Page 139 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
I’m dirty. I’m so dirty.
And my papa is dead. My papa. Papa.
“Oh Papa,” I murmur, yanking at my hair with both hands. “Papa.”
I feel so completely and utterly lost and alone; my mind begins to spiral down into despair. Where do I go? What do I do? I pull my phone from my pocket, staring at the video I just took. I could post this all over the internet, couldn’t I?
Would that help? Would that get justice for my father? Maybe.
Or maybe I’d just draw the attention of whoever else was behind this my way. Because there’s no way in hell that the chief of police is acting alone. Oh no, I’d bet my life on Chet Archer and Jonas Kelly being involved in this.
Family and friends are out of the question until I deal with this. If I go to them now, I’ll be bringing death to their doorstep. Conversely, Papa’s side of the family has connections to the mob. Could they be involved in this, too? I can’t be sure.
So.
Where can I go?
I scroll through my contacts, pausing on one name in particular.
Scarlett Force.
Scarlett Force, who wants to kill Ash Kelly. Scarlett Force who looks at that glittering sea of genteel socialites like she’d set fire to them all if she could. Scarlett Force, who robs rich men at gunpoint and has a gang of girls who obey her every command.
I swallow hard, pushing my pride and disgust and despair down, and then I make the call.
“Alexei?” she queries in surprise. I can hear the sound of other people laughing, the murmur of a television. “What’s up?”
“I need your help,” I whisper, my voice cracked and thick with strain.
There’s a pause there, as if she’s carefully considering my words.
“Something happen tonight, Alexei Grove?” she inquires, her own voice darkening at the distraught, broken quality in mine.
“Can you meet me tomorrow?” I ask, trying to school my voice into something at least resembling normal. In reality, I want to scream. I want to dip my body in bleach. I want to cry.
Papa. Papa, no. Oh, Papa.
I close my eyes against the pain, desperate to keep Scarlett Force from hearing the deep vulnerability inside of me. I loved my papa more than anyone or anything in this world; I can’t even begin to fathom the hole his loss is going to leave inside my heart.
“Um, sure,” she offers up, her voice thick with suspicion. “Where at?”
“The Oak Park Country Club,” I say, my breathing coming in rapid pants. If this is a conspiracy, I’ll see it there in the faces of those highborn snakes. But they won’t be able to touch me, not in public like that. It’s a gamble, but one that I have to take. “Ten o’clock.”
“Ten?” she replies with a small laugh. “How about five? I got a lot of shit to get done tomorrow.”
Fuck.
I frown, trying to figure out if I’m making the right decision or not. I need a night to think about this anyway.
“Fine. Five. I’ll see you there for dinner; it’s on me.” I hang up before I can second-guess myself, and then put my forehead to the steering wheel as the pain overwhelms me. “Papa,” I groan, tears running down my face that I find grotesque. Not as disgusting as the blood on the front of my suit, but filthy, nonetheless.
I need to find somewhere to wash up, somewhere to hide for the time being.
In the few months since I came to town, I’ve been learning everything I can about the locals. Intel, if you will. I know all about Prescott High and Scarlett Force, the Crimson Crew … and the neighborhood’s resident fixer.
I head over to the track, hoping beyond all hope that I haven’t gotten here too late to catch him.
Much as I hate the mud, much as I feel like my skin is rotting and falling off of my bones, I make myself get out.
“Do you know where I can find Bohnes?” I ask one of the guys, my suit jacket abandoned in the car, the majority of the blood scrubbed clean with antiseptic wipes. I’m shaking, halfway to having a mental breakdown, but somehow keeping myself together.
Because I can’t let my papa’s death be in vain.
I will punish every person involved in his execution—whether they were present or not.
The guy directs me over to a man with shock-white hair, smoking a cigarette on the hood of what looks to be a ‘69 Chevelle.
“Excuse me,” I ask, fighting back wave after wave of revulsion as the man turns his pale face over to me, his eyes the color of arctic glaciers, his expression similarly warm. “Are you Kellin Bohnes?”
He laughs, the sound a dark and twisted thing. I grit my teeth and squeeze my gloved hands into fists.
“You the germaphobe who took my girl out tonight?” he responds, surprising me.
