Page 5 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
“Yeah, well, I hate to get to school to find that some douchebag parked in my fucking space.” I throw my arm out to indicate the front entrance as my girls tense up behind me, ready for battle. If I throw down on this bitch, he’ll be sorry. Not only will I touch him, but my crew will kick his ass to the curb.
“Your space?” Widow queries, his voice this shadowy thing that causes my skin to pebble with goose bumps. He looks past me in the direction of the front doors. “I parked on the curb.” His gaze drops to mine again. “If there’s anything I know, it’s the law. That’s a public street. I’m fully in my rights to park there.”
Everyone in the hallway is staring at us now, waiting to see if we won’t get into some sort of confrontation. We might have, if I didn’t already have other plans.
I flash a feral grin at Widow, all teeth and sass and the promise of future violence.
“It’s my space. Ask anyone at Prescott who it belongs to.” I give Widow another dismissive once-over, ignoring my body’s reaction to him, and then turn my attention back to his stoic face. He isn’t angry, isn’t getting worked-up; he’s just matter-of-factly staring at me. “But that’s okay. You’re new. We all make mistakes.”
Widow just scoffs at me and shakes his head, murmuring something under his breath that I can’t quite hear.
“You want to repeat that for me?” I snap as he swipes his hand over his mouth for a second time.
“It’s a public street. If you want to park there, get to school earlier,” Widow breathes, and then the bell is ringing and he’s swinging around the doorway and into the classroom.
Even though it kills me to stand there and let him walk away, I do.
Because I’m going to jack this motherfucker’s car right out from under him.
Scarlett
Lemon—my petite five-foot-two bestie with a sour temper to match her nickname—shows up during fifth period with my kit in hand. That is, the kit I use to steal cars. Has everything I need to get the job done. Although from the looks of it, I won’t need much out of it for this heist.
“Sorry about this morning,” she says as I squat down beside the driver’s side door of Widow’s Stingray and slip a bobby pin out of my hair. Most students at Prescott know better than to leave their car without a steering wheel security lock, a boot, a hidden kill switch, a tracker, etc.
Not that I couldn’t steal those, too … but I don’t see any of those things on Widow’s car.
“Where the hell has this guy been living? Antarctica?” I grumble, grinning in satisfaction as the lock clicks open beneath my skillful fingers and I stand up, yanking the door open and sliding my ass into the driver’s seat.
I get wet just sitting in that car, I won’t lie. It even smells like that guy, Widow. He might be a total dick, but I’m not complaining. He doesn’t want me to touch him? Fine. He can fuck all the way off.
I run my hands under the dash, the seats, the back of the rearview, searching for a tracker. Lemon does the same after I pop the trunk for her.
“Are you even going to acknowledge that I said sorry?” she calls out as I grin in satisfaction, removing a GPS tracker from the center console and chucking it onto the street. It bounces and skids across the pavement as I continue looking. These things are cheap enough nowadays that even us serfs can afford more than one.
“Where were you?” I ask, digging through papers in the dash and pulling out the registration. The car is registered to a one Adrian Arden Lawless. I figure that’s Widow’s real name. I wonder how he got his nickname in the first place. “You better not be fucking that math teacher again.”
Satisfied that I’ve searched the front of the car thoroughly, I grab my kit from where Lemon left it leaning against the front tire. I need to hotwire this bitch and get out of here before the end of class. I noticed throughout the first half of the day that the asshole comes out to check on his car between every single period.
So here I am.
Fifth period is supposed to consist of me acting as the librarians’ bitch, but—despite my contrary nature—I’ve managed to charm both of the crochety old ladies on staff who are more used to being cursed at and threatened than treated with kindness.
I even baked them cookies last week and dropped them off first thing in the morning while they were still hot. I know how best to use my charms. Thus, I’m able to walk off during fifth period with a half-assed excuse, and yet nobody marks me absent.
