Page 24 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
Dad has been carefully cultivating his needs in the city of Springfield, hasn’t he?
“Have a seat,” he tells me, patting the spot beside him. I deign to accept the invitation but for one reason and one reason only.
I want to know about that old racetrack.
After all, I was there tonight.
I saw it.
I saw her.
My cock gets hard just thinking about her, so I cross my legs to stifle the reaction.
“I was curious if you had plans for the track in Prescott?” I inquire as politely as I can. It’s difficult to keep the sheer disgust and hatred out of my voice, but I’ve been working on this act for years. If my own father can’t tell what I’m up to, who else ever would?
“The track?” he asks, his face flushed with drink. I just study him with complete and total disinterest. “What about the track?”
I grit my teeth, nostrils flaring as I struggle to fight back a fresh surge of anger.
What right does this man have to be here getting drunk? He has a million better things that he should be doing. Not that he cares about any of that, really. So long as the end justifies the means.
I mutter a scathing insult under my breath in Japanese, but dear old Mayor Kelly has already moved on and doesn’t hear me. He turns back to the man on his right, letting out this guffawing laugh that infuriates me to no end. I’ve only been in this horrible place for a matter of minutes, and I can already feel myself starting to suffocate.
My eyes drift over to the dance floor, to the throbbing pulse of the crowd. There are a lot of pretty girls down there. I could take one home, fuck her hard, pretend that her name is Scarlett Force.
But no.
How boring.
I turn back to my father. He wasn’t this bad before my mother died, that much I know for sure. She kept him grounded. She kept his greed in check, his monster leashed. Whatever this thing is that he’s become, it’s bled into me. It’s bled into my brother even more so. Not that he wasn’t cruel before, but he hid it better; he pretended more often.
A strange tingle rushes down my spine, and I turn my head sharply, catching sight of the asshole in question as he makes his way through the crowd. His eyes find mine, and I know without a shadow of a doubt that I am about to find myself in a world of hurt.
I shove up to my feet and take off before he can get to me. If I can make it out of here before he finds me, he’ll get drunk and maybe he’ll forget all about this.
Either way, we’re not eight years old anymore.
I’m not going to let him do the things he’s gotten away with in the past.
I slip out the back door that leads to a private alley. There are always a few bodyguards back here, just to make sure that anybody who needs to get out of the club without being seen has a means of doing that.
I ignore both men waiting beside the door and head back to my car.
My father’s new estate is only about fifteen minutes away from the downtown area, but it may as well be in the country for all the space it has. Fifteen minutes.
But much, much less if I’m driving.
The valet is already waiting for me; I’ve paid him to make sure he knows that I’ll never be staying long. He hands me my keys, and I climb into the driver’s seat.
I start the engine and lay on the gas, peeling out of my parking space and down the road with the stench of rubber in my wake.
Scarlett
That night, I get home, deal with the mess that Bohnes left, and then climb into bed. I’m out in an instant. Never did have trouble falling asleep. My demons don’t prowl in nightmares and twilight; I see them during the day, bright as the sun.
In the morning, I head downstairs to find my mom, my Aunt Anita, and my grandmother sitting at the small dining table in the backyard. It’s a shitty backyard, by anyone’s standards. It’s small, maybe ten by twenty, with a retaining wall, a sharp incline, and a huge stone wall that blocks off at least some of the grit and noise of the nearby highway.
My grandmother, however, has transformed the tiny space into a small oasis.
I slump down into the chair beside her, studying the humble but not unimpressive spread of food. A bowl of grapes, a stack of toast, some of my grandmother’s homemade jam, a plate of bacon covered with paper towels. Things used to be so much harder around here before my grandma moved in with us.
