single purpose: getting to the bathroom and rubbing one out. I consider using Widow’s car again, but I’m not sure that I’ll be able to make it all the way out there in the state I’m in.

  I’m in a blind haze, shoving my way into the girls’ bathroom and hooking a thumb in the direction of the door. Girls pause what they’re doing, reapplying makeup, fixing earrings, adjusting their hair, as they line the counter.

  “Out.” I only have to say it once and they scramble to obey, scooping makeup back into their purses, snatching up hairbrushes and jewelry. In less than a minute, I’m alone.

  But only for a second.

  The bathroom door opens, and I know without turning around exactly who it is that’s followed me inside.

  Bohnes

  Every predator knows you wait for the right moment to strike, to ambush your prey. Move too soon, and they’ll be startled off. Move too late, and the distance between you has grown too much to make a proper move.

  All week, I’ve been watching Widow and Scarlett in the library. Testing her. Testing him. I don’t like what I see. The only guy she’s ever shown interest in besides me, and I cut that shit off at the neck.

  Yet, what is this?

  “Bohnes,” Scarlett says without turning around. Her eyes, however, flick to the mirror, watching my reflection as I move up to stand behind her. I like the way we look together, my ghostly pale skin next to her bronze-tinted flesh, my bone-white hair against her coal-black braid.

  She calls me her fuckboy which is fine. It doesn’t bother me. I don’t care what she calls me, so long as that silken pussy is riding my cock at every available opportunity. So long as she walks around this school with my teeth marks on her neck, her breasts, her inner thighs.

  There isn’t a boy in Prescott who doesn’t know who Scarlett Force is, who isn’t equally fearful and lustful toward her. And she chose me. She chose me to take her virginity, to fuck her the way she likes to be fucked, to warm her up before she hits the track or after she’s snagged another victory.

  I don’t know why she did.

  We’ve had business transactions in the past. She’s paid me to do things. Horrible things, wicked things, awful things. That’s what everybody in this school uses me for, and they don’t feel bad about it either.

  But sex?

  I’ve never been used for sex before.

  I hover my hands over her bare shoulders, wanting to touch her, knowing how aroused she is right now, how wet. It was obvious, when she bent over like that. I could see the shape of her plump folds through her panties, the darkness of her lust tainting the fabric.

  That day by the track, I was out there to smoke, knowing she, too, would come out to smoke. She showed up the way she always does, stood in silence with me the way she always does, but then she looked at me, and I felt this pull, this tug.

  I dropped my cigarette, put it out with my boot. She did the same, using her obnoxious red high heels—a pair she’d won in a previous race—to crush the burning ember. She didn’t say anything when I walked up to her, didn’t stop me. And then I bent my head down and took her mouth.

  Oh fuck, the moans she let out, the way she melted into me and then, subsequently, attacked me, shoving her tongue against mine, scratching at my back through my shirt until pain arced through me.

  My pants went down and her dress came up, and she had just enough of a mind left to whisper condom, and she’s lucky she had one in her purse because I would’ve fucked her anyway.

  I didn’t expect the blood when I pulled out after the first few strokes, intending on slamming deep again. I didn’t expect that she’d be digging her fingernails into the trunk of the tree and breathing hard through that
initial violation of my thick cock in her absurdly tight little pussy. Pink and glistening and glittering with blood and arousal … I can’t say how many times I’ve masturbated to thoughts of that moment, how much it features in my fantasies, in all of the quiet spaces during the day and night when I’m alone.

  “Fuck me, Bohnes. Fuck me hard.” She gave me the command, and I never looked back. I don’t particularly enjoy taking orders, but when that pretty mouth opens, and that husky voice comes out …

  “You’ve been a bad girl, Scarlett Force,” I tell her as she shivers, still watching me in the mirror. I’m wearing black combat boots today, my black tie-dye joggers with the orange and black bats on them tucked inside. A muscle tank with two coital skeletons draped over the top.

  “Have I?” she queries back, her voice equal parts playful and authoritative. “How so?”

  “Playing games with the new boy in the library. Do you think I didn’t see that? Hmm? Do you think I’m stupid? I know everything that happens in this hellhole, maybe even more so than you do.”

  “Really?” she queries, and then she turns around and my hands finally drop to her shoulders, digging into her smooth skin as I grit my teeth against the overwhelming urge to tear her clothes off and fuck her right here.

  We’ve never done it anywhere but at the track. Certainly never at school. But why not? The bell rings and we both ignore it.

  “I’d say you were the bad one, Bohnes. I don’t allow dicks in the girls’ restroom.”

  I smile at that, but it’s layered on top of my gritted teeth, and I’m sure it looks hideous.

  “You think I wasn’t aware that you were watching?” She reaches out and curls her hands in my shirt, drawing me closer. Whether she’s telling the truth or not, I’m not sure. I want to believe that she wouldn’t lie to me, especially not after the gift I gave her last weekend. But who knows? “Widow and I aren’t fucking, Bohnes. You can see that. You know it. What do you care if I tease the uptight bastard a little bit?”

  I squeeze her arms, and she lets out this breathy sound that tells me everything I need to know. She wants me to fuck her, right here, right now.