Page 49 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
That’s how he met my mother, on an app for native language speakers to work with each other on their vocabulary and pronunciation of their new language. She was learning Russian; he was learning English.
A true love story.
I rise to my feet, deciding against asking for money. Not tonight. I’ll present him with my grades at the end of the quarter and use them to convince him to restore my credit cards and allowance. I’ll even show him my acceptance letters from Bornstead University, Harvard, Princeton, so on and so forth. That should mollify him a bit.
“You have my permission to skip the party tonight,” he tells me, and I nod my thanks. “Just don’t get yourself into trouble. Focus on your studies.”
“Yes, sir,” I reply in Russian, and then I turn and leave the room, closing the door softly behind me. But not before looking back just once, just in time to see my father put his head in his hand.
Whatever it is that’s going on, it’s affecting him in a way I haven’t seen since my mother’s death.
Hmm.
I move back down the hall, my mind twisted with worry. Who do I have to hurt to give my father a reprieve from his pain?
“Mr. Grove,” a man says, pausing in the foyer as I come down the main staircase. “Your car is ready.” He holds out the key fob, perched on top of a silver tray, but I wave him away.
“Bring the Miura around front instead,” I tell him, thinking back to the other night, to the sea of classic cars and the girls in their short skirts and tight leather pants.
My mind fixates on that awful girl with the long, black braid. She made me feel dirty in a way that rocked me straight to the core. When she reached for my wallet, and I thought she might touch me, I felt homicidal. I most certainly don’t like to be touched, most particularly by someone like her.
I shake the feeling off as the man bows with a murmured, “yes, Mr. Grove,” before taking off again. Slipping my phone from my pocket, I dial up Aspen Kelly and wait for him to answer.
“Alexei Borisov,” he greets, his voice like the tongue of a snake, flicking out and teasing my ear with venom. I shudder and hold the phone slightly away from my face. Just the sound of his voice makes me queasy. He also very purposefully uses my father’s last name when he knows that I go by Grove. “What can I help you with?”
“You offered to take me out tonight. I’d like to accept your invitation.”
There’s a slight pause there before he laughs, the sound breathy and thick with poison.
“I’ll text you an address. Show up around eight.” Another pause. “Do you have any classic cars? I’d bring something ‘72 or older if you have it.”
How … convenient, since the car I just requested our employee bring around was manufactured in 1969.
He hangs up on me without explanation, and I frown, my thoughts spinning back to the girl with the dark brown eyes shining through the hole in her black mask.
I shudder again, putting my phone away as I contemplate where he might be taking me.
I have no idea what Aspen Kelly is up to—he can be a bit of a wildcard at times—but he’s also the mayor’s son. If anyone might have information that can help my father, it’d be him.
I just need to be careful how, exactly, I inquire about it. One wrong move and I might find myself in trouble.
Scarlett
Bohnes is waiting in the usual spot, leaning back against a tree and smoking a cigarette. His blue eyes sweep me in my tight black minidress, paying special attention to the way it crawls up my thighs in the front, threatening to reveal the bright red panties underneath.
See that? I think it’s a self-hate thing, all of this red that I despise so much. Not only that, but I know everyone at Prescott calls me and my girls the Crimson Crew. I abhor the name, so I don’t bother with it, but that’s the moniker the collective has come up with, and so that’s what it is.
I could no more change it than I could our reputation.
“Scarlett,” Bohnes says, exhaling the word along with the sweet-scented smoke from his cigarette. I move up to stand in front of him, ignoring the way his huge form overshadows mine. He’s shirtless today, wearing leather pants and black cowboy boots. Somehow, the look suits him in a way it wouldn’t anyone else.
I take the cigarette from his fingers, enjoying the way his lips part and his pupils dilate. I turn so that my back is to him, just a careful inch or so between our bodies.
Bohnes exhales again, reaching up with both hands and carefully skimming them over my curves, but without touching me. I manage to suppress a shudder, taking a drag on the cigarette and filling my lungs with tobacco and cloves and poison.
