Page 33 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
I spent the whole summer working on it, pinching the parts I needed, on my back or under the hood from sunup to sundown, my nights spent working the drive-in for money to buy whatever I couldn’t steal.
So if I broke a guy’s arm for touching my toothbrush, I rightfully should’ve killed Scarlett Force.
But this is better. This is better because I just defiled her car, and I know how much it means to her. More, even, than my Stingray means to me.
I put the Pantera in drive and hit the gas, tires spinning in the mud, and I make my way to the parking lot.
There’s a bonfire going, but few students surrounding it.
As soon as I roll down the window, I can hear it, the sound of cars on the track, the roar of the crowd.
Scarlett’s racing again, I think with a violent surge of adrenaline.
“Holy shit,” one of the girls near the bonfire says as she turns to look at me, mouth agape. “Is that … is that the new guy in the Devil?!”
With a smirk, I roll the window back up, reverse the car, and then blast my way over the grassy strip and the small, cracked cement walkway that leads down to the track. The ground is bumpy, a huge mound of dirt acting as a natural wall on the first curve of the track.
I line the Pantera up with that, parked far enough away that when I see the Stingray and, oddly enough, that Shelby Cobra that belongs to that rich shithead, I’ve got enough space to get some speed.
I time it perfectly, hitting the mound at just the right speed that I catch air. For a moment there, it’s just me and Scarlett’s intoxicating scent, her sweet leather seat, and her mechanical baby flying over the roofs of both the Stingray and the Cobra.
Surprisingly, the Cobra pulls ahead at the last second, and the Pantera slams down in the small space between Scarlett and the rich bro. My eyes flick up into the rearview, not entirely unprepared to be rear-ended. To die, even. If I did, I’m not sure that I’d care. I haven’t feared death since I was twelve years old, so what does it matter?
Scarlett slams on the brakes, spraying mud that glistens in the bright white glare of the spotlights, and the Stingray spins a full three-sixty, skidding through the mud and waffling back and forth as she struggles to get control of it.
My attention returns to the track as I hit the brakes on the Pantera, aware that I’ve just ruined the entire race. I don’t give a fuck. There are consequences to touching my shit.
I’ve just taught this girl lesson one: leave me the hell alone.
I hit the brakes on the Pantera in just such a way that I spin a one-eighty, turning to face the Stingray as it comes dangerously close to toppling over. At the last minute, Scarlett turns into the slide, correcting the dangerous slip of the wheels in the mud without panicking or overcorrecting.
She comes to a stop as the rich dude pauses at the starting line, opening his door and climbing out into the mud in loafers and slacks.
I ignore him, focused more on Scarlett as the crowd begins to shout and scream, and I get out of the Pantera. She’s already on her way over to me, eyes flashing.
“You fucking idiot!” she growls out, getting close to me but not touching me. Maybe she can sense how close I am to violence, how angry I am, what a mistake it was for her to take my car. “You could’ve killed us both!”
“There are worse things,” I reply easily, and I hope she can see by the set of my face that I mean it.
I have never been more serious in my entire life.
Scarlett
There are no words to describe the way I feel toward Widow in that moment.
Oh wait, yes there are.
Murderous.
That’s how I feel. My fingers itch to go for my knife again, but I’ve already made enough mistakes with it tonight that I don’t trust myself. Sometimes, I struggle not to elevate situations to that last level, to make mistakes that I won’t be able to correct.
“Maybe for you,” I reply as Widow stares me down and Aspen makes his way over to us. I can hear my fellow students shouting for blood. Nobody interrupts a race in Prescott, not like this. If sexy, shirtless Widow over here isn’t careful, he might find himself the victim of collective rage that has little to nothing to do with me. “I have a sister. I have a grandmother. I have a family that needs me.”
I’m shaking right now, my hands curled into fists, my bright red nails digging crescents into my palms.
I glance over just in time to see Aspen pulling a gun out from inside his suit jacket. He puts the barrel to the side of Widow’s head, and the entire crowd goes silent. Nisha and Basti are halfway across the muddy track, making their way to me.
