Page 66 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
When one of my girls approaches and offers up a hand, I take it, spinning her in a circle and grabbing her around the waist. I play the part of the guy as I dance with her, swinging us around and dipping her so low that her red hair brushes the floor.
I set the girl back on her feet and Basti steps in, offering to dance with me next. I switch back to the woman’s role in the dance and shake my hips, my heels tapping left then right as I shimmy toward Basti and let him lead me into a spin.
We’re both laughing as smoke swirls above our heads, and I let my worries go for the time being. I’ve got people to watch my back here, so I’m not worried. I can actually let my hair down tonight and have some fucking fun.
My issues with Lemon don’t leave me, however, no matter how much I dance and sweat, switching partners frequently so that Nisha and I have a turn together, me and Evelyn, me and Juana. Shit, even me and Dale who seems markedly better after his run-in with Alexei. Serves him right anyway.
Everything seems to be going well until a guy grabs me from behind. Not in a fun playful way with his hand on my shoulder or wrist like some of the other boys have done, but in a slimy, entitled manner, like those pricks at the club who don’t take no for an answer.
He jerks me back against him and then immediately slides his hand over my right breast, giving the full mound a squeeze through the fabric.
I cannot even explain the way my entire body and mind go dark.
The world is full of predators; there’s only one defense.
My knife—always there and strapped to my thigh during events like this—ends up in my palm, and I would’ve stabbed it directly into the crotch of the guy who just grabbed me, but someone snatches my wrist in strong fingers.
It’s Bohnes.
“What the fuck are you doing?!” I scream over the music, trying to wrench myself from his grasp. People scoot away from us, but in typical southside fashion, they don’t stop dancing. Why would they? If everyone in this room stopped dancing when a knife or a gun or whatever else was pulled, there’d only be Fuller High and Oak Valley Prep students at these parties.
We’ve all been there, done that, seen it all.
Bohnes’ expression is cold terror. He uses his other hand to wrest the knife from my grip, and I let him. Technically, at these parties, he’s in charge. We’ve established that in the past. Conversely, it means that he handles any and all issues, even if I’m here. Someone gets out of line? Not my problem when I’m at one of these shindigs.
“You,” he says looking at me before casting a glance over his shoulder. “And you. In there”—he points with the knife in the direction of a small door behind the bar—“now.”
Bohnes releases me and turns to look at the pervert.
“Did I fucking stutter?” he grinds out, snatching the guy mid-protest by the nape of his neck and leading him in the direction he wants him to go. The dude’s friend looks panicked, his eyes wide like a deer as he scrambles to catch up. I recognize him, but not the other guy. Figures.
No boy at Prescott High would ever make a mistake like that.
I look over at Nisha and Bastian, nodding with my chin in the direction that Bohnes went. I’m not letting this go. That piece of shit molested me, so he deserves to have his ass kicked. Or killed. One of the two.
I move into the room which turns out to be just an unfinished, empty space, like maybe it was a spot where the speakeasy received deliveries or something. Currently, it’s set up like a garage with metal shelves on three of the four walls.
Bohnes shuts the door behind us, but I can still hear the big band music spilling into the room, shaking the walls. He moves across the room and pauses beside something that’s leaning against the far wall.
There’s only a single lightbulb with a green metal shade hanging from the ceiling that gives off any light. I can’t quite tell what Bohnes has in his hand until he returns with a machete clutched in his inked fingers.
He flexes them around the handle of the weapon and then points to an old worktable in the center of the room. His blue eyes are gray in the half-light, but his hair, where it falls under the umbrella of light, is as white as his name. Bohnes.
“What the hell are you doing?” I ask, but he ignores me.
“You touched what’s mine,” he says to the boy in a way that both excites and concerns me. I should never have let him race Widow tonight. “I shouldn’t have had to tell you not to. Put your hand on the table.”
