Page 67 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
The guy who grabbed my tit is some sleazeball who, based on his letterman jacket, is some sort of hotshot athlete from Fuller High—the middle-class school that straddles the line of normalcy, somewhere between Prescott, Four Corners, and what we call the ‘tree neighborhoods’: Oak River Heights, Oak Park, and Oak Valley.
“Fuck that shit,” the jock snaps out, letting his frantic gaze swing over to his Prescott buddy. Bet he regrets inviting him here just about now.
I’m still wondering what it is that Bohnes is planning on doing when the friend pushes at the pervert’s shoulder.
“Dude you better do it,” the Prescott kid says, licking his lips nervously as his gaze darts from me to Bohnes and then back to his friend again. “He’s fucking crazy. You don’t want to know what he’ll do if you defy him now.”
Bohnes smiles wickedly.
“Do it now or it’s not just fingers, it’s a hand.”
“Fingers?” the guy asks, looking at Bohnes like he’s lost his mind. I mean, he has, just not right now. It was gone some time ago, I imagine. “What do you mean fingers?”
Bohnes turns to look at the Prescott kid, narrowing his eyes. I can barely believe this is the guy that rutted me into the forest floor just a few hours ago. My body’s still sore, and my panties are a bit of a mess from his cum, and now here he is, defending my honor.
Not that I can’t defend my own fucking honor, but I’m curious to see what he’s actually going to do.
“Make it happen now—or you’ll both get the same treatment.”
The Prescott kid scrambles forward, snatching his friend’s hand and slamming it into the table. He uses his body to block the other guy against the edge of it as Bohnes adjusts the machete, lifts it up, and then sends it slamming down with enough force that his muscles ripple with the movement.
There’s a loud thump as the blade buries itself into the wood of the worktable and for a second there, I’m convinced that he was just trying to scare the kid, that he wasn’t aiming for his hand in any way, shape, or form. It’d still be a decent punishment as such.
But no.
Two of the guy’s fingers sort of fall to one side, and then there’s blood. A whole hell of a lot of blood. There’s about a three second delay there before the jock starts to scream.
It’s mindless, just sounds of pain as he slumps to the floor, kicking and wailing and bleeding everywhere. The Prescott kid stumbles back, staring up at Bohnes as the jock continues to shriek in perturbed agony.
“Here,” Bohnes says, holding the machete in his left hand. With his right, he scoops up the pair of severed fingers and brings them over to me, offering them out on his palm with a smile.
I just stare back at him, too stunned to move while Nisha goes wide-eyed and Basti murmurs something in Spanish that I can’t quite pick up.
“What is this?” I breathe out as I look down at the fingers, wondering what it is, exactly, that Bohnes wants me to do with them.
“It’s a gift,” he says, as if that were obvious. Blood drips from between his fingers to the floor. Oh sweet dark goddess, what am I doing with this man? Kellin Bohnes was arguably the worst choice of all the Prescott trash that I could’ve selected as a fuckboy.
There are dozens of hot young dudes who know their cars, who have ink and muscles and metal, pain in their hearts, darkness in their eyes. If what I wanted was tortured, fucked-up, and broken, I had the pick of the litter.
I picked Bohnes.
I must enjoy a challenge.
Plop, plop, plop.
I stare down at the fingers before holding out my own palm and allowing Bohnes to drop them into my hand. He leans down, looming over me, a dark shadow that makes me shiver and shudder in remembered heat.
“You decide if you want to give them back so he can go to the hospital and get them reattached or not. Either way, I support you.” Bohnes turns back around to look at the boy. He’s curled into a fetal position, clutching his right hand with his left and whimpering.
I study the fingers for a moment before tossing them at the guy.
“Get the fuck out of here and, next time you think about groping a girl—since you obviously don’t care about other people’s personal boundaries—just remember that she might have a lover who cuts peoples fingers off with a machete.”
The guy scrambles to collect his severed digits, shoving them into his jacket pocket and zipping it up before his friend helps him to his feet, guiding him out the door and, likely, to the hospital.
I watch them go before turning back to look at Bohnes.
