Page 152 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
“They came to a private agreement, Scar. I don’t know the details, but what I do know is this: that fight was about you, this race is about you, and I think they damn near woulda killed each other if we hadn’t intervened in the fight.” Nisha pauses for a moment, like she’s considering her words carefully. “Is there something going on between you and Aspen Kelly? Don’t lie to me, Scarlett. I’ll know if you do.”
I purse my lips and then sigh. Fuck. I knew I shouldn't have agreed to keep that night a secret from my friends. I shouldn’t have agreed to it at all, to be frank.
“Not anymore,” I promise, and Nisha groans.
“Well, whatever it is that you’re up to, get your ass down here quick. I want you here when that race ends, just in case.”
“I’ll be there,” I promise, a raw, empty feeling in my gut. Not only did I kill a guy today, but now Aspen Kelly is back and fighting with one of my possible fuckboys over me? It makes no sense. He was so damn serious when he told me off last night. “Call me if anything else comes up.”
“Yes, Queen.”
She hangs up, and I gun it, heading to the country club, of all places, to meet Alexei Grove.
I can’t help but wonder if the rich assholes will even let me in the door.
I yank my shirt back on and then use some of the disposable wipes from my bag—I originally bought these to clean Bohnes’ cum up after our quickies—to scrub the dirt from my hands.
Can’t fix my fucked-up manicure but oh well. I’ll just have to pay Treasure another visit.
I park Bohnes’ Chevelle at the back of the lot, near the exit. It’s a Prescott thing.
And then I yank the rearview toward me and do my best to smooth the stray strands of hair around my face into some semblance of presentable. Eh, good enough. Even without perfect hair and makeup, I’m hotter than every other bitch in there. At least I know how to plan ahead: I packed deodorant, a red pencil skirt, and perfume.
A quick cleanse of the pits with the wipes, a dab of deodorant, and a spritz of the fragrance goes a long way. Right there in the front seat, I shimmy out of my jeans and yank the pencil skirt on, slipping a long-sleeved black crepe blouse with a big bow at the neckline over my bikini top.
I step out onto the pavement, tucking the shirt in so the high-waisted skirt sits at the curve of my waist, and then I toss my braid over my shoulder and strut for the front doors of the Oak Park Country Club like I was born to be here.
“Are you a guest or a member?” the man at the door asks, but I don’t get the chance to answer.
Alexei appears behind him and, after a quick glance from the employee, inclines his head. He gestures me in with a pair of white gloves on his hand. He’s wearing another suit, a black one this time, but it doesn’t look nearly as expensive as the one from last night.
“Miss Force,” he says, his green eyes sweeping my outfit with little recognition. No, there’s too much sadness in his gaze for him to appreciate how damn good I look. That scares me a little. What could’ve possibly happened between last night and now? It’s, what, seven-thirty?
“Sorry about being so late,” I say, but Alexei just shakes his head and gestures in the direction of the restaurant with his hand. Everyone here seems to know him, offering slight nods of the head, smiles, or a politely murmured “Mr. Grove”.
“Not a problem at all,” he tells me, his voice so supremely pleasant that I can’t help but squirm a little as I follow him to a table against a wall of windows. There are bright white lights outside, illuminating the rolling sea of green that denotes the golf course. Even at this hour, there are people out there hitting little white balls around and pretending to be important.
How nice for them.
Alexei pulls my chair out for me which is, like, way too cute, and takes a seat across from me. He appears … nervous. More than that, brooding. Pensive. Concerned. He crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back in his chair with one arm banded over his chest, the elbow of the other resting in his palm. He puts his chin in his other hand and looks across the table at me.
“Order anything you like—it’s on me,” he says, and I cock a brow.
“Please tell me you’re going to eat?” I ask as his sea glass green eyes sweep over the restaurant like he expects to be assaulted at any moment. Such a change from last night when, as grossed out as he was, he strutted around the art gallery like he owned it.
