“I should leave you in here with your fingers and a distant memory,” I growl out, letting my anger get the best of me. I usually keep it fairly well-contained. I’ve killed men with less emotion in my face than I’m wearing now. There’s just something about this woman that brings it out of me.
“Should, but won’t,” she says, fully certain that I will, in fact, give her what she wants.
She’s right, goddamn it.
I grab her by the arm and drag her into the largest stall at the end of the row, shoving the door closed behind us and locking it. When I reach for her, she puts her arms around my neck, and our teeth clash so hard that it almost hurts.
I lift Scarlett up and slam her back into the wall, reaching down to frantically shove my sweatpants out of the way. My fingers easily swipe her panties aside, and then I drive into that silken heat with a deep groan.
She’s so wet, so swollen, so greedy. Her muscles draw me in balls-deep as I curse under my breath, putting my mouth to her neck so that I can suck and bite and mark. If I could draw poison into my teeth like a snake, I’d infect her with it. I’d put my venom in her bloodstream and taint every part of her with pieces of myself.
As it is, I’m simply human, so I fuck her like a man, listening to her moans, feeling the way she squeezes me when I do something she likes. And she likes it rough which suits me just fine. I’m not sure that I could calm down and make peaceful love to her. I would try, certainly, just to be able to claim her over and over again the way I’ve been doing for weeks now.
But this is better. We’re perfectly compatible, me and Scarlett. Physically. Sexually. Emotionally. We both run in the same circles, we play the same games, we dabble in the dark.
She’s my perfect woman, everything I’ve ever wanted.
I intend to keep her for myself.
If that means racing for the right, if that means stalking people like Ash Kelly, then it’s what I’ll do. Unlike Widow—the uptight idiot who pretends not to be interested in Scarlett while panting away like a dog in heat—I don’t worry much about him.
He’s hamstrung. He’s tied. He’s shackled.
Ash or Aspen or whatever you want to call him, he isn’t going to make a move.
That doesn’t mean I can rest easy. Oh no. Scarlett is wild. She’s as wild as I am, but she’s more contained, more in control of her baser urges. I do know, however, that she’s going to try to fuck someone else soon.
I can feel it.
She’s afraid that I’m doing exactly what it is that I am doing.
Gunning for her. Drawing her in. Tying her up.
So she’s going to try to derail me, test me, prove to me that I’m a fuckboy and nothing else. What she doesn’t understand is how dedicated I am, how hard I’m willing to fight. I’m not sure there’s anything in this world or in heaven above or hell below that could sway my interest.
“Harder, Bohnes, harder,” she moans as I slam her into the wall, my cock and balls already dripping with her slick. Her eyes are closed, and I wonder if she isn’t imagining Widow’s cock in place of mine. The idea infuriates me, so I grip her ass cheeks in tight fingers and ram her into the wall hard enough that the old tiles crack, and she ends up biting my neck to silence a scream.
White-hot pain shoots through my body, and I know she’s making me bleed. I love it though. I love this passionate toxicity brewing between us. I want more of it, more, more, more.
Our pelvises crash in a tumultuous frenzy and then she’s coming hard, milking my cock and encouraging my balls to tighten, to release all of that pent-up seed that I’ve been saving over the past few days just for her. It’s a lot. I fill her with it, pumping my hips even as she sags against me, sated and happy, until I’m finished.
The door opens and a teacher walks in, looking in the stalls for kids skipping out on class.
“Excuse me,” she says, and I curl my lip a little. How dare this bitch interrupt me when I’m enjoying the feel of my hot seed inside Scarlett’s pretty pussy? “What the hell are you two doing in there?”
Scarlett, on the other hand, doesn’t seem perturbed.
“Fuck off, Mrs. Robins,” she calls, and there’s a small pause, just a heartbeat of fear, and then the teacher is hightailing it out of the room.
“She’s screwing some senior guy who’s repeated so many classes he must be pushing twenty by now.” Scarlett pushes at me even as I hold her tighter, and then offers up a look of warning. I hold on for just a beat longer, just to see how far I can push her before she starts to get angry, and then I release her, setting her down on the floor.
