Page 38 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
I laugh. I can’t help it. Her name just sounds fake.
That’s okay: so does mine.
“Scarlett Motherfucking Force,” I say, reaching out and gripping the girl’s pale, soft hand in one of my calloused ones. Her brows go up at that and the nostrils of her tiny pert nose flare.
“Your mother gave you the middle name ‘motherfucking’?” she asks which just annoys me. I ignore the question and saunter forward, dressed in tight jeans and a blue and white striped off-the-shoulder top with a scooped neck.
“Something interesting happening at the penitentiary?” I query, pointing at the neighbor’s place with my sunglasses before I turn around, biting the arm of my sunglasses and offering up miss ‘Emma Jean Thompson’ a coy look. “Did Tommy Tits poison someone again? Or wait, was it Megan Face? He’s the worse of the two by far, you know.”
“Excuse me, what?” Emma Jean asks, looking at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“Tommy Tits,” I say, pointing at my chest with the sunglasses arm. “The woman who lives in that half of the duplex has the name Tommy inked across her breasts. Thus, her nickname: Tommy Tits.” I walk forward, circling around Emma and liking the way her eyes flick nervously to me, as if she’s just realized she’s a prey animal trapped in a predator’s enclosure.
She’s the one who came to the southside, all perky looking and dressed in head-to-toe denim with a pale pink tee underneath that shows off a glittery butterfly navel ring. I don’t trust her for shit. People like her only come to Prescott for one of two reasons: either she’s lost everything and has been forced to move here in tears and crippling terror or else she wants something from us.
Imagine that, wanting something from those at the bottom of the social ladder. Usually it’s drugs, sex, or excitement, as if it’s the southside’s job to entertain bored housewives or Oak Valley Prep students suffering from existential crises.
“Her husband, Tommy. Well, we call him Megan Face because he has the word Megan”—and here I pause, using the sunglasses to trace my face from the corner of my mouth to my ear—“tattooed across his face. There, do you get it now? Megan Face and Tommy Tits. They’re both horrible people. If you want to know more about them, I have all the dirt, but it’ll cost you.” I hold out a hand. “You seem nice, so … forty bucks.”
To my immense surprise, Emma Jean reaches into her jacket pocket, removing a pink wallet studded with rhinestones. My brows go up as she flips it open, revealing a nice, thick wad of twenties.
“Shit,” I curse as she lifts two bills out and offers them up to me. I grab her wallet and snap it shut, shoving it back into her jacket—but not before pocketing the forty for myself. “Are you insane or just stupid as hell?”
My eyes shift to the group of boys across the street. None of whom are good news. They all graduated Prescott last year but, with nowhere else to go, most of them work here, either at the gas station, the grocery store, or, if they’re lucky, the same lumberyard where my crew stores things that we don’t want found.
Except … now Widow knows and what’s to stop him from telling someone else? I mean, other than the fact that he’s a crazy loner who sits in the corner of the library and reads. He was there today, too, despite his anger toward me. Or maybe because of it. I could feel his eyes on me as I purposely bent over to shelve books, knowing exactly what my cunt looks like wrapped in denim from behind.
“Back the fuck off; this girl is with me,” I shout, even though I probably shouldn’t claim her before I really know who she is. I look back to see her staring at my hand on her jacket pocket with the smallest kiss of fear. A bead of sweat trails down her temple. “You almost got yourself mugged. Don’t flash cash around like that. And definitely don’t accept the first offer a person gives you. Haggle a little. Where are you from?” I lift up a hand and shake my head. “No, let me guess: the suburbs.”
“I grew up in a small town in northern California,” she explains, her gaze shifting back to those boys. They’re still watching us, but I know every one of their mamas. That, and I’ve kicked every single one of their asses on the track.
They’ll leave Emma Jean alone if only because they know the pain that’ll rain down on them if they don’t.
“Fantastic. You’ve proven my point. So, what the fuck are you doing here?” I ask dryly, hooking my sunglasses to my shirt as I fold the money up and slip it in my very tight back pocket. “Snooping around people’s yards on this street is likely to get you into trouble. Who are you anyway?”
