Page 13 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
My jaw clenches in frustration, but only for a second. Then I’m smiling and remembering all the other rich assholes who’ve crawled desperately out of the swamp that is their own greed and misery looking for a cheap thrill.
Go race the poor Prescott kids, they said. It’ll be fun, they said.
But although I’m certain that this man-boy-whatever doesn’t attend our local asshole academy—Oak Valley Prep is the name of that one—I know that he’s that sort of money. Blue-blooded and cutthroat and dangerous as hell.
“That’d be me,” I say, allowing my naked lips to swing into a cocky smirk. I can see right away how Aspen’s eyes narrow to dark slits, the edge of his own mouth twisting up into an annoyed sneer. I’ve barely spoken and already, he can sense the alpha female crouching inside of me. This should be fun.
Nisha clears her throat in warning, but I’m not listening. I don’t give a shit. If some rich idiot wants to come down here and show the whole of Prescott High what a pathetic asshole he really is, I’m down. Besides, there’s a buy in. It differs for each person: we all put something up on the table and if it’s accepted by the others, then it’s written down, signed by the participants, and off we go.
People who renege on their promises are brought swiftly to justice by the Prescott High collective. Me and my girls or whoever else hates the tongue of a lying snake. Don’t offer it up before the race if you’re not willing to give it.
“You here to get taken to the cleaners?” I query, lifting both brows as Aspen shoves Lemon aside so hard that she actually stumbles. Holy crap. I’m immediately reaching for my knife when a hand comes down to press against mine.
Bohnes slips past me, barely human, barely there, as per usual.
He glides right by without saying a damn word to me or this Aspen guy or anyone else, but that slight touch of his hand on mine was either a warning or … it was an invitation.
I wet my lips as I turn back to this Aspen prick, struggling to control my unruly temper.
“I want in. I’ll put five grand down to race tonight.” Aspen wets his mouth, but not in a similar fashion to me. His eyes are wild, and he looks like he’s greasing his lips with venom for the kill.
I’m filled with this unshakeable certainty that he is a bad person who does terrible things. I don’t want him anywhere near this racetrack, but if I refuse him, it’ll only make him want it more. That’s how all of these rich boys are.
It’s better to race him, kick his ass, and then enjoy the look of sheer rage on his features afterward. The humiliation is usually so complete that they never come back. In the rare cases that they do, I’m happy to quickly hand them their ass again and send them on their way.
“Five grand?” I snort, removing my hand from my knife and crossing my arms. Aspen’s eyes drop immediately to my breasts, and I feel myself wrinkling my nose in distaste. “Are you fucking with me? We’re poor, not stupid. Five grand isn’t worth shit here. I can steal a purse worth more than that in less than five minutes.”
Lemon stands awkwardly off to one side, rubbing at her arm as Nisha tries to get her to look in her direction. Lem refuses to even glance at our friend because she knows damn well that she won’t get any sympathy from Nisha or me.
She knows we’re both going to warn her away from this man—and with good reason.
“Fifty then. Not a penny more. Don’t tell me you can steal that much in five minutes, too?” Aspen leans in toward me, his smirking sneer almost more than I can take. He reaches up with a single finger and attempts to curl a strand of raven-black hair around it.
I slap his hand away, determined to go for my knife again if needed.
“I assure you: it’d be best to keep your hand to yourself.” That’s all I need to say, and then a good dozen of my girls are turning toward us, just waiting to beat down on a pervert. We love it, too, to kick pervert’s asses. There is nothing in this world that’s more grotesquely satisfying than watching some douchebag get his nuts ground to the pavement by a hot girl’s heels.
“Done.” I need this money, I think to myself, and not just because Aspen ‘the mayor’s son’ is a filthy pig who needs to learn his place.
If I win this, I could buy into the classic car races that take place in Portland on the last Friday of every month. I’ll have to coerce, cajole, or otherwise threaten some rich idiot for an invitation, but once I’m in, I’m in. Then I can start kicking ass there to really make a name for myself, a name that translates into real-world possibilities and a true one-way ticket out of Prescott.
