Page 86 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
I make sure the doorknob is locked, the deadbolt slid into place, the chain securely hooked, and then I set the knife down on the decorative side table near the front door.
“You cool if we watch another horror movie?” I ask, and Alexis nods. If she sees the blood tainting a bit of the white text on my sweatshirt, she doesn’t remark on it, and I don’t wipe it off or change shirts. Not even when I head to bed a few hours later.
Told ya I was just as much a psycho as the next Prescott asshole.
Scarlett
Sunday is spent securing new panties from a variety of upscale stores in the Oak Park neighborhood. Of all the ‘tree neighborhoods’, it’s the one with the best shopping and the least amount of security. Normally, I prefer to win whatever I need at the track, but this chore can’t wait for next weekend.
I need fresh underwear for my game with Widow. I have no intention of stopping—even if Bohnes decides to keep creeping in to watch. Let him. He needs to understand that he doesn’t, and never will, have control over me.
For Monday, I decide on a pair of white cotton panties with black polka dots. They’d be an innocent choice but for the fact that they’re a thong, and I’m wearing them under a relatively short skirt.
To his credit, Widow pretends not to notice. He doesn’t even touch me throughout the entirety of fifth period, not until he’s on his way out the door and his left hand sneaks under my skirt and squeezes my ass before he breezes by and disappears out the library doors.
I like the feel of his hand on my ass so much that the next day, I wear another thong. This time, I put it under tight-ass turquoise colored leather pants and leave just a bit of the straps showing above the waistband on either hip.
As I’d hoped, Widow takes the bait.
“Where the fuck are you going?” he snarls at me, chasing me into the darkest, most private corner of the room and slamming his hands onto the bookshelves on either side of me. His teeth are gritted, and he looks so furious, you’d think he found out that I jacked it in his Stingray.
“My job,” I reply smoothly, and then Widow grabs the books from my hands and tosses them onto the floor. “Whoa, pretty disrespectful for a reader—” I start, but then he’s spinning me around and yanking the leather pants over my ass.
I put my hands up on the bookshelves, breathing in the scent of paper and ink and that plum-apple-pine smell that clings to Widow. He huffs out a sharp breath, ruffles my hair, and then caresses my ass a moment before slapping it hard. The sting is enough to wet my panties and turn my nipples to diamond points.
But then he’s bending down and snatching the books off the floor, tossing them onto a nearby table, and then leaving. He storms right down the aisle and a moment later, I hear the library doors open and then slam shut.
“Fuck,” I grind out through gritted teeth, yanking my pants back into place. But at least I got to him. I fucking got to him, and that’s what matters. Every day breaks his ass down just a little bit more.
At some point, I expect him to challenge Bohnes for the right to sleep with me.
That’s what I want.
I don’t know why.
It’s not just because Widow is hot or mysterious, or because he has teal and purple hair, or drives a sexy as fuck ‘Vette. It isn’t just because he plays guitar and reads romance novels. It’s because he seems so friggin’ unattainable that I want him just to see if I can’t have him.
After school, I hop into the Devil, slide my shades onto my face—won these at the track, they’re Gucci—and then hit the gas, blasting my way through Prescott and slowing only when I get into the Oak Park neighborhood. Too many cops on patrol to risk getting a ticket here.
I make my way over to Market of Cost to grab a cake for my Aunt Anita. She sent out a group text to our entire family—even my Uncle Bob who moved out because of Alexis—to tell us she got promoted. Said she was taking us all out somewhere nice to celebrate.
Since I know she’s a cake connoisseur (to the point that she won’t even eat a cheap cake from the shitty Prescott supermarket, despite our low socioeconomic status), I decided to drive all the way out here just to get her one from the fancy bakery inside the store.
She loves the cakes from this place, to the point that she’s willing to forgo gifts on her actual birthday so that our family can afford to get her custom poppy seed lemon cakes from here. I won’t have time to custom order anything today, but I sure as shit can pick something fancy out of the glass case inside and have Congrats, Bitch written across the top in frosting.
