Page 12 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
Us, too.
Bastian’s got the bags of food clutched in his arms.
“Well, well, look at Lem’s fancy new boyfriend,” he says, blinking in surprise at the sight of our friend approaching a guy in an expensive black suit, his ankles crossed as he leans back against the edge of the table. His eyes are so dark they might as well be black, and he’s wearing a pair of diamond cufflinks that scream money, one arm folded over his chest, the elbow of the other resting in his palm. He teases his lower lip with a single finger as Lemon approaches him.
Uh-oh.
The man is gorgeous, I will give you that. Young, too. Maybe eighteen, nineteen at most.
He’s also dangerous as hell.
Every warning bell I have inside of me goes off at the sight of this guy sizing up my girl.
“Nisha, this is bad,” I whisper, but she’s already frowning. Our eyes meet and we both turn back to study the way Lemon’s rubbing herself all over Mystery Guy’s front. She’s a shameless hussy, I won’t lie. I used to find it amusing. Not so much anymore. Now it’s getting dangerous. “Just what I needed tonight,” I grumble, my eyes sweeping the crowd as I search for Widow.
I fully expect him to show up here tonight.
“Basti, can you go and watch the ‘Vette for me?” I ask, giving him a pouty expression that makes him roll his eyes. He flips me off with an inked hand, and I return the favor. We’re both flowing with color and design; it’s almost a requirement here. Easy, too, with the free availability of quality fake IDs.
Bastian takes off as I spend another minute studying Lemon’s behavior with this guy. What was his name? Aspen?
So, he’s named after a unisex tree, but never in my life have I seen someone who exudes privilege and expectation the way this boy does. There’s cruelty in the way he lifts his hand to grip Lemon’s pointed chin, fingertips digging into the sides of her face in a way that makes me twitchy.
I said I liked psychos, but this man is as cold as ice.
This is Lemon’s big-time boy, eh?
“She’s going to get herself killed,” Nisha whispers as Jennifer sidles up to us. She doesn’t race either, but she likes to dress in skimpy clothes and lay on the hot boys’ cars while they fawn all over her.
“Do you know who that is?” I ask her as she tosses her brunette waves and bites her lower lip in thought.
“Mm. That’s Aspen Kelly—the mayor’s son.”
“The mayor’s son?” I echo, eyes widening as I flick my gaze back to Lemon.
Oh dear sweet baby Jesus.
This is even worse than I thought.
“He’s been living in L.A. with his uncle for the last year while Mayor Kelly came up here to campaign.” Jennifer tosses me a look to see if I might offer up any approval or praise for her words. She craves my attention in a way that makes me want to give it less. I know it makes me a terrible person, but I can’t stand the smell of desperation.
Probably why you’re chasing after Bohnes like a bitch in heat.
“He’s from L.A., too. The mayor, I mean. He only moved up here to campaign because he couldn’t get elected in any city in the Los Angeles metro area.”
My eye twitches. Right. This hotshot from Southern California decided he’d descend on our moderately sized Oregon town for an easy win? Figures. I’m immediately wary. Even if I hadn’t seen Aspen in his ten-thousand-dollar suit, I’d have been afraid.
Mayor’s son means scandals and hush money and hired hands.
I need Lemon to finish up with this boy, get her heart broken (she gives it, even if Nisha doesn’t believe it), so she can move the fuck on.
“Scarlett!” Lemon calls out, gesturing for me to join her. “Nisha!”
My friend and I exchange yet another look before making our way over to where Lemon’s curled shamelessly up against Aspen. For his part, he seems entirely disinterested but for the way his fingers have curved around my friend’s waist, digging painfully into her side. I can see the way she tries to scoot subtly away from the harsh grip, only to be yanked even more firmly against the asshole’s chest.
We are not going to get along well, me and this guy.
“Scarlett, Nisha, this is …” Lemon thinks on her choice of words long enough that Aspen’s dark eyes flash with cool indifference. His gaze is shallow and slick, as if perhaps there’s no soul underneath that pretty façade, just a monster hiding in human skin.
“Aspen Kelly,” he says smoothly, his voice oiled and almost disturbingly perfect. Nobody should ever sound like that, like every word out of their mouth has been carefully selected, groomed, polished, examined, and then forced out like a weapon. “I take it you’re the infamous Scarlett Force? Queen of this shithole?”