She points at the door.
“Out.” Just that. I obey, yanking my sweatpants up and not caring about all the juice on my dick and balls. I want to keep it there. Already, I’m missing that scalding heat of her pussy, the ridged muscles inside, the slickness, the tightness.
I want it back.
“You’ll be at the track tonight?” I ask, looking into the mirror as I wait for her. My eyes are ringed in dark shadow, making me look disturbed. It’s a favor, really, to the rest of society. Of course I’m disturbed, can’t they see it? It’s their fault anyway.
I hate the world and everyone in it. It’s best if they all know, so they can stay away from me.
“I’ll be there,” she confirms, and I smile with pale lips, waiting for her as she, unfortunately, cleans herself up. I hate the idea of her wasting my cum, draining it out of her into the toilet. It’s upsetting. I almost offer her up a tampon. I bought a pack of them and stuck some in my pocket to carry around with me, just in case.
I allow it this time, wanting to earn more of her goodwill, wanting her to know that I’ll be a good monster for her, a pretty monster, a fuckboy monster. Hers and hers alone. I’ll do whatever she wants me to do, just so long as I can have her.
And I don’t just mean sexually.
I want everything.
Her body. Her soul. Her bloody, beating heart.
She opens the door and moves over to the sink to wash her hands. When she glances my way, I can see that she isn’t entirely displeased with me, regardless of whatever she’s about to stay.
“We’re toxic together, you know that, right? We could never have a normal relationship with the way we both are.”
“I don’t care,” I reply, hands curled around the edges of the sink, still looking at her, watching her, loving the striations of color in her dark brown irises. “It doesn’t matter to me. Normal is filth. Normal is complacency. Normal is accepting that this hideous world is right, and you are wrong. I don’t accept that. Not at all.”
Scarlett thinks on that for a moment before nodding, unrolling the waistband of her scandalously short, little black pleated skirt, so that it covers her almost all the way down to the knees. Now that she’s done playing for the day, she takes away that tantalizing bit of flesh from the world, and I smile.
“You stalking me, it’s fucked-up. It’s disturbed, Bohnes. You are disturbed.”
Exactly the word I just used on myself. Disturbed. I smile bigger. Even that looks disgusting on my pale face, doesn’t it?
“Keep doing it,” she says, and then she leaves the bathroom and I sit there for a while, grinning at myself in the mirror and wondering when I should challenge her to a race—and whether or not I’d be able to win.
Scarlett
I end up not being able to hit the track on Friday or Saturday because Geneva, Anita, and my grandma all end up having to work. I stay home with Alexis, sitting on the couch and unwrapping piece after piece of Halloween candy (even though the holiday itself is still a ways away), while we watch a bunch of horror classics.
Alexis enjoys watching actors and actresses pretend to suffer onscreen. I think it distracts her from her own pain. I know it does the same for me, watching that horror happen to somebody else while I feel cozy and snug on our sofa, and we can pretend like we’re just two sisters who didn’t also have a younger brother and a pair of cousins of a similar
age.
Car accidents suck.
I unwrap another piece of candy, checking my group chat with my crew to make sure nothing unusual occurs while I’m MIA. If I have to, I can rocket down there in minutes and take control of the situation.
But I trust Nisha and Basti to handle things for me.
I don’t text Bohnes to tell him why I can’t come because I blocked his number. I blocked his number even though I’ve been letting him fuck me raw and come inside of me over and over again. Why I blocked it, I hate to admit to myself. Because I like a challenge, because I want to see what he’ll do and how far he’ll go.
I tap my temple with a single nail, painted a shiny, brilliant red in honor of my name and least favorite color, and I stare at my phone screen in my lap, reading over the sea of incoming texts with an aching case of FOMO.
Dude, Jillian about to race for some Louboutins—only worn once! Farrah stole them from that shop downtown and almost got caught. LOL. She gonna be pissed if she loses!
She won’t lose—not to Jill. No way.
So you say until you realize how much she wants those damn heels.
