Page 124 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
“You’re a good girl, Scarlett,” she says, giving me a sweet, scented kiss on the cheek. She pets my hair, and I let her, staring in the direction that Widow just went.
Good girl? Well, I don’t know about that. But you don’t correct Mildred Davies without getting spanked with a broom.
And right now … if somebody were to spank me, I’d only want it to be Widow.
Shit. Fuck. Damn.
Fucking poisonous ass romance novels.
What have they done to him?
And what, exactly, am I going to do about it?
Scarlett
On Friday, I finally get the delivery that Alexei Grove promised me. It arrives just minutes after I get home from school.
“Do you have a new beau, Miss Scarlett?” Grandma asks me as she looks down at the stack of sleek packages in my arms. The boxes are white and shiny and tied with glossy black ribbons.
“Not exactly,” I hedge, offering her up a mysterious half-smile. My grandma is … well, she’s old-school. She still thinks Pussy Point is for—in her words—canoodling. And she blushes when characters on her soap opera kiss each other. “I’mma take this in my room and try it on for the party tonight.”
My grandma nods, watching as I slip into my bedroom and close the door. She knows I’m headed to Lemon’s engagement party tonight. What she doesn’t know is that Lemon didn’t even invite me to said party, that I had to race for that shit, and that I’m going with some hot Russian guy who looks like he might be a part of the mob.
I set the boxes down on my bed, putting my hands on my hips and letting out a long sigh. Bohnes was at school today, teasing me in passing about the party tonight, but even though I considered pulling him aside and telling him about yesterday, I decided against it.
I’ll give Widow one week to race him and make it right.
Otherwise, I have to tell Bohnes. Rule of the track. It’s sacred.
And, speaking of Widow, he went about his library duties today without complaint. That, and he brought a brand-new hardcover of Holly Black’s book along with the sequels which we definitely didn’t have, and he silently set the stack on the counter in front of Agnes without a word.
We didn’t talk today for most of the period, but I caught him watching me more than once. He didn’t touch me either which sort of sucked. I didn’t wear anything special to school with the sole intent of trying to keep my hands to myself.
I don’t want to break Bohnes’ rule again—especially not in a worse way than I already did. But at the end of the period? What did Widow do?
“You’ll be mine soon enough, Scarlett Force,” he whispered, sliding past me and trailing his fingers down my arm in a way that made me wetter than even his wild grinding did yesterday.
“I’m in big trouble,” I murmur, opening the box and finding a golden invitation with Lemon’s real name embossed alongside Aspen’s.
“You are cordially invited to celebrate the engagement of Lucy Bree Hall and Aspen Dashiell Kelly—”
I don’t bother to finish reading it, chucking it aside with a hiss of disgust. Beneath the invitation, there’s a small note written in meticulous and beautiful handwriting. It’s slightly slanted and there are numerous flourishes that make me think that whoever wrote it is a bit of a drama queen.
Or king, as such.
Because clearly, this is from Alexei.
“You may use this invitation to have your car valeted without incident. I will see you on the front steps approximately twenty minutes before seven. Please wear the provided dress, wrap, and shoes. While I understand that my customary three-foot buffer will not suffice as we are intended to be dates to tonight’s event, I will ask that you maintain at least a six-inch cushion of space between our bodies.
Much appreciated, Alexei Grove.”
I scoff and roll my eyes, chucking the note aside and then pulling out the dress. It’s expensive, I’ll give him that, but dude. I wrinkle my nose.
The gown is gold and highly embellished with a conservative neckline, long sleeves, and a slit that goes to the hip. That last part, at least, adds some sexiness to what’s otherwise kind of a dowdy dress. Huh.
“The hell is this?” I murmur, laying it aside and opening the next box. There’s a real fur stole—in white—and a clutch that matches the dress. The shoes are nice, but the heels are low and far too safe. I wouldn’t wear any of this. I mean, I’m aware that the guy doesn’t know me, but couldn’t he tell that I’m the sort who likes to live fast and dangerous?
This is like, senator’s wife shit. Or retired movie star. Opera singer.
Not Scarlett Motherfucking Force.
Hmm.
My eyes shift over to my closet. I have maybe twenty to thirty grand in either stolen or track-won merch in there. I’ve got designer dresses and shoes that are worth enough to impress those rich dick-faces in Oak River Heights.
