Page 100 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
“You got a condom?” I ask, and he nods, briefly drawing back from me and heading over to his car. He opens the passenger side door and removes a box, heedless of the rain. It’s a brand-new box, unopened until now.
How do I feel about that? What does that mean? What the fuck am I even doing?! But being out here alone with him, knowing that he outdrove Nisha who rarely loses—except to me, of course. I’m intrigued. This feels dangerous somehow.
Can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something weird going on here. It’s quite obvious that Aspen isn’t going to tell me why it feels that way, but it’s clear he senses it, too. Why else would he tell me to avoid him from now on?
He moves back over to stand in front of me again, lifting up the matte black package in his fingers.
“You cannot tell anyone about this, Scarlett.”
“An illicit affair,” I breathe, and he narrows his eyes.
“More so than that: you cannot tell anyone. Not your friends, not your sister, not your other loves.” He pauses there, and a small breath escapes that he tries to hide but which I see anyway.
Is that jealousy?
No. It’s not. It’s something much, much worse: obsession.
I see it now, the things that I taste on his mouth, the way his fingers sear my flesh, it’s not because he cares for me or that he’s experienced enough to imitate affection and love, it’s because obsession tastes the same. It tastes the same, smells the same, feels the same.
It’s almost indistinguishable from love in so many ways. Yet, it’s completely different. It’s dangerous. Toxic. It cuts and bleeds and breaks. While love is meant to be both happy and sad, obsession only feigns joy. It makes you feel so damn good and then it brings you crashing down.
Aspen has an obsession: me. I can see it in his eyes as he looks at me like this is the most serious conversation he’s ever had. Is he warning me off of him to protect me? To protect himself? His brother?
I can’t tell. Also, I don’t care. Obsession is like a drug, and although I’m smart enough not to get addicted to it, I want a taste. Just once, as he’s said.
“If you can’t agree to that, then I can’t fuck you,” he tells me, his face taking on a menacing cast as his coal-black eyes slide to one side. When he looks back at me, they’re as deep and endless as a bottomless sea. When I first met him, those dark eyes seemed slick and shiny, like a stain on a garage floor.
What happened? Does he have multiple personalities or something?
I wet my lips.
Can I really do that? Keep this to myself? I already regret not telling Nisha, Bastian, and Lemon about Bohnes when it first happened.
“I can promise I won’t tell anyone who’ll run their mouth,” I start, but he’s already backing away from me, teeth gritted. He runs his fingers through his wet hair.
“No. That’s not good enough. I’m sorry.” Aspen turns to leave, and I step forward, grabbing onto the sleeve of his sweater. I can’t stand the thought of us getting back in that car, driving to the track, me getting out like nothing at all happened here. “If you tell anyone about this, it puts you at risk. It puts them at risk, too. I won’t allow that.”
I grit my teeth, and then force out an exhale.
Maybe this is a bad idea. Maybe I’ll regret it later. But the moment is so poignant, so rife with possibility, that I can’t let it get away from me.
“Fine,” I agree with an annoyed huff, pausing as something occurs to me. “What’s your brother’s name? You never told me, and I can’t find it anywhere online. Trust me: I looked.”
The faintest specter of a smile haunts his lips before he gives a slight shake of his head.
“Aspen and Ash Kelly,” he says, tracing the line of my jaw with the corner of that square package. “My mother liked the alliteration.”
“Apparently, she also liked trees,” I offer up, since, you know, aspen and ash are both types of trees.
Aspen’s face changes suddenly, like a switch has been flicked. It’s the same odd and disturbing about-face that Bohnes does sometimes, like there are multiple people inside his head fighting for control.
“While I fuck you, when you call out my name—because you will—I want you to call me Ash.”
That gives me pause. I mean, there are much weirder kinks out there, but really?
“You … want me to call you by the name of the guy that killed my girl?”
“Call me Ash or I’ll get in that car right now, drive off, and leave you here in the rain.”
My anger flares bright and hot inside of me, and I scowl at him.
