Page 20 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
With a growl, I reach out and slam my palm into the radio, turning on 66.6 again.
It’s Halloweenie by Ashnikko.
Okay, yeah, I’ve got this.
We keep a strict time schedule on the track, so when the minute finally ticks over, the starter waves the green flag and off we go.
Just as I expected, Aspen is too gung-ho, too inexperienced. He hits the throttle so hard that he actually starts off by spinning out, his wheels turning too fast on the muddy garbage we call a track down here.
It’s not professional by any means. Time of day, humidity, recent rains, all of those things affect our track in a dramatic way. It’s the first thing outsiders figure out: we know this backwoods nightmare better than they ever will.
Most important lesson a person can ever take to heart—they should pay us for the right to learn it—never underestimate your enemy.
I figured Aspen was going to blast past me on the straights and park in the corners, but he’s already stuck in the mud.
“Fuckwad,” I murmur, picking up speed slowly as I allow the leather seat to cup my ass, ignoring the slight soreness as I ease myself into the cushions. I forcibly relax, letting the car speak to me. Maybe I’ve never raced Widow’s car before, but so what?
I’m Scarlett Motherfucking Force. If I can ride it, I can win it. I’ll race anything with two or four wheels. Don’t care.
The thrill is what really gets me, digs its claws into my soul and makes me want in a way that I can’t explain. It’s hotter than sex; it’s better than money; it’s everything.
I’m letting the adrenaline take over me as I pick up speed, the world rushing by in a blur. I don’t care about any of it. It’s just me in here, with a little Princess Nokia and Yung Baby Tate playing. “Boys Are from Mars” is blasting as I flick my eyes up just in time to see Aspen coming up quickly behind me.
He nearly knocks me off the track as he zooms past, spattering the front windshield of the Stingray with mud. I curse under my breath, flicking the windshield wipers as I use my memory of the track to keep myself where I need to be.
Aspen ends up sliding badly on the last curve of the track, and I’m able to pass him again. We’ve got twenty laps of this shit, so I’m assuming at some point, he’ll get the hang of it. In case he does, I pick up speed on the straights, more than I normally would—especially with an unfamiliar car.
But I need this or it’s game over.
Just like I thought: he’s your typical asshole, the sort with too much attitude who never checks his mirrors, who hires a mechanic to do all the work for him while he relaxes poolside with a piña fucking colada.
No way would I ever lose to someone like that.
Much to my surprise—and horror—Aspen catches up for a second time, taking the curves of the track like he was born here. Fuck. He manages to pass me on a curve, forcing me to the outside of the track, my wheels slipping in the thicker, more clay-like mud.
I get myself back on track fairly easily, but his car is faster, and if I were in my Pantera …
Oh God. Have I finally let my arrogance walk me right off a cliff? It’d figure right, that tonight of all nights, when winning could change my life and losing would destroy me, I’m going to lose.
No.
Fuck. That. Shit.
I press the gas to the floor, hugging the inside of the track so that when I make my turns, and I slide through the mud, I end up on the outside in the thicker mud. I use that as a launching point to blast down the straights.
Since Aspen doesn’t check his mirrors, he doesn’t see me coming, narrowly missing me as I move past him. He overcorrects and ends up spinning a complete three-sixty. He recovers surprisingly quickly, but I’m past the point of underestimating him again—even if he is a rich douche.
He’s far, far better than the usual Oak Valley Prep kids who find their way down here.
I hit the finish line, and the starter waves the black and white checkered flag. I slam the brakes in just such a way that Widow’s car makes a pretty one-eighty, sliding through the mud to face Aspen as he blasts over the finish line and hits his brakes so hard that he sprays the Stingray with mud.
Not that it matters. It was covered in mud anyway.
I climb out—heeled boots and all—and I don’t give a shit about the mud. I cross my arms over my chest as Aspen shoves his door open. His expression is quiet fury as he steps out, breathing hard as I make my way over to him.
