Page 3 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
I don’t really give a shit whose car this is. Since it’s clearly been souped-up to race, that means the owner knows our deal here at Prescott: we race on the old track every Friday and Saturday night. If they know that, then they must know the other golden rule of this school.
If you’re stupid enough to get your car stolen, then it doesn’t belong to you anymore.
Get over it.
Only way to get it back is to, well, steal it again.
“Where’s Lemon?” I ask, referring to our other best friend from fucking forever ago. Seeing as we all go way back, I have my guesses. “She isn’t banging that teacher again?” I continue with a sigh when Nisha and Basti exchange looks. “Goddamn it. Bring me my kit.”
“Sure thing, Queen,” Nisha says with a quick glance at Bastian. They both turn to me with accusatory gazes. “But … You’re not skipping class today, are you, Scar? Tidwell won’t like that.”
I wrinkle my nose; she’s right.
Officer Tidwell is the school’s truant officer. It’s her job to round our ratchet asses up and drag us to this pathetic excuse for a school. As much as I’d like to steal this car right now, I have to choose my battles.
“Fuck.” I grit my teeth, nostrils flaring as I close my eyes and take in a deep breath. I would love nothing more than to grab the baseball bat from my trunk and beat the shit out of this Corvette. But no, that’d be disrespectful. “Poor baby,” I murmur, stroking my hand over the roof and down to the hood. “None of this is your fault.” I pat the hood and then jerk my chin in the direction of my own car—a gorgeous metallic red coupe bisected by a bold black racing stripe and blue accents. “Park the Devil for me.”
“On it,” Nisha says, taking off to slide into the driver’s seat. Nisha, she’s like my second-in-command. Basti, he’s my mechanic. And Lemon? She’s a pain in my ass. Anyway, Nisha knows it’s an honor to be able to drive my car; I don’t let just anyone touch it.
I head up the front steps with Bastian on my left, numerous other girls stretching and standing up from their spots to join us. I wouldn’t call us a gang, per se, but you know, I’m the boss and people do what the fuck I tell them.
I sweep in the front doors, right past the metal detectors and the on-duty officer with his German shepherd. Let’s just say, our school has a bit of a reputation. After all, you don’t come to Prescott High because you want to be here. You come here because you have no other choice.
Doesn’t exactly breed tranquility and happiness, now does it?
I can feel the officer’s eyes on me as I pass by. He once decided he was going to ‘frisk’ one of my girls. I followed him home and set his house on fire. Nobody died, but he hasn’t touched any female at this school since.
Officer Pervert quietly slips me a pocketknife as soon as I’ve passed safely through the metal detectors.
“Did you hear that they finally finished construction on that stupid condo?” one of the girls behind me—Jennifer Atwell—says, whispering to one of the others. I ignore them both. Oftentimes, their gossip holds valuable information, but I’m not in the mood for it right now.
I want to know whose car that is that’s parked out front.
I get my answer much sooner than expected, pausing in the middle of the hallway abruptly enough that my girls nearly tumble into me.
There’s a guy standing outside the classroom just ahead and to my left. He’s got his head leaned back against the wall, eyes closed. Despite his seemingly relaxed stance, I immediately pick up on his hands, curled into fists at his sides. He’s squeezing so hard that the black-and-white tattoo on his right hand—that of a spiderweb—is distorted and twisted.
“Oh my God, it’s him,” Jennifer mutters, forgetting all about the ‘affordable housing project’ that she was discussing earlier.
“Who?” I snap, glancing over my shoulder and making her jump. Jennifer only looks skittish; I’ve seen her inner demons. Also, like I said, her gossip is top-notch.
“That’s Widow,” she whispers, her blue eyes flicking toward the guy before returning to me.
“Widow?” I query with no small amount of disdain. A laugh escapes me as I turn back around, surprised to see that his eyes are now open and he’s watching me. Clearly, he heard me mention his name. And what a name it is. We have some stupid-ass nicknames in this school, not gonna lie. I mean, my best friend’s name is Lemon for fuck’s sake. But Widow?
Our eyes meet and a dark shadow swoops over my soul. Oh. My lips part, and heat floods my core, nipples pebbling beneath my scoop-necked vintage top. Fuck. I was already appreciating the new guy’s strong form, the swoops and swells of his biceps and corded forearms, but his eyes … those goddamn eyes.
