Page 140 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
“Scarlett never mentioned having a boyfriend,” I retort, feeling irrationally annoyed by the prospect. Surely, she wouldn’t have kissed me if she were otherwise engaged.
Bohnes laughs, the sound dry and jaded.
“Nah, I guess not. I’m still just her fuckboy.” He flicks the cigarette into the mud, and I shudder yet again. “So, what can I help you with, Alexei Grove?”
He turns toward me on the roof of his car, knees pulled up, arms wrapped around them.
“I need a place to stay tonight where I won’t be found. Somewhere sanitary, somewhere I can shower.” I stare at him, and he frowns heavily, lifting up a single shoulder in a shrug.
“Alright. I’ll find you a place to stay. But it’s gonna cost you. What are you offering? I run on a tiered payment system. The more you have, the more you pay. So, rich boy, what are you gonna give me?”
I curl my lips in a small sneer.
“I have five hundred dollars cash. Does that work?”
Bohnes raises a dark brow, and then laughs at me, unfolding his legs and stretching them out in front of him. He drops down off the side of the car and turns to look at me, studying me with his head tilted one way and then the other.
“Mm. Not even close. Think bigger.”
I look back at the Miura, and I feel the blood drain from my face. Papa bought me that car for my sixteenth birthday, but at the moment, it’s all that I have. My credit and debit cards have been useless for some time, and I have no idea what my father’s death is going to mean overall for our finances or my inheritance.
I look back at Bohnes, but he’s already seen the direction of my thoughts. He offers up a poisonous smile.
“I’ll take your car and find you a place to stay, rich boy. Is that what you’re offering?”
“I’d expect a lot more in exchange.” I look away for a moment, struggling through the pain, the adrenaline, the grime that coats my shoes and my skin, that’s spattered across my slacks. “But we could start with a place to stay for tonight. I may have other needs.”
Bohnes shrugs and looks me over quizzically, like he isn’t quite sure what to make of me.
“Alright. I’ll take it—provided you have the title. You got the title, Grove?”
I purse my lips. I don’t. Shit.
Bohnes sighs heavily and then looks down at my watch. It’s a Rolex, worth about fifteen thousand. I take it off and offer it over to him. He examines it for several minutes, and I sigh.
“It’s worth more than fifteen grand. Certainly that’s enough for a single night’s stay?”
“But is it really just going to be a single night?” Bohnes queries, smiling tightly and tucking the watch away inside his oversized black hoodie. “Whatever. I’ll get you a few nights with this. I’m assuming someone’s trying to kill ya? Is it mob related?” He holds up a hand, palm out. “Never mind. Don’t answer that. It doesn’t matter.”
He turns around and yanks open the driver’s side door on his Chevelle, glancing back at me over one shoulder.
“Follow me and try to keep up.”
He climbs in and I return to my own vehicle, hoping like hell that I haven’t made a serious mistake in seeking out a man with colorless eyes and a sharp-edged smile.
Scarlett
“You better fucking give that to me, or I swear, I will stab you.” I’m holding a knife on Bastian. Granted, it’s a butter knife and not at all sinister, but I’m serious. He knows it, too. “We only have one good cereal bowl, and I want it.”
“It’s mine,” Basti protests, holding the precious bowl against his chest. “You get the mixing bowl or the pasta bowl.” He points at the big-ass red plastic bowl and the shallow porcelain one beside it, neither of which work well for cereal. Poor as we are, we used to have a decent supply of dishes, ones that my grandma got at the thrift store for like twenty-five cents apiece. Thing is, when Alexis gets mad, she breaks things. After the accident, she fixated on the dishes. Even plastic ones aren’t safe. Watched her snap one in half just last month.
So … there’s only one good cereal bowl and Basti is being a selfish prick about it.
“Give me the bowl, Bastian,” I say, affecting that ‘Queen of the Crimson Crew’ voice that strikes fear into the hearts of every Prescott student but for maybe Bohnes and Widow. I drop the knife by my side and hold out my other hand as Nisha sighs heavily, shaking her head and sipping her coffee from one of Gram’s favorite mugs. It’s white with a cross on the front. Gram is big on Jesus. Not so much my thing.
“Scarlett,” Patricia whispers from behind me, her voice aghast. “Bastian is a guest. Let him have the bowl. I’ll pick some up after work today.” With a sigh, she moves past me to prepare herself a cup of coffee. I hate that she still has to work in her seventies. I’m going to fix that. It’s one of my reasons for living.
