Page 2 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
So, what the hell am I going to have to pay in return for this?
“Keys.” I hold out my palm, but when Bohnes moves to drop the keys, I snatch his wrist with my other hand. “If you fuck up my car, I’ll kill you next.”
He looks at me for a long, agonizing moment. And then smiles.
“I’ll return it, safe and sound. Pinky promise.”
He winks at me, nice and slow, and then leans in, pressing our mouths together with the soft but violent sigh of the weak. We’re weak together, for whatever reason. There’s something about Bohnes that makes me crazy.
It just … never goes any further than sex.
I never allow it to go further than sex.
“Bye,” he breathes, standing back up and turning toward the body. It certainly won’t be the first one he’s helped me bury. When he bends down to pick it up, I move away, climbing into the ’69 Chevy Chevelle SS parked just behind my Pantera. With a sigh, I watch as Bohnes throws the body back into my trunk.
I hope it isn’t hard to get all the bloodstains out.
“Right. Alexei Grove,” I murmur, sliding my phone out to see if I’ve missed any calls or texts. I have. A metric fuck-ton of them.
There’s a fight down at the track.
Aspen and Widow.
My nemesis and my crush.
Fan-flipping-tastic.
Scarlett
Fuckboy - noun - an asshole who’s good for sex and little else
Chiefly ‘Prescott High’ slang: a semi-possessive term that denotes that said boy belongs to a girl as an exclusive paramour or consort with no expectation of a future romantic relationship
Now you know. You’re welcome.
Although I have to ask: why are you here? I warned you. I warned you not to read my story. Because at the end of this book, one of my four fuckboys will be dead. He’ll deserve what’s coming to him, too. You’ll see. But you’re going to have to trust me on this. I’ll get the happy ending I deserve—eventually.
Before this is over, we’re going to expose the heart of corruption in my neighborhood: South Prescott. But the problem is this: nobody can know about my story. They cannot know that I was involved, or it’ll ruin everything.
My career. My family. My fuckboys.
I’m trusting you with all of my secrets, so please: don’t mess this up for me.
More so than that, don’t mess this up for yourself.
When I fell in love with a bunch of psychos, I knew what I was getting myself into. I am, in fact, a bit of a psycho myself. But you? You’re not safe.
Keep your mouth shut and we all might just make it out of this, okay?
Five weeks before Bohnes helped me bury the mayor’s hired gun …
Some asshole stole my parking space.
I stop my car in the center of the street, slipping my sunglasses off as I gape at the offending vehicle. It’s a nice car, I’ll give you that. Truthfully, it’s the nicest car around Prescott High save for my own.
Shifting into park, I shove my door open, ignoring the vehicles backed up behind me. Don’t give a shit if they’re annoyed or not. Everybody in this godforsaken school knows who I am. More importantly, they know not to piss me off.
I fold my sunglasses up and hook them on the neckline of my low-cut top.
“The hell is this?” my best friend, Nisha Webber, asks, pausing behind me. She’s parked in her usual spot. It’s just mine that’s taken. “Let’s smash this motherfucker’s car to pieces and get our girl to tow it out.” She looks over at me, just waiting for the order.
Personally, I’m still suffering from a case of shock. Who in this school has the ovaries to park in my space? Must be a girl, right? No boy at this school would dare …
“Looks like we have a new student,” Bastian states, coming to the most obvious conclusion. He pushes his own shades up into his dark hair and looks around for the culprit. I ignore them both, circling the car and wondering who the new kid is, and what nefarious things they might’ve done in order to afford a car like this.
Or how they got the skills to fix up a hunk o’ junk to get it to this level.
Currency at Prescott Senior High School is as follows: violence, sex, and classic cars. We love classic cars in this dump. Since none of us have money, we get ahold of rusted-out junkers, steal parts, and fix the shit ourselves.
I squat down to peer into the driver’s side window, admiring the lovingly polished leather seats. Hmm. The car is a glorious metallic purple with black rims and new tires. It’s clearly a ’69 Stingray but modified for racing. That much is obvious from a single glance.
“Huh.” I stand up straight as Nisha and Basti take up on other side of me, anticipating violence or petty bullshit. I’m prone to both, Lord knows. Instead, I pull my sunglasses back out and slip them on my face.
