Page 9 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
I decide to head up the steps and then wait just inside the front door, looking out the window to watch as my friend disappears down the street. Huh. If this relationship lasts more than a week, I’ll have to follow her.
The bell rings, and I give up on Lemon for the moment, heading to my sixth period class and smashing the quiz given to us by our math teacher. This shit is too easy for me. I drop the paper on her desk before heading into the hallway and stopping by the women’s restroom.
When someone sneaks in quietly behind me, I turn, whipping out the knife that Officer Asshole slipped me on the other side of the metal detectors. The person coming at me has a knife, too, which is the first thing I notice.
The second thing I notice is that it’s Widow.
I can knife fight with the best of them: just ask my girls. I don’t often lose in a fight, but this time, Widow disarms me by swinging his left forearm under mine so hard that I can feel the impact in my skeleton.
He quivers my bones with that hit, but it doesn’t actually hurt, more like hitting one’s funny bone. It throbs and makes my teeth ache, but it won’t leave a bruise. The sharp blade at my throat however just might.
“What the fuck did you do with my car?” he hisses at me, pressing the blade uncomfortably close to my skin. I have to be careful when I swallow, that’s how close he is to cutting me.
“This might be how things work in juvie, but that’s not how they work at Prescott,” I tell him, breathing in these slow, controlled drags. Staying calm is paramount here. I look into Widow’s golden gaze, but he’s completely empty of emotion. He’s not even frowning; his lips are in a perfectly neutral pout. “Around here, if you steal a car, it’s your car. I played you, Widow.”
He steps in closer to me, forcing my body back against the wall or into the blade. I choose the former, and then there he is, his huge shadow looming over me.
“Go ahead and kill me,” I say with a loose shrug, my hands held up, palms out in surrender. “My girls will have you dismembered by early evening.”
His smell fills the air between us, that ripe fruit and forest scent. Can he smell me from there, too? I’ve been told that I have a cherries and chocolate scent. Heard that from Kellin Bohnes, but I can’t think about him right at this moment.
“If you can steal it back, it’s yours again,” I say with a bit of a smile. I never draw my gaze away from his, and he returns the favor. There’s a power in our combined stare that I don’t miss, but that I also know damn well I should stay the hell away from.
I said Prescott Boys were trouble? This one more so than most.
“If I steal it back, it’s mine?” he asks dryly, pressing even closer to me. At this point, we’re nearly front to front, and I can feel the heat of him against the bare skin of my chest and arms. And oh man, he’s got good arms. My fingers ache to touch them, to tease over the hint of a brand-new tattoo on his upper left arm. Other than that, and the spiderweb tattoo on his right hand, he has no other visible ink. “It was mine to begin with. Where the fuck did you put it?”
“You should really invest in some better security measures,” I offer up, but then he’s pressing the blade harder against me, and I can feel the tiniest split in my skin. Shit. I really didn’t think he’d take things this far. He seems to be looking at my mouth now, having finally broken our stare.
I take that as a good sign; all good predators know that whoever holds a stare the longest is boss.
Widow steps back suddenly, flipping his knife in his fingers in thought before sliding it into a sheath tucked in his waistband and hidden beneath his shirt. When he lifts the hem of the white tee up, I nearly lose my mind at the sight of the defined lower ab muscles resting there.
If he hadn’t stolen my parking space, dismissed me in front of my crew, and put a knife to my throat, I might actually have a crush on him. I know as well as any other girl here that there’s a certain aura of poison in the air around Prescott, a haze, if you will. It taints us all toxic and makes us do horrible things.
It makes Lemon fuck old, married guys searching for a way out; it makes Nisha punch the walls in the hallway when she’s mad, leaving dents in the drywall; it makes Bastian dance for money at the gay club with a fake ID.
