Page 77 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
If I’d lost then I would’ve had to fuck him. Ask my pussy on Friday night if she woulda liked that, and it would’ve been a resounding yes. But earlier that same night? I couldn’t have been more repulsed by the idea.
It makes no sense. I’m hot and cold with the guy, waffling between revulsion and lust.
“Whether I do or not, it isn’t your business. Move.” His voice is a clear command, one that I refuse to heed. He wants to be an alpha male? By all means, he can shape the rowdy boys of this school into a proper crew the way I did the girls. But he most certainly won’t be telling me what to do.
“Make me.”
The challenge falls between us, a thrown gauntlet that Widow looks like he might very well take up.
The person that’s watching me from the shadows probably wouldn’t like that, but I choose to ignore him too. He’s been here every day this week thus far and likely will continue his silent vigil. I dare him to intervene.
Instead, one of the librarians—this one’s name is Agnes—pops her head around the corner.
“Scarlett, we just got a new box of donations. I’d like you to stop shelving for now and come look through it, see if there’s anything worth keeping. Last thing we need in this library is another copy of Fifty Shades.” She snorts and moves away, and I frown.
Widow crosses his arms, letting his own book dangle from one hand while he waits.
Too bad.
I’d been planning on standing here in challenge for the rest of the period and maybe even into the next class.
“You got lucky this time,” I tell him, snapping my fingers and then moving away. But not before casting one, quick glance down at his jeans, just to see if I can’t get some idea of how he feels about me.
He very purposefully drops the book in front of his crotch to hide any evidence. Fucking smart-ass.
I move away, but not before casting another glance in his direction.
Our eyes meet, and a thrill sparks in me.
He’s interested, even if he doesn’t want to be.
But the only way he’s ever going to be able to approach me would be to race Bohnes again.
I’m not sure if Kellin would accept that request … or keep his advantage.
Either way, unless Widow is willing to make another bet, this is as far as we’ll ever go.
On Thursday, I gather an armful of books and head down a particularly narrow aisle. I’m paying more attention to the authors’ last names on the spines than on where I’m going. I end up running headfirst into a strong, broad back.
The smell of ripe fruit and forest sweeps over me as several of the books tumble to the floor and Widow turns around to look at me, his face lit with rage. When he sees that it was me who bumped into him, that expression shifts slightly. It doesn’t get any less angry, but a new emotion enters the fray.
Lust.
It’s written plain as day across his handsome features, across his full mouth, in the way he breathes, deep and slow, in the clench of his fists at his sides.
“Didn’t see ya there,” I quip as he backs away from me, silent and annoying as he’s been since he started here three weeks ago. He still has yet to make any friends, still sits in the hall or on the front steps strumming his guitar. And I think, if given the chance, he’d still park in my space.
I’ve been careful about keeping the opportunity out of his hands. I’d rather not go head-to-head with him because I have a feeling that one of us would end up dead. It wouldn’t be me, but I can say this: murdering people is not an idea that appeals to me. It leaves my careful future on the line in a way that I don’t appreciate.
There’s always the chance of being discovered, of going to court, of being locked up.
I don’t want to open myself up to that.
I don’t want to fear every knock on my door for the rest of my life, wondering if I’m not about to be arrested and tried for a crime that happened ten, twenty, whatever years ago. Although, I’ve already done something like that, allowed myself to do something like that.
It’s the reason I hate the color red. Or rather, one of the reasons tied in with all the others, inextricably entwined. Just another fucked-up red thread of fate binding my pinky to the pinkies of six dead people.
Not that I killed all six, but you get the idea.
I turn purposefully, putting my ass to Widow, and then I bend down to collect the books. A quick glance between my legs shows that he’s still standing there, watching me. Not that I needed to see him to get confirmation of that. I can feel his gaze on me, this hot, sultry, but utterly resistant monster.
