Page 58 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
I toss that out and then turn, ignoring Lem completely, even as Basti and Nisha try to catch my attention to bring me back. I walk away, finding my way up the single set of bleachers that we have left here. They’re up at the top of the track, not on the sidelines where I normally like to be.
There’s only one real spot for bystanders to observe the race down below without risking their own lives and that’s the cage. It’s part of the original track, the reinforced chain-link fencing offering up a small amount of protection. Paired with the half-stone wall beneath it, it helps.
I’ve seen cars fly up against that and topple over, leaving the crowd relatively untouched.
I was also here when the other portion of the intact cage that was on the opposite side of the track caved in, and three Prescott students died in the accident. I’m not going to sugarcoat it: we loaded their bodies up and drove them to a nearby lake to dump them.
If word had gotten out that they’d died at the track, the well-meaning but ignorant as fuck middle-class idiots from the Fuller neighborhood would start petitions and picket lines. They’d cut us off from our one source of joy and entertainment over here in the southside.
It’s interesting how people sometimes act like they care but really, in their ignorance, make things so much worse for those they’re pretending to care about. Anyway, it didn’t bring any of us any pride, and we held a makeshift funeral service at the track every day for a week.
But we could not lose this spot.
Losing this track will destabilize our entire neighborhood.
I know it seems like all we do is gallivant and carouse like demons in the night, but really, there are so many worse things we could be doing.
I stand on the top row of the bleachers, looking out over the track as the green flag is waved and both Widow and Bohnes start slow. Bohnes knows this track, most especially he knows what it can be like after a fresh rain. Widow, apparently, learned his lesson by watching Aspen spin out.
They both hug the inside of the track on the first curve, and then speed up on the straight. Bohnes pulls out in front right off the bat—no surprise with the Chevelle—but then, for whatever reason, he starts to slow down, allowing Widow to catch up with him.
The Chevelle jerks to the side, slamming into the Stingray and making me gasp.
“What the fuck is he doing?!” Nisha chokes out as Aspen and Lemon take a seat on the bottom bench of the bleachers, and I do my best to ignore the way she climbs into his lap like some sort of simpering moron instead of the bad bitch that I know she is.
I ignore her as best as I can, focused more on the idiot fuckboys instead.
Well, one idiot fuckboy. The other is … just some dude who left his cum in my car. It was clear that he tried to clean it up, but I don’t think it was an accident that he left just enough of a mess to let me know what he’d done.
Silver sparks fly between the rims of their cars as Bohnes attempts to push Widow off the track and into the muddy pit in the center. There used to be a proper service station there, but it burned to the ground a long time ago. The center of our track is just an empty circle with chunks of old concrete and a long-forgotten foundation covered in mud.
Widow slows down, but so does Bohnes, and the two of them remain neck and neck, weaving erratically through the mud until Widow finally breaks away and takes off. He’s careful to stay on the inside of the track, giving himself a chance to outpace Bohnes.
I put my hand to my forehead to block out the overwhelming glow from the spotlights. The city keeps ‘em nice and bright for us. Somehow, the idiots have gotten it into their heads that keeping the place brightly lit will keep the riffraff out.
Instead, it lights up our muddy circle of hell in a way that makes it look somewhat legitimate.
Somewhat, because we race on our rules and our rules only. Nobody here gives a shit about leagues or competitions or anything else. Well, except for maybe me. I have plans to turn my skills into a career of some sort. What, exactly, I’m going to do and where is still up for debate.
The boys come screaming around the track, spraying mud everywhere as people cheer and shout, enjoying the less than legal way that Bohnes is slamming his car into Widow’s, heedless of the damage to both vehicles.
There are no rules against it here in Prescott. You want to crash your car into your opponent’s? That’s on you.
