Page 37 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
I give her a look because she knows as well as I do that there isn’t a person at this school who is mentally stable—her, me, and Basti included.
“I’m not worried about him,” I say with a loose wave of my hand. But I am. That’s a lie. I’m more worried about Widow than I’ve been about any other student at this school in the three years that I’ve been here.
Not just because he managed to tail Jenn, get into the lumberyard, and leave without getting a single scratch on my car, but also because he left his fucking cum on the steering wheel and then had the audacity to park in my space yet again.
Not once since sophomore year has anyone tried to park in my space.
I chew on the inside of my cheek for a minute as Nisha looks me over and then shakes her head like she can’t be bothered with me.
“We working this week?” she asks, and I nod. I might’ve gotten a fat-ass check from Aspen Kelly, but that’s just enough to invest in my business. Extra cash always comes in handy.
“Yeah, we can work,” I say, looking up at the sky. Storm’s about to break. I can feel it in my right leg, in the spot where I shattered my tibia in the accident. I blink as a few cool drops spatter my face, and turn my attention back to Nisha. “Not today. Wednesday?”
“Wednesday works for me,” Basti says, pausing beside us in holey jeans and an armless tee. His eyes scan the students leaving the building as they trickle out. Within five minutes after the bell rings, the entirety of Prescott High is empty.
Nobody sticks around here after school.
Certainly nobody participates in after-school activities—as if there were any.
Mostly, this is a prison that collects the barest drizzle of tax dollars in order to put up a farce of offering equal education for all. I snort and shake my head, turning back to the Devil. If Aspen shows up this weekend, I’ll race him again, and I’ll do it in my own car.
He wasn’t wrong when he said I was falling behind: I was. He might actually have been able to beat me. Maybe.
I do my best not to think of what might’ve happened if Widow hadn’t crashed the track.
“I have to get home to watch Alexis,” I say, and my besties nod. They know all about my sister. Them, and Lemon. Nobody else. Nobody else needs to know. “Get here early and take my spot; you can move your car when I roll in.”
I don’t care which one of them does it, just so long as they do. I could have Widow’s car towed again. I really could have it impounded, even crushed. But I’m not sending myself to classic car hell to prove a point.
That … and part of me is curious what he might do, if he’ll try to retaliate in some other way. Does he have the balls to try?
A smirk lights my lips as I shake my head, heading down the steps and offering up a slight nod to Officer Balls-for-Brains before I slide into the driver’s seat, slip my shades on, and peel out to head for home.
There’s a blond woman on our neighbor’s front lawn. Her short-cropped hair reminds me of Lemon, but only because it’s ‘yellow’ and doesn’t fall past the girl’s shoulders. Really, she looks nothing like Lem. Her face is rounder, her lips thinner and pinker, her eyes, when they flick back to see me watching me, are a honeyed-brown instead of Lem’s bright blue.
I’m leaning my forearms on my steering wheel and frowning, idling in the driveway instead of pulling the rest of the way into the garage. When I see the woman raise a hand, I roll my eyes so hard that I almost make myself dizzy, hitting the gas and sending the Pantera jerking forward.
I slam the brakes on and shut the engine off, feeling my base animal urges flare when I notice that the woman with the blond bob is now standing on my driveway, waiting for me.
Great.
Just fucking great.
She better not be another one of those smooth-talking assholes who stops by every now and then to try to buy my grandmother’s half of the duplex out from under her. It’s been nonstop lately. Then again, this girl looks nothing like the slick, shiny business-types they’ve been sending by.
“Can I help you?” I ask, climbing out and pushing my shades into my hair.
“Hi, yes,” she says, her eyes shifting in the direction of the neighbor’s yard, as if there’s something there she’s interested in. She looks back at me, inhaling deeply and standing up straight, her denim jacket clinging to slim shoulders as she thrusts out a hand toward me. “My name is Emma Jean Thompson—”
