Page 144 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
“You that keen to get your cunt on those pretty leather seats, eh?” I ask, gesturing with my head in the direction of the Devil. It’s just me and my metal baby now. Nisha and Bastian both jetted off after our appointment to take care of their own shit.
Emma Jean blushes and tucks some of her short blond hair behind one ear.
“You probably want to hear what I have to say,” she starts, and then, with a deep, bolstering breath, she pulls her phone from the pocket of that same denim jacket she was wearing last time she came to Prescott to annoy me. She taps around on her screen for a moment before turning the phone in my direction.
It’s a bit hard to see, as dark as the picture is, but my blood goes cold anyway.
I snatch the phone from her hand, and she shifts back slightly, as if she’s afraid of me. She should be anyway. Should’ve been afraid of me all along.
The picture on her phone, while hard to see, is very clearly me and Aspen on the roof of his Mustang in the rain. I lift my gaze up to Emma Jean, finding her with a mulish expression locked in place.
“I’m not here to blackmail you with it,” she says, and I laugh, the sound throaty and thick with confidence. I chuck the phone back in her direction and she scrambles to catch it before it falls to the pavement and breaks.
“Wouldn’t work anyway. You think I give a shit if people know I fucked the mayor’s son? So what? I’m a red-blooded woman with needs, Emma Jean. You ever get dicked good like that? It’s worth putting up with men on rare occasions.” I cross my arms over my chest, as if I truly mean what I’m saying.
What happens if this picture gets out? Aspen seemed to imply that I’d be in danger, that my family and friends might be in danger. Do I believe what he said, about him killing everyone I love? Actually, I don’t. He was threatening me to keep me away from him. But why? What the hell is going on in the city of Springfield?
“I’m not,” Emma Jean repeats, sounding frustrated. She reaches a hand up to scratch at her head. “I’m here because I need more information about Ash and Aspen Kelly.”
That gives me pause.
“Ash and Aspen?” I ask, and Emma Jean nods, locking her honey-brown eyes with mine.
“Let’s trade intel, Scarlett. That’s what I’ll pay for your time. I’ll tell you what I know, and you do the same.”
Shit. She’s got me by the short and curlies, don’t she?
“Fine,” I say, checking the time on my phone yet again. “But I’ve got somewhere to be at five. Hop in.”
I climb into the driver’s seat and Emma Jean scrambles around to the passenger side.
I back out of the driveway, layin’ rubber on the pavement, and then off we go.
Halloween is next week. As such, it gets dark early around here now. By six, it’s practically pitch-black out. Orange, red, and yellow leaves cover the streets, making the pavement slick enough that we slide on the turns, and Emma Jean turns even paler than she already is.
“Alright, talk,” I say, driving the route I like to use when I’m worried that somebody might be following me. Just in case. “Tell me about Ash and Aspen.”
One good thing about Emma: she doesn’t waste time. She gets straight to the heart of the matter which I appreciate.
“I believe that one of the brothers—I’m not sure which—assisted in the murder of Larron Van Gordon, Mayor Kelly’s opponent in the last election.”
That gives me pause. I tighten my hands around the wheel and wet my lips. Not just disappeared, murdered.
“Why do you think that?” I press, wondering if this has something to do with my warnings from Aspen, if this is why he said we could only hook up once. Maybe it even has something to do with him marrying Lemon?
“Wouldn’t be the first time one of his sons helped him commit a crime.” Emma curls her hands around the edge of the seat, digging in for dear life as I pick up some extra speed and debate whether or not to commit us to a jump or a spin or some other stunt that might make Emma Jean Thompson scream. “Could you go a little slower? I get motion sickness—”
“What other crimes?” I demand, but she shakes her head at me.
“Your turn. Have you ever met Ash Kelly?” she asks me, but I just chuckle.
“Quid pro quo, Clarice,” I tease, and then snort, lifting one hand off the wheel to wave at her. Emma Jean makes a small squeaking sound, lunging over to press my hand back to the wheel.
“Please keep them at ten and two,” she chokes out, and I can’t help it. I howl with laughter.