With a scoff, I toss my phone onto the side table next to the sofa and refocus on the movie. Boring. Just the usual stuff. No Widow, no Bohnes, no Aspen Kelly … No Lemon.
I consider texting her yet again because I’m so damn worried about her, but Bastian, at least, has been able to keep in contact with her without risking his reputation, and he says she’s fine. Better than fine. Great, actually. Aspen is so good to her, he says. He wines and dines her and lets her sleep in his bed after fucking her brains out.
Disgusting.
It’s all a game. What sort of game, I don’t know. Rich people play similar games to poor people, they just do it with an extra dash of panache and these absurd superiority complexes that ruffle my feathers like nothing else.
What was it that Aspen said at Bohnes’ party last week? That the mayor had ‘plans’ for Lemon? What fucking plans? And he knows her real name now? Did she give it to him, or did he have one of his family’s goons sleuth it out?
I dig around in the candy bowl, looking for more chocolate to sate my sugar addiction when I realize that Alexis and I have eaten it all. She looks over at me and then down at the bowl. Every once in a while, I get a glimpse of hope, some flicker that says my sister is still in there somewhere, and then she goes off on one rant or another.
Last night, she told me the reason the world’s fish are dying in such large numbers is because of particles in the water. She just kept saying that over and over again, about particles. I think she likes the word because it sounds smart, but in reality, she has no idea what she’s talking about.
The week before last, it was global warming she was on about, telling me how the moon has shifted position and that’s the cause of all the unusual weather patterns. She explained how she contacted NASA to let them know, but that they hadn’t replied to her yet.
Tonight, she seems okay.
“How’s your boyfriend?” she asks me, taking the remote and turning the TV down several clicks. “Kellin Bohnes.”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I explain, even though I literally just fucked him and then encouraged him to keep stalking me? I’m as nuts as Lemon, apparently. As stupid for boys. The only difference between us is this: I can handle someone like Bohnes.
She cannot handle anyone except for herself—especially not men that are rich and entitled and sick like Aspen Kelly.
But that kiss, that fucking kiss … and why does he smell so good sometimes and so cloying at others? Why do I look into his eyes and wonder one day if I should kill him, and then wonder if I shouldn’t fuck him the next?
Anyway, I can handle Bohnes, and I can handle Widow. I can certainly handle Aspen Kelly. Lemon is weak and cares too much what men think, wagers too much of herself on their opinions or their hatred or their wants and needs, forgoing her own entirely.
A knock on the door gives us both pause, and I rise to my feet, hefting my knife into my hand as I peep out the curtains to see who it is.
It’s Aspen fucking Kelly standing on my front porch and holding a cardboard box.
“What the actual fuck?” I breathe, taking the chain off and yanking the door open. I make no move to hide the knife in my hand. “You better have a damn good reason for showing up at my house in the middle of the night.”
“It’s eight p.m.,” he says, as if that excuses his creepy behavior.
I lean my shoulder against the doorjamb, crossing my arms—still holding the knife though. Alexis gets up to peer outside, and I glance back to see that she’s just as star-crossed as Lemon. Did I mention that my sister also has terrible taste in men? Our mother, too. Nobody quite as bad as Lem, but still.
“Hi,” she says, biting her lower lip.
I give her a look.
“Give us some privacy to talk?” I ask, waggling the knife around a little to show Alexis that this guy is bad news. She stares at the blade then lifts her gaze to Aspen’s face. I turn back as he forces out a tight, strange smile. That makes her blush, and she giggles as she turns and runs up the stairs two at a time.
“You have exactly three minutes to explain to me how you found my address and also why you’re here. Starting now. Go.”
“May I come in?” he asks, lifting up the box. I glance over the edge to see several familiar items rattling around inside. Every single thing in there is either a gift that I gave Lemon or else something I lent her to wear or use. Gold hoop earrings, a wadded up BlackCraft Cult half-shirt, a few tightly rolled joints.
Seriously?!
