Page 30 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
I pace away from Aspen because if I don’t put space between us, I’m going to stab him. Right here, right now. I’m going to stab him and spill his guts onto the muddy ground while my peers stand by and watch the entire thing unfold like a freak show performance, something to be gawked at and exploited for perverse entertainment.
They’re all like that, everyone at our garbage ass fucking school. Everyone at Oak Valley Prep. This Aspen Kelly motherfucker. Sometimes, it feels like I’m the only sane person in the world. Which must mean, of course, that I’m the one who’s outside of normal.
This, this whole spectacle, it is normal to these people.
I turn back to Aspen, catching sight of Bohnes standing there with his white hair and his disturbingly pale blue eyes, a wifebeater with a rib cage printed on the front of it. He turns back toward Aspen, and I catch sight of the anatomically correct bone tattoos on his arms.
I can’t race Aspen in Widow’s car. I need mine back, but there’s no time to go and get it.
I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?
“If I win, you take me to Lemon,” I tell him, my eyes meeting his. “Your debt will be considered paid if she’s alive and free. Otherwise, you’ll see what we do to people who renege on their bets.” I can feel the crowd shifting behind me, rife with bloodlust and that salivary need for revenge.
We don’t see a lot of justice in our neighborhood, so when we get the chance to mete it out, you damn well better bet we do a thorough job of it.
“And if I win, you’ll bend over the trunk of my Cobra and let me have my way with you.” Aspen’s smile is decidedly vicious, his dark eyes an endless hole that I refuse to let myself fall down.
He is precisely the sort of person I’ve been warning Lemon away from for years.
Not a ticket, but an epitaph.
“Deal.” The word slips out before anyone can stop me. And here, at the track, word is law. It’s the most important currency we have, the one that trumps all the others. Because without it, we have nothing to trade, nothing to play with, nothing to earn.
“Scarlett,” Nisha hisses as Basti groans, sensing a storm on the horizon. Just as I’m the voice of wisdom for Lem, these two usually help hold me back. But there’s just something about this rich asshole that says he needs to be kicked in the nuts and humiliated all over again.
“Deal.” Aspen nods his head in agreement, a smile taking over his mouth that scares me. I remind myself that he was better last night than I expected, that I need to take care with this guy in a way that I rarely do.
Bohnes is certainly not smiling when I turn away, our eyes meeting for the briefest of seconds. I ignore him, taking off for the Stingray and climbing into the driver’s seat. I slam the door before either Nisha or Basti can talk to me.
At the very least, Aspen agreed to the deal. That must mean Lemon’s at least moderately okay, right?
I switch on KMZI 66.6 and crank up “Rumors” by Lizzo and Cardi B, closing my eyes and leaning my head back against the seat. Gathering myself.
I won’t lose this.
I’d rather crash my fucking car and end my life wrapped in flames.
Widow
Scarlett Force.
I expected a lot of things when I heard I was finally getting out, that I’d be enrolling in Prescott High, the school that I was always destined to attend but never thought I’d see. I didn’t think they’d ever let me out.
I have no remorse for what I did.
If anything, my regrets are these: I should’ve made my uncle suffer more, worse, I should’ve made him fear the end for hours, made him cry and beg and plead. My worst sin is that his end was too swift for him to have paid for his sins.
But now I’m out, and the air has never felt so good as it kisses the bare skin of my arms, the soft brush of leaves on my body as I crouch behind the bushes and watch one of Scarlett’s crew—everyone called them the Crimson Crew, for obvious reasons—as she climbs out of her own car and makes her way across a gravel parking lot.
There’s an old warehouse here which is intriguing enough, but I’ve been crouched in these bushes for about … six hours now. Yes, six hours of silent contemplation. I’m a patient, careful person. Had to be. What other choices did I have, locked up at age twelve and put up against boys who were bigger and badder and angrier than I was.
The first one who tried to rape me in my cell, I slit his throat.
