Page 89 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
Aspen’s gone a little pale, and the way his eyes shift to one side tells me he knows something.
“I don’t know,” is how he answers that question. Like, he doesn’t know where his half a million plus dollar car is right now?
“You don’t know?” I growl back at him, and his face goes blank and cold. He leans in, so close that I can practically taste him.
“You have no right to ask me anything nor am I obligated to answer. As you can see, I’m standing right here. I didn’t shoot your girl nor do I know who did.”
“Who has access to that car?” I ask him, breathless, needing answers and knowing that as fast as I have to get to the scene, I also have to know these things, too. Because whoever did this, I’m going to bury them.
As I said before, it’s not my preferred method of dealing with pond scum. For some reason, our society gets upset when rapists, pedophiles, and murderers die. It makes no sense to me. Personally, I feel like we should hold public celebrations for that sort of thing. I mean, assuming the evidence is there. Like, for example, the rich boy who plowed into my mother’s minivan while plastered at two in the afternoon. There was no doubt that he was the perpetrator.
I mean, the asshole stumbled out of his totaled car and vomited right next to me while I stared down at my shattered leg and then turned my head to see my dead family members comatose and dressed in blood.
He did it. His parents knew he did it. Yet, he got let off with a hundred hours of community service. Isn’t that cute? Rich boys can get drunk and kill three kids under age ten and walk scot-free.
Anyway, I digress.
I don’t let perpetrators walk.
I will avenge my girl.
“Race me for it,” I snap out when Aspen hesitates too long. “Race me. If I win, I want to see the car in person. And I want a list of everyone who had access to it, who could’ve possibly been driving it.”
I throw that out in a rush, already lifting my phone back up and tapping out a message to Bohnes.
I need your help with something.
Shit. Fuck. Guess it’s a good thing he unblocked his number, huh? I mean, I would’ve done it eventually, but I’m glad he came and got it done himself. Intent is sexy.
He responds almost immediately.
Where are you?
I text him the location of the heist before looking back up at Aspen Kelly.
“Well?” I ask, knowing before we even get to this portion of the conversation what I’m going to have to offer up in order to get him to help me. The only thing this piece of shit wants that money cannot and never will be able to buy. Me. Fucking me.
“What do I get if I win?” he asks, as expected, an imperious look on his handsome face.
“If you win, I’ll let you fuck me. We can do it right on the hood of your Fastback. Waddaya say, shithead? Race me again. Friday night, first thing.”
He just stares at me, but then he nods, and I’m taking off out the side doors and sprinting across the parking lot to my car.
Aspen doesn’t follow me.
“Oh, Scar, this is so bad,” Basti is wailing as one of the other girls drives off in Evelyn’s car. She’ll take it straight to the lumberyard and we’ll store it there for the time being. “This is so fucking bad.”
I ignore him, too busy helping Bohnes lift Evelyn’s body into the trunk of his Chevelle.
We’re on a fairly secluded pullout on McKenzie View Drive, but that doesn’t mean cars don’t pass by every now and again, their headlights sweeping over us as the autumn sky dims to indigo shadows. We’ve just rolled Evelyn into a tarp and duct taped it nice and tight to prevent the blood from leaking into Bohnes’ car.
I haven’t even asked him what he’s going to charge me for this shit.
I’m sure that I don’t want to know.
“Oh fuck,” Bastian says, putting his face in his hands. “What am I supposed to tell her abuela, huh? You know the rest of her cousins are useless. Who’s going to take care of the old woman now?”
“Not my problem, Basti,” I say, but it is. I know that it is. I have a feeling a good chunk of that check I was saving for my buy-in is going to end up in the Moreno family’s hands. Bohnes grabs a huge plastic jug from the right front corner of the trunk, opening the lid and pouring it out over the bloodstains on the ground.
They fizzle strangely, leaving an odd chemical smell in their wake. When he’s finished, he puts the cap back on, replaces the jug, and removes another. This one’s filled with water.