I snatch the box from his hands and turn, putting my back to him to show that I’m not afraid. Aspen follows me into the house and then pauses, a genteel blight against our lower-class abode with its sagging sofa, antique end tables that my grandma got from her grandma, a faded rug on the floor to cover up the dull sheen of the hardwood caused by too many feet over too many years.
I continue on into the kitchen, setting the box down on the table.
“Time is ticking, Kelly,” I tell him, sifting through the items—all while still holding the knife—and noticing how thorough Lem was with her purge of me. What the actual fuck? We’ve had plenty of fights in our ten plus years of friendship, many of them worse than this. How petty is this? How dare she?!
“Lucy threw this box into the dumpster; I thought you might want it.” Aspen saunters in, wearing another cashmere sweater, this one black with a horizontal stripe of charcoal across the chest, his indigo jeans pricey and crisp, a pair of absurdly expensive sneakers on his feet.
“Where is she and why are you here?” I repeat, tapping the knife against the side of the box as I glare at him over the top of it and watch as he studies the framed photos on the wall to his right. “Like sands through the hourglass, bro.”
Yeah, my grandma was raised by her grandma, and she still enjoys an occasional episode of that shitty soap opera, Days of our Lives. The opening is seared into my brain.
He smiles at me. It’s an odd expression on that absurdly pretty face.
“I shouldn’t have come here,” he tells me, and I cock a brow. Like, duh.
“So why did you?” I ask, and he shrugs, pulling out a chair like he plans on sitting in it.
“Nope. Nuh-uh. You’re not staying. In fact, I’m done waiting for an explanation. Did Lem give you my address? Is that how you knew to come here?”
I’m exceedingly careful with my address and letting people know where I live. Not that I could hide it from the whole of Prescott. This neighborhood is a gossip machine. But I can and usually do make sure that rich psychos like Aspen Kelly remain blissfully unaware of my address—unless they use their money to do some digging.
I don’t think that’s the case here though. It would’ve been much easier for him to simply ask my (apparently) ex-bestie.
“I don’t know, to be quite honest with you, Scarlett Force.” He lifts his black gaze to mine and
tries to smile for the third time. I notice a bandage on his right hand that certainly wasn’t there last week. I wonder what happened to his hand? “Maybe because—despite my better judgment—I can’t stop thinking about your mouth.”
“Maybe you should be thinking about Lemon’s mouth instead?” I shoot back, shoving the box away from me like it’s poisoned. I’m so insulted right now, I can barely breathe. How dare that bitch do this to me, send her boyfriend over with a box of items that summarize our friendship at a glance.
The handmade thank you card I gave her for taking care of me after the accident; the deflated balloons still attached to a string that I brought her for her tenth birthday, after she cried and told me her parents couldn’t afford a party, presents, or a cake. That sorta stuff.
I feel betrayed.
I mean, I know I put my foot on her back and ground her into the mud, but that was business, and she knows it. She knows how hard I have to fight to stay at the top of Prescott High, on top of our crew, on top of the racetrack.
Aspen shakes his head and then swipes his hand over his face before looking up at me. He opens that full pouty mouth of his, like he might have something important to say and then pauses when Alexis appears in the doorway behind me.
I hear her before I see her, turning to look over my shoulder with clear annoyance in my gaze. She might be the older of the two of us, but I am undoubtedly the boss.
“If Kellin Bohnes isn’t your boyfriend, then why is he outside?” she asks me, and I grit my teeth in frustration. I am, like, overwhelmed with psycho boys at the moment. I look back over at Aspen, but he has no reaction at all. None whatsoever.
“Stay here and don’t move. If I notice you’ve touched anything or gone anywhere, I will cut your balls off.”
I slip past him and into the backyard, crouching behind the bushes to the right of the sliding doors. Using the shadows as cover, I search around to see where Bohnes is hiding. He’s good, too, better than anyone else.
I wonder if, like in our current situation, he’s that good on the track, too. If that’s why he won’t race me. I want to see it, him at his peak, me at my peak. I only want to be the best if I’m actually the best, not because other people are throwing races or pussyfooting around me.
F*ckboy Psychos Page 21
