Page 41 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
I move forward and, as his gold eyes flick up to mine, reach out and run a single fingertip along one of his side mirrors. In an instant, he’s on his feet and the guitar is tossed aside.
I’ve got just enough time to move back and out of his range, several of my girls popping their heads up from their phones as they lounge on Prescott’s front steps.
Widow is seething, his hands squeezed into fists, his eyes on mine as he struggles to control his breath.
“Do you have a death wish?” he asks me, and I laugh.
“Do you really think I’m afraid of you?” I ask, peering at him like I’m genuinely curious. He doesn’t need to know that I am, that I’d love to know why, as aloof as he appears to be, why he’d continue to egg me on. It’d be easier for him if he just stepped aside and parked somewhere else. He doesn’t seem to want trouble. He ignores the boys that throw paper clips at him in the hallway, or the girls who chuck erasers or rolls of paper at the back of his head.
So why not avoid me and my crew? Hmm?
“You should be,” Widow says, and I try to think of him as ‘Adrian Lawless’. It’s a nice name, much kinder than Widow. Although to be fair, the nickname suits him better. Descriptive, too. It lets the whole world know his sins in two simple syllables. “If you didn’t have a crew, you would be.”
“Would I?” I query back, shaking my head. “I don’t think so.” I nod my head in the direction of the boot—basically a large metal casing on a wheel that keeps a vehicle from being driven—on the right rear wheel of his Stingray. “But I see that you are. You’ve finally learned your lesson, eh?”
I don’t tell him that I can get a boot off as quickly as anything else; he doesn’t need to know that. Or maybe he already does?
“It’s important to learn the ins and outs of one’s enemy,” he says, reaching back for his guitar, his eyes flicking immediately back to me. His purple, teal, and black hair catches the weak sunlight streaming through the clouds, the color reminding me of peacock feathers. “And make no mistake, Scarlett Force: I consider you one.”
I shiver at the sound of my full name rolling past his pouty lower lip.
The bell rings and we both turn to look up at the building before returning our gazes to one another. Widow waits for me to smile and raise my brows at him before I turn and head up the steps, collecting my girls as I go.
But I can feel him as he ascends the steps behind me, an impossible presence to ignore.
During fifth period, Widow comes to the library again, curling up with a book and ignoring me as he usually does. What I’ve started to notice over the last week and a half is that he has a certain type of story that he prefers: romance novels.
He actually reads fucking bodice rippers, erotica, even alien romance. Our school has it all—we take whatever gets donated and on the shelves it goes. Besides that, the librarians that work there take a quiet but very firm stance on censorship.
“Who cares what these hoodlums are reading, so long as they’re reading?”
I’ve heard that many a time, and I can’t say that I disagree. Reading books about people fucking or falling in love is one of the less terrible things a Prescott student might be doing. I shelve several books in view of Widow, taking advantage of the short skirt I wore today and letting it ride up my thighs to show a tantalizing tease of my silky black panties.
Whenever I think I feel him watching me, I look back, only to find myself disappointed. Either he’s anticipating my glances and reverting back to reading or else I’m imagining the entire scenario altogether.
Once I’m certain that he’s satisfied with my presence in the library, I slip out and go down the steps, hooking a sharp left around the building and using the hole in the chain-link fence to crawl out. It’s been here for years—and likely will continue to be here for years to come—and is usually hidden by a dumpster.
Any student worth their weight in salt at Prescott High knows it’s there.
I slip through and make my way around to the front of school—and straight to Widow’s car. Despite the boot, and the steering wheel lock, despite the GPS trackers that he’s undoubtedly replaced, and whatever other security he’s added, I’m still able to pick the lock and open the door.
I slide into the driver’s seat, shifting my eyes around the empty streets. There’s nobody out here, but I likely don’t have a lot of time. If Widow catches me in his car like this … I ignore the small spike of adrenaline in my blood, teasing my fingertips across the wetness of my panties.
