Page 92 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
But if she wins, I’ll tell her all the possibilities about who might’ve been in that car. I’ll let her see it—if it’s still here. My brother likes to make sure any concrete evidence against him disappears in a timely fashion.
That, or he just blames whatever the incident is on yours truly.
I could die for this. Scarlett could die, too.
I rub both hands down my face and then head inside, finding my way into the kitchen for something to eat. The sound of raucous laughter draws me into the dining room.
My brother, our father, and his two favorite people in all the world—the CEO of Archer Realty Investments and the Springfield Chief of Police—are all enjoying their fair share of pricy imported Scotch and vodka and gin. There’s a box of cigars resting on one corner of the table, a tray filled with marijuana edibles, and a line of cocaine laid out in front of Aspen.
He looks up at me and then sneers.
He takes a razorblade, uses it to scrape the white powder into a neater line, and then plugs one nostril so he can snort it up.
You wouldn’t know by looking at him that he killed a teenage girl just a few hours prior.
At least my twin acknowledges my existence. Our father doesn’t even look at me. His friends do, his disgusting, pathetic, good ol’ boy friends. He plots with them, makes deals he shouldn’t make, sells out the people of Prescott in a bid for bigger favors and more money and a chance at becoming the governor of Oregon.
I’m nothing to him, big shot that he is. As far as he’s concerned, he doesn’t have a second son. I’m an embarrassment to the family. The crazy son, the psycho one, the one who got put in any number of random mental health facilities, who was committed for a while, who served out his last year of high school at some dump in the middle of Arkansas, buried in the woods and hidden from public view.
And all because of Aspen. Because Aspen was born wrong and, even though he’s my identical twin, we couldn’t be anymore different. He spent the formative years of our life torturing me, teasing me, hitting me, spitting on me, choking me.
Whenever anything bad happened, he told our parents it was Ash who did it. Ash who killed the cat. Ash who set the rug on fire. Ash who let the horses out so that one of them could be killed by wild animals. Ash who stole the gun from dad’s desk drawer and shot our tutor in the thigh.
Ash who got that girl pregnant that one time, and then punched her in the stomach until …
Ash, Ash, Ash.
Sometimes, I forget which one of them I am. Am I Aspen Kelly? Am I Ash Kelly? What did I do wrong? Why does our father hate me so much?
I used to think it was because Aspen blamed every horrible thing he did on me. Then I got older and realized that my father simply didn’t care. He likes Aspen because he was made in his image, because he’s as cruel and twisted as he is. Even if he can’t tell us apart, when I act like Aspen, he likes me. When Aspen acts like Aspen, he likes him.
But, regardless, he hates Ash.
He hates Ash, the troublemaker, who Aspen plays very well. And he hates the true, authentic version of myself that is Ash Kelly. Basically, it’s a lose-lose situation for me most days. I’m good at pretending to be my brother, but I don’t enjoy it. I don’t enjoy his persona or his speech patterns or his cruelty.
“What the fuck are you staring at?” Aspen snarls at me, rising to his feet in his black-on-black-on-black suit. Lemon isn’t in the room celebrating with these assholes, even though she moved in last week. I wasn’t lying when I said she threw that box in the dumpster. She did. She packed up her things in the trailer she shares with her aunt, and then she dumped all of the items related to Scarlett.
Since I was following Aspen—as I often do—and watching him (all the better to be him later when necessary), I saw the whole thing. Then I took that box to Scarlett Force because, apparently, I’m insane.
Truly.
As all of my psychologists have said that I am.
Before Aspen can truly come at me the way he likes to do, I turn and make a beeline for the exit, passing through the kitchen like a shadow, a ghost, a specter. Dad’s colleagues don’t even look at me.
But I see them.
I see the short, slightly overweight man two chairs down on his left, still wearing his uniform. I see his close-cropped dark hair and perverted smile as he asks where all the hookers are. I see the man directly next to my father, the tall, broad-shouldered, good-looking Chet Archer, CEO of his own company.
