Page 133 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
“If you tell me why you’re so interested in Ash Kelly, and what you plan on doing with him, I don’t see why not.”
Fuck yes!
I wet my lips and lean in close, just a skosh more than that six-inch buffer I was warned about. Alexei tenses, but he doesn’t pull back. Maybe I shouldn’t tell him anything, but … might be worth the risk. I want to see that race; I want to know what’ll happen if I elevate the stakes.
“My girls pulled Ash Kelly over, same way we did you, and he shot one of my friends.” I draw back just slightly, finding Alexei with a dark look on his face.
“You’ll kill him?” he inquires, but I just smile back at him in a mysterious but hopefully charming sort of way.
“Could you point me in the direction of the bathroom?” I ask, and Alexei cringes. “What? I have to pee. Do you just hold it until you get home or something?”
“I don’t drink or eat in public,” he explains yet again, gesturing for me to follow him. Alexei uses his foot to push open a swinging door for me. It leads into a huge open space full of yet more paintings, and there are two more doors—the men’s room and the women’s.
I slip into the women’s room, not entirely surprised to find a palatial bathroom with chaise lounges, marble counters, and free goodies like tiny perfume bottles, mints, wipes, feminine products, and, of course, a bathroom attendant.
I grab the nearest stall, ruck my dress up, and do my business. When I emerge, I wave the attendant off. I can wash and dry my own hands, thanks.
When I step out of the bathroom, Alexei is gone. Guess he’s waiting back in the gallery. I start for the door when a prickle hits the back of my neck. I turn to see Aspen watching me from the corner of the small room.
“Did I not warn you to stay away?” he asks, his right hand in his jacket pocket. On purpose? To hide something? I have no idea. But when I look into his eyes, a jolt takes over me, and I find my hands curling into fists, sweat beading on the sides of my face.
Shit.
He pushes up from the wall and makes his way over to me. I move back a step but not before I catch a hint of his cologne. Roses and jasmine which is … is it different than what I was smelling before or am I just picking up different notes?
He’s wearing the same suit, same tie, same watch … but his cufflinks are missing?
I look up to meet his gaze and find it suddenly hard to swallow.
“I thought you should know that my brother’s leaving for Tokyo, and that he isn’t coming back.”
My lips part in surprise at Aspen’s words, and righteous anger surges over me. I start to open my mouth, but he cuts me off, taking another step forward and getting too close to me.
I end up moving away from him again, finding my back pressed against a white wall beside a particularly ugly painting with a single brown line smeared across it, like a shit stain on a pair of tighty-whities. Gross.
Aspen gets far too close to me, lifting his left hand like he might just touch my face, and I slap it away.
“Don’t make me throat punch you again,” I caution, and that softness in his face disappears, hardening into a violent mask of frustration.
“If you keep poking into this or continue to seek me out, I’ll kill your whole family.”
My eyes widen, but when I move to hit him, he grabs my wrist and slams it against the wall beside me. His mouth descends on mine, and I groan against his lips. He does the same, like a drowning man, his sharp tongue teasing the seam of my mouth until I let him in.
My cunt throbs violently, begging to be filled with Aspen’s cock, but … but … I reach down and grab his junk, twisting and squeezing it until he gasps in pain and stumbles back. He runs his left arm across his mouth, but he keeps his right palm facing away from me.
If only I could get a look at it.
He stares at me, breathing heavily, as if realizing he made a mistake in kissing me. It seems to have been a momentary lapse in judgment. Aspen makes sure to correct his error with a vicious backlash.
“Sweet old Grandma Patricia,” he begins, and I grit my teeth, too upset and frustrated to care that he’s clutching at his crotch, his face reddened slightly with pain. “Your mother, Geneva. Aunt Anita, Uncle Bob, Uncle Jack. Your crazy sister, Alexis …”
“Careful, Aspen, or I might just come for you and your brother,” I warn, fingers twitching. If necessary, I will take my fancy footwear off and stab this motherfucker with my shoe.
