Page 15 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
“I saw you guys last weekend,” Lem whispers accusatorily at me. “You gave your virginity up for him of all people? Aren’t you always telling me that Prescott boys are trash? Bohnes is the worst of them all. He’s a mercenary who worships cash over morality. That’s the kind of guy you wanted to give it up to?” She scoffs at me as I stand there in silence, feeling like a total asshole.
This is what happens when you don’t tell your friends the truth.
I deserve to have egg on my face.
“But sure, tell me how you’d never deign to sleep with someone like Aspen Kelly. At least he has money. At least his family has connections and prestige. What does Kellin Bohnes have? A one-way ticket to hardcore prison time.” She turns away and storms off, and I let her go.
I have a terrible temper—even with my friends. I have yet to learn how to control it, so I practice avoidance instead.
“Fuck,” I curse, resisting the urge to kick the black rim of Widow’s ‘Vette.
“You … screwed Kellin Bohnes?” Basti asks, peering up at me from dark brown eyes like I’ve betrayed him in the worst possible way. “We talked about this, Scar.”
“I know,” I groan, running both of my hands down my face and wishing I was already on the track. I’m ready to hit the throttle and grind Aspen’s stuck-up nose into the mud. If I don’t, I’m going to end up in another fight. Last week, some douchebag motherfucker would not let up on me despite several very clear warnings.
I beat his ass so hard that his friends had to load him into the backseat of their ’65 Ford Fairlane and take him straight to hospital. I broke his goddamn jaw; it’s currently wired shut.
Thankfully, we practice the rule of snitches get stitches here at Prescott High. Nobody will say anything. Mostly, they know now to leave me the fuck alone. I don’t say things that I don’t mean. A muttered, “Back off before I break your face,” is more than just conjecture with me.
Basti stands up, clearly frustrated as fuck with me, and rightfully so.
“You and I both agreed that we would call each other and talk about it before it ever happened. You were my cherry buddy. Who’s supposed to be my buddy now?” He throws his hands up in frustration. “You know what? You watch Widow’s car. I need to take a walk.”
He storms off, his white cowboy boots splattering mud everywhere as he heads in the same direction that Lemon just disappeared. He’ll go after her, and they’ll comfort each other. That’s how it always goes.
“This is a bad idea,” Nisha warns me, pausing just behind me as I turn to glance her way. “This guy is arrogant, cocky, and inexperienced. You could get hurt out there, Scar. You could die.”
I shake my head at her, knowing that Lem and Basti will keep my secret and let me tell Nisha on my own time. Lord knows they don’t want to be the ones to break the news.
“I’ll be fine. I just … need to decompress before the race. Watch the car for me?” I snap my fingers in the direction of the Corvette and Nisha nods, slowly, almost reluctantly.
“Where are you going?” she asks, but I just slide a pack of clove cigarettes from my pocket in explanation. She sighs and gestures in the direction of the trees. “Go have your moment,” she tells me, because I always do this.
I’ve done this since I was sixteen, taken a quiet moment for myself before every race.
There’s one thing though that I’ve never done before: and that’s Bohnes.
Well, I mean, I’ve done him six times so far, but you get my meaning.
I take off for the shadows of the trees, my heart in my throat, and my body flushing with an impossible heat. Why the hell does it feel so good to do something so wrong?
Scarlett
This is life in South Prescott: we steal cars, and we race cars, and we fuck people, and oh … except for me. I don’t fuck people except for Kellin Bohnes. Nibbling on my lower lip makes my mouth taste like the sheer cherry lip gloss I just applied, and then I remember that I fucking hate having chapped lips and force myself to stop.
“What’s the matter?” he whispers from behind me, like I’ve summoned a ghost whose cold hands are sliding up and under my shirt. I shiver as I adjust to the temperature difference, arching my back a bit so that I press into him. As usual, we don’t talk. Much. “Afraid I wouldn’t show up?”
Bohnes pushes me forward, so that my hands are braced against the trunk of a tree. He continues his careful exploration of my body, this reverence to his touch that doesn’t translate to anything else. We never hang out. We never text. We don’t even race. He won’t accept any challenge from me, and I hate that.
