Page 98 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
Still, nothing.
“You’re a piece of shit one minute and chivalrous the next. Explain it before I find myself royally pissed-off and ready to make you bleed.”
“I can’t say for certain, but I believe it was my brother driving that car,” he offers up carefully, reaching into his back pocket and removing a soggy piece of paper with several names written on it in pencil. He hands it over to me, and I take it, careful to keep it from ripping beneath my fingers; it’s that fragile.
“Your brother?” I ask, looking back up at his face. “The crazy one?”
His flat mouth quickly develops into a violent sneer, and then he’s reaching out to grab me by my upper arms.
“You can come see the Cobra for yourself if you really want, but that’d be dangerous. Better that you take my word for it. I saw it, and I can confirm that the front end is damaged, that there are gouges down both sides, as if the driver slipped into a spot that wasn’t quite wide enough to drive through.”
“Your brother …” I repeat, staring down at the paper and then taking out my phone to snap a quick picture of it. Thank God for waterproof smartphones, am I right? I look back up at Aspen’s face, a luxe composition of dark eyes and a pale pouty mouth and blemish-free skin. Half-Japanese, half-whatever-white-person-his-dad-is.
He’s gorgeous.
I hate him.
He disgusts me.
My body burns; I feel like every drop of cool rain should sizzle and steam as it hits my skin. My blouse is fully transparent now, revealing the bright red bra underneath. Always with the red, always with the memories of the car accident and what came after.
Vengeance.
“My word is good, Aspen Kelly. And I pay my debts—regardless of how abhorrent I might find them.”
“Abhorrent?” he repeats, and then he laughs. “Do you really find me that abhorrent though, Scarlett?” He reaches up a single finger, tracing it along the wet seam of my mouth. The rain tastes different today, almost electric, as if the storm has infused every drop.
I let Aspen touch me, even though I shouldn’t. Even though I should tell him to fuck right off.
“Answer me this,” I say as he withdraws his hand. “Did you throw the race on purpose?”
Aspen pauses, looking down at the ground before lifting his head again.
“If I did, would it matter?”
That just annoys the crap out of me.
“I don’t need your charity, Aspen Kelly!” I shout, and he grits his teeth, reaching up with a single hand to grab a handful of his silky black hair so that he can yank on it. He murmurs something in Japanese that sounds angry, bitter, thick with fury. “If you were just going to tell me anyway, why not do it sooner? Why agree to race at all?”
“You need to be careful with my brother,” he says, his honesty surprising me. “If he finds out that you have this information or that you’ve been talking to me, he won’t be happy. More than likely, he’ll try to kill you.”
“I’m not afraid of your brother,” I reply easily. I’m not. “And he can’t kill me if I kill him first.”
He exhales sharply and looks away.
“What a blessing that would be,” is what I think he says, but when I open my mouth to ask him to repeat it, he returns his attention to me. “I’m telling you this so that you’ll understand: you can’t do that. If you kill him, my father will come for you.”
I purse my lips and pretend like I didn’t hear that; I don’t care what the risks are.
“What’s your brother’s name?” I ask, because I haven’t been able to get anything solid out of the rumor mill. Nobody knows much about the guy; he’s practically a ghost. There are no pictures online. No social media presence, not even family photos with the mayor. Nothing but sordid gossip churned up by bored assholes on random forums.
“My brother’s always been my father’s favorite.” Aspen’s voice cracks like the thunder in the distance and he lifts his eyes up to the sky before returning that velvet black stare to my face. “I’m the crazy son, the garbage son.” He pauses and lets out a wild laugh that reminds me, oddly enough, of Bohnes. He seems so put together—a person can be put together and still be violent and cruel—but out here like this, all wet and spilling his soul into the storm surge that’s come up on us like the hand of God? He sounds as broken as any asshole in Prescott High. “Don’t be mistaken: he’s not all there either.” Aspen taps the side of his head with a single finger. “We’re the same, me and him.”
“Somehow, I don’t believe that,” I say, working my jaw and then flicking my eyes back in the direction of the track. It’s been a while, plenty long enough for me to get the information I came for. I should go back. Nisha is likely furious with me—especially since I’m not responding to the frantic buzzing of my phone in my pocket.
