Page 87 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
I mean, if the employees won’t do it, I’ll buy a tube myself and get it done.
I pull into the parking lot and what do I see?
Aspen Kelly’s silver Mustang—rather than his Shelby Cobra—parked in the lot near the front door. I end up moving spaces so that I can park right next to him, rolling down my driver’s side window and waiting for him to notice me.
It takes a minute, but eventually, he glances over and sees me there, reaching over to roll his passenger side window down so that we can talk.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, glancing at my phone as it bings several times with incoming texts. My girls are working again today, but Nisha was busy with her mom, and Basti actually managed to score a lunch date with Lemon, so we’ve got our girl Evelyn leading point. She’s a humongous pain in my ass but the best driver in my crew save the three of us, so we left her in charge. She hasn’t bungled a job yet.
I glance briefly at the messages to make sure everything is going smoothly—they’ve got a target—and then look back up at Aspen.
He’s got his hands on the wheel, dark eyes watching me curiously.
“Are you stalking me, too?” I continue, my voice dry. I don’t have to explain the ‘too’ part of that sentence; he was there when Bohnes showed up in my goddamn yard unannounced.
“I come here a lot; it’s the nicest market in the county.” He shrugs loosely, as if that’s explanation enough. “Perhaps you’re the one who’s stalking me, Scarlett?”
I curl my lip at him, checking the sea of incoming texts yet again. My girls are all aflutter about something. Using my thumb, I scroll up, past dozens of emoji laden texts and OMGs, holy shits, and fuck mes that fill the screen.
It’s that goddamn Shelby Cobra again! Jennifer texts as I frown heavily, lifting my gaze back to Aspen. He’s sitting right there and yet, someone else is driving his car? You bet your sweet ass that if the Cobra were mine, no other cheeks would be sitting in that seat.
On it. That from Evelyn, who’s taking point. It’s a good mark, to be fair. We have a minimum value on cars we hit at three-hundred K and the Cobra is certainly worth more than that. Maybe it’s a different one? They’re not a common classic to see out on the road, but it’s not an impossible idea either. Our love of classic cars bleeds into the upper echelons of society around Springfield and Eugene and, even though the rich could never hope to imitate the true heart of what we do here in Prescott, they try.
So there are a lot of vintage beauties driven around here by stockbrokers and hedge fund douchebags that don’t know how to use ‘em. It’s the car that drives the man in those cases, and not the other way around.
Anyway, it wouldn’t be the first time we hit a vintage car, so I’m not worried about it.
I decide to ignore Aspen’s last comment, rolling my window back up and climbing out. He does the same, and we end up walking into the store together. Seeing as I’m still wearing the tight leather pants with my thong hanging out, people gape at me even more so than usual.
Aspen notices and the edge of his mouth twists into a devious smirk.
“They probably think you’re my sidepiece,” he remarks, which makes me want to drive my nails into his eyes until they burst. I look over to see that he’s still wearing that thick bandage on his hand. He notices and offers up an explanation. “Accident with a thirty-thousand-dollar vase.”
I stop right there in the middle of the store, next to the egregious display of kitchenware featuring birds and squirrels and price tags that are hideous but not nearly as hideous as what Aspen just said.
“This is why I hate rich people,” I say, loudly enough that people whip their heads around to glare and spit. What’s hilarious is that the cocksuckers sneering at me now clock what, five-hundred-thou a year? “Not talkin’ about you, sweet cheeks,” I add, lifting my chin in the direction of a trophy wife Barbie doll tottering around with her shopping cart like some sort of fucked-up Stepford wife. I glance over at Aspen, but he seems either bemused or enraged, caught somewhere in the middle of two different emotions. “No vase should ever cost thirty grand. No vase is worth thirty grand.”
“This one was. I know that because my father took the money out of my trust fund.”
“Aww, poor little rich boy,” I say with a pathetic moue. I turn away from him and head in the direction of the bakery, my heels loud as they clack across the sterile faux wood tile floors.
