Page 127 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
A waiter walks by carrying a tray of champagne flutes, and I snatch two right off of it, holding one out to Alexei.
“Drink?” I query, but he just looks at me with this sense of utter disbelief.
“If I didn’t want your wet pussy wrapped around my cock, why on earth would I drink from a glass that has God only knows how much bacteria on its rim? It’s been sitting out in the open air, paraded around the room. It’s filthy and disgusting.”
I shrug and down first one glass and then the next.
I have a feeling that I’m going to need as much champagne as I can get. Plus, it’s free, so … score. Am I right? Bet it’s expensive shit, too, arbitrarily inflated thousand dollar bottles of what is, essentially, yeast diarrhea.
“Care to introduce me to any of your colleagues?” I query dryly, wondering what to do with the empty flutes. Another waiter sweeps up as if summoned to collect them, and Alexei lifts the edge of his lip.
“Nauseating,” he says with a shake of his head and a deep sigh. He holds out a hand, as if to indicate the stark white walls and the ‘art’ that’s hung on them. Some new artist is being promoted, but it’s hard to appreciate the big white canvases with the spatters of random color that look like the finger paintings I used to bring home to my grandma from preschool. “Shall we?”
Alexei carefully avoids the crowds, making sure to leave that three-foot space buffer between himself and the other partygoers whenever possible. Nice to know that I’m not the only person he’s grossed out by. Nor is it just poor Prescott trash he’s hating on.
It’s everybody.
He’s an equal opportunity germaphobe, and I appreciate that.
I’m not sure where, exactly, we’re going until I see a couple cloistered in a corner and surrounded by a thick press of schmoozing assholes.
Even with her hair dyed a softer, more expensive shade of blond, her makeup done by expert artists, her dress money … I would recognize Lucy Hall anywhere. We grew up together. We suffered together.
My throat gets tight, and I squeeze my hands into fists as I look out across the sea of shiny people in even shinier dresses and tuxes with slacks that are pressed so neatly the creases look painfully sharp.
“That’s your friend, is it not?” Alexei queries, gesturing in the happy couples’ direction.
Aspen turns around, giving a genteel laugh at something one of the partygoers says. As soon as I catch sight of his face, a shudder of revulsion ripples over me. May as well be Alexei, what with the disgusted scowl on my face.
How could I have … why would I fuck someone like that …
Looking at him now, there’s none of that dark magic I felt when I was standing in the rain with him last week. That broken, pained boy with the mouth that tasted like fire, who held me tight and fucked me like he was committing every curve to memory.
What the hell?
“You dislike him as well?” Alexei asks, glancing in Aspen’s direction and wearing a similar expression of disgust. “He’s putrescent, certainly. And your friend? He’s using her, no doubt about that.”
“But what for?” I ask, glancing over and appreciating this boy’s candidness. He doesn’t have to tell me anything, especially considering the fact that he doesn’t seem to like me much. He must just hate Aspen a whole hell of a lot more.
“I can only guess,” Alexei continues, turning back to look at Aspen and making this … this pout with his lower lip that makes me curious what it might be like to suck on it. He keeps his gaze on the couple as he answers. “Good PR, more than likely.” He turns to me again. “Mayor Kelly is making a bid for governor and beyond. But with the stain on his record—that is, the mysterious disappearance of his mayoral running opponent—he needs to do something big. Haven’t you noticed? He’s ‘cleaning up’ your neighborhood. It’s one of his campaign promises, after all.”
The entire thing makes me sick, and I end up with my palm flat on my belly, my eyes narrowing as I watch Aspen flash his Fendi watch around. Those signature diamond cufflinks he wears on a semi-frequent basis catch the lights as he gestures in conversation.
My mind flat-out refuses to accept that I ever fucked that guy.
No way.
Not a chance in hell.
“So … Lemon is a charity case?” I query, trying to puzzle it out. Alexei shrugs loosely, tucking both gloved hands into his pockets.
“Why not? It assuages public guilt as he bulldozes your neighborhood to the ground and hands multi-million-dollar contracts to out-of-state developers. It shows that he doesn’t hate the poor, even if it might seem that way. See, he’s willing to take a piece of poor white Prescott trash into his own home.”
