Page 64 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
And yet I can’t shake it. I can’t shake that trauma or the memory of digging around beneath my kitchen sink, looking for something I could use to poison him. I can’t forget the way he chugged that first cup of coffee and then smirked at me as if destroying my spirit was a game to be savored and enjoyed.
Nor will I ever forget the way he vomited and stumbled, the way his hand went out to catch the kitchen counter or the way he fell to the floor and spasmed while I stood by and watched without sympathy.
The court asked me why I did it, but I said nothing. It’s nobody’s business but my own, and I’ve paid their price. Not that I deserved to, not that I should’ve spent a single minute behind bars for killing a predator like that.
But life isn’t fair, that’s for damn sure. It’s not fucking fair that I got stuck with my aunt and uncle or that I ended up in juvie for committing a well-intentioned act or that I’m being forced to attend school with a woman like Scarlett Force.
There are plenty of other girls at that school who would lift their skirts and beg me to fuck them, let me experiment on them, see what I like, see if I even enjoy sticking my dick in another person or if I’m too fucked-up in the head to ever truly like it.
Surely, there are girls there who are far less trouble than that one.
I tell myself I’m going to delete the video come morning, but that’s not true at all, is it? I’ve told myself that numerous times already, and it’s nothing but a lie.
Just a dirty, goddamn, motherfucking lie.
Scarlett
The old speakeasy is in the basement of a fanciful looking relic just outside the downtown area. Pretty sure the house is an historic property, so I’m surprised to see the yellow tape across the door and the signs signaling the new owner’s intent to demolish the entire structure.
I look around at the large front porch, the intricate gingerbread trim and fanciful paint colors, even the stained glass that’s still intact in the front door. Who gave the okay for this to be bulldozed? Looking at it now, I’m certain that it’d be on the National Register of Historic Places.
Regardless, I guess, it isn’t my problem.
I open the door and duck under the yellow tape, Nisha and Bastian following along behind me. As soon as I parked on the lawn in front of the old house, I could hear the music, joyous trumpets and smooth saxophones, rat-a-tat drums and the bright notes of a piano.
Very on theme.
Bohnes knows how to throw a party. He’s famous for them, his little pop-up shindigs. If you don’t hear it from word of mouth, you’d never know where to go. Anyone who posts anything that relates to date, time, or locale in regard to one of Bohnes’ parties is promptly dealt with and never invited again.
We make our way across relatively shiny wood floors as my frown deepens and I pause next to an intricate fireplace with pale blue tiles and a marble mantle. Somebody is going to cart all of this off to the dump? That doesn’t seem right.
My mind strays back to that reporter chick, Emma Jean, and I feel my belly roil with the sour note of suspicion. I can smell corruption from a mile away. I’m from south Prescott, aren’t I?
“What’s wrong?” Nisha asks, pausing beside me and staring down at the fireplace before lifting her gaze back to my face. She, too, is familiar with Archer Realty Investments. They’ve been asking after her mom’s rental for a while, but the landlord has thus far refused to sell. The apartment building that Basti lives in has already been sold to Archer Realty, but other than the highest legally allowed rent hike they could achieve in a single month, nothing else has changed.
“You mean besides Lemon?” Basti asks, crossing his arms over the pale marmalade color of his shirt and offering me a dark glare, one that makes him look almost as scary as … well, okay, not that scary, but about a fourth or fifth as freakish as Bohnes when he grins like an undead creature.
“Lemon’s going to have to learn that her mistakes have consequences,” I say, following a line of red duct tape on the floor that leads to the basement door. It’s already open, propped by a bunch of old liquor bottles filled with dirt.
Clever.
“We’ve been protecting her from her own bad choices for a while,” Nisha offers up as I start down the stairs, the jazzy offerings of a band called Cherry Poppin’ Daddies blasting into the room. “Zoot Suit Riot” is on now, and I’d be lying if I said my fellow Prescott hoodlums didn’t know how to dance.
