Page 125 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
I decide to keep what Alexei sent me—gifts are freely given, right?—with plans to pawn it all later. For now, I dig through my closet until I find an acceptable outfit, something that shows off my personality—and my legs.
Aspen might not want anything to do with me, but he sure as shit isn’t getting away without taking a long, hard look at what he’s missing.
I pull up to the art gallery with my windows down and my system up, the bass cranked as I blast some old-school Rihanna. Well, okay, so KMZI 66.6 is blasting old-school Rihanna, and I’m just along for the ride.
Same difference.
I screech to a stop behind some flashy new sportscar and try not to think about Widow or how much sexier his ‘69 Stingray is over this hunk o’ crap that’s idling in front of me.
Without bothering to turn off the engine, I climb out, putting one black Dolce & Gabbana heel on the street before the rest of my long legs and curvy body follows behind. I’ve got on a short black dress reminiscent of the one I wore to Bohnes’ party, my tattooed right arm on full display. I even punched up my makeup tonight, coloring my full lips with a red stain titled Scarlet Nightmare.
Cute, right?
I make my way around the rear of the car, using two fingers to chuck the shiny gold invitation at the wide-eyed valet. He looks like he’s stuck halfway between asking me out and asking me to leave. He catches the invitation, looks down at it, and then back up at me.
“This car’s worth over a hundred grand, don’t look at me like that.” I scoff at him and then look him over, like he’s the one with the problem. Which, you know, he is.
I saunter past him, pausing to look over as a … “Oh my God.”
It’s a Bugatti. It’s a black and red Bugatti Chiron Super Sport.
I cream my panties right away, watching in open-mouthed awe as none other than Alexei Grove climbs out of the driver’s side, wrinkling his nose as one of the other valets sprints forward to take the car from him.
He shudders when the man climbs in the driver’s seat, turning to look at me over the roof of his four-million-dollar ride.
“You were driving a modern Lambo when you have not only a Miura, but a brand-new Bugatti?!” I choke out as Alexei’s green eyes widen ever so slightly and he looks me over like he’s absolutely horrified. He very quickly comes over to me, but he doesn’t get too close. Actually, it’s sort of an awkward distance to hold a conversation with someone.
I step forward and his lip curls.
“What happened to the shoes and dress that I sent you?” he hisses, and I shrug, sliding my hands down the skintight black dress and making sure that it hasn’t climbed too far up my muscular thighs.
“Didn’t suit my personality, so I improvised. This dress is a Rick Owens, dickhead. It’s worth a lot, don’t worry. I won’t embarrass you in front of your rich friends.”
Alexei—despite his horrified facial expression—is a dream in a two-piece navy suit with a matching tie and a gold pocket square that likely was meant to pick up on the tones of the dress he sent me. His gloves are made of a supple white leather that he’s already picking at, pulling at the fingers with anxious frustration.
“Anyway, care to explain why you’d ever drive anything but the Bugatti? It has over fifteen hundred horsepower and can clock in at two-hundred and seventy-three miles an hour. Alexei.” I take a step toward him, and he recoils, looking me over with the most bizarre expression that I have ever seen on a man’s face.
“Six inches, minimum,” he breathes, his right hand dropping to his pocket. I wonder if he’s got that weird-ass sewing kit tucked away in there or something? Does he want to stab me with it, or does he want to fuck me? I can’t tell. “And what? What else could you possibly want now?”
I roll my eyes at him and wave my hand dismissively.
“Let me drive your car, please. Just once.”
He sneers at me.
“I can barely handle the idea of the valet touching it—with gloves on. You want to sit on my seat with that …” He gestures at my hemline as if it’s personally offended him. “That scrap of a dress. It probably doesn’t even cover your—”
Here he stops and exhales, reaching up to run one of those white gloved hands over the thick waves of his blond hair. Alexei Grove looks like a prince, I won’t lie. The suit is expensive, but, as much as I hate rich people and the way they waste money, I can’t deny the way it frames his wide shoulders and tapers in sharply to emphasize his narrow waist and hips. His trousers hug his muscular legs and highlight the double-monk strap leather loafers on his feet. His cufflinks are money, his shirt crisp and white, tie wrinkle free.
