Page 11 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
“I know you’re not Lemon,” Nisha says, reaching out to take my arm. I glance back at her, jealous that she’s gay and doesn’t have to deal with dick. Not that any of the girls here at Prescott are much better. Still. “You’re worse than Lemon. Lemon fucks guys looking for an out. She doesn’t love or care about them. You …”
“Are a hopeless romantic?” I finish with a dark laugh. I should tell Nisha that I’ve had sex with Bohnes every Friday and Saturday for three weeks. I should. But I don’t. Because she’s right, and I’m only half-kidding about the hopeless romantic thing.
“Exactly.” Nisha exhales and shakes her head, reaching up to tug at one of her gold hoop earrings. Actually, I think those might be mine. “Lemon is enough to deal with. Shit, Lemon and Basti both are too much sometimes. Don’t fuck me over for a fuckboy.”
I feel my chest tighten at the idea of Nisha catching me in a lie, but she’s already walking away and calling out to Lemon—likely to chastise her for skipping school today. She doesn’t know. She’s just teasing me.
Tell her, Scar! What the fuck?
The fact that I’m reluctant to tell one of my best friends—if not the best of the best—should be proof enough that what I’m doing here is wrong.
Widow comes down the steps and pauses beside me.
Much to my surprise, he throws a look my way. He hasn’t so much as glanced at me this entire week. He has, on the other hand, tried to follow me home. But really? Does he think he’s the first pervert, psycho, or Prescott princess to try and stalk me?
Not going to happen.
I gave him the slip every day this week.
“I’m really enjoying your baby,” I say, biting my lower lip and making my face pouty. “She drives like a dream.”
Widow’s amber eyes narrow even further, but he slowly breathes in and out, shaking his head at me. In the end, he doesn’t even bother to reply, continuing on down the steps and stalking off down the street while I stare after him with a sharp frown creasing my lips.
He’s so goddamn weird.
He sits in the hallway and strums an acoustic guitar sometimes, ignoring the guys who heckle him and toss coins and rolled up balls of paper his way. Other times, he comes into the library during fifth period and sits down in the tattered armchair in the corner, legs up, a book in his hand.
He barely talks, hasn’t made any friends, hasn’t joined any of the male cliques that offer protection in and out of Prescott. He also hasn’t retaliated against me for stealing his car. The problem is, a guy who comes at a girl with a knife right off the bat like that doesn’t give up so easily.
Widow’s plotting something; I can smell it.
Since there isn’t much I can do at that point, I head over to my car and climb in, heading back to my house to grab Widow’s Stingray. Basti—who never races and has a mechanic’s magic touch in a way that I never will—follows me in his own car with Lemon as a passenger. They wait for me to change rides, then Lem hops into the Pantera, and off we go as a group. Me in front, Nisha just behind, Basti next, and Lemon taking up the rear.
Together, my besties and I drive four vehicles to the track, pulling into the hard-packed dirt of the parking lot alongside several dozen other cars. It’s like a classic car show up in here. We’ve got everything from a Morgan to an MGB lined up and ready to race. I recognize all of them save for one.
My jaw drops as I climb out of Widow’s Stingray, making my way over to the sleek, shiny ebon curves of a ’63 Shelby Cobra.
“Do you know what this is?” I choke out, glancing over at Nisha to gauge her reaction. I can’t be the only person at the track whose mind is blown by what I’m seeing. “It’s worth six hundred K, easy.”
“Don’t get any ideas,” she murmurs, dressed head to toe in blue leather. It’s sort of her color. Matches her car, too: a white 1964 Lotus Elan that she’s been fixing up since she was thirteen. You heard me: fucking thirteen. Nisha’s father was a mechanic who taught her everything she knows. Even though he passed last year, his legacy lives on in his daughter. “You can’t steal this.”
“Really? No shit,” I mutter, looking around for the possible owner of the car.
Lemon surprises me by moving ahead of us and pushing her way through a small crowd wrapped around one of the picnic tables. Most of the Prescott brats who frequent the track stop by the drive-in—some fifties themed spot called Wesley’s—to grab food before heading this way.
