Page 43 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
How did you get my number, Bohnes? I ask, wondering if I haven’t made a huge mistake by involving myself with that man. I can’t even say what started this affair. I barely paid him any notice before that night in the woods, but I guess in the dark like that, in the shadows, with the looming heat of adrenaline from my upcoming race, it was easy to be swept up in the natural chemistry between us.
One of your girls owed me money. She had few choices.
I read that and sigh heavily, reaching up to rub at the bridge of my nose, adding another line item to my already overwhelming list. I’ll have to figure out who it was and beat her ass. Giving out my number is a huge fucking no-go.
Do you know anything about Widow? I reply, but I know as soon as I hit send that I’ve made a mistake.
Wrong answer, Force. That’s what Bohnes sends back, making my blood go cold. If you needed to get off in the middle of the day, you should’ve come and found me.
I start to type up another response when the call from Basti comes in.
“Talk to me,” I say, putting him on speaker and tossing the phone onto the passenger seat. As if any Prescott brat has Bluetooth in their car. That’s funny as hell. We barely have phones. We only have cars because we know how to buy junkers for cheap, steal the right parts, and put the work in.
“There’s a black Lambo heading your way, but you gotta be quick. He’s clocking in at ninety, at least. Maybe more than that.”
I’m already pulling out of my space when I see a black bullet shoot past me, tearing down the back country road like he owns it. I hit the gas hard, more than up for the challenge of trying to tail this motherfucker.
It’s like another race except this time, there are no rules. It’s just me and this douchebag, and my girls for backup.
I manage to catch up to him fairly easily, sweeping up in the left lane as he stays hugging the right. It’s a tricky maneuver to whip my car in front of him, and brake-check the asshole—risky, too—but I make sure there’s enough room for him to stop.
He releases the gas but doesn’t hit the brakes the way these rich fuckers with more car than they can handle usually do. He controls the slide in a way that makes me wonder if he doesn’t at least have some experience on the track.
Nisha is right there behind him, another of our girls in the left lane. We usually (though not always) choose to do this at night for a reason, right?
Anyway, the asshole comes to the same conclusion they always do, pulling onto the gravel shoulder near the river where more of our girls are waiting. Out come the spike strips, and then the Lambo is rolling across them with the sound of popping tires, skidding dangerously close to the guardrail.
I park just in front of the Lamborghini, Nisha behind, our other girl blocking it in from the left. The Lambo ends up pressed to the guardrail with nowhere to go. Not that it could drive properly anyway, with four flat tires.
I’m out and at the driver’s side window, wearing a black balaclava and holding a Glock 19 in my hand. It’s my grandmother’s actually. I’ve been stealing it from her nightstand drawer since I was sixteen years old.
She’d be horrified to know about any of this. She taught me better. But you can only protect someone from the world they live in for so long. I’m a part of Prescott; it’s in my blood. It’s the monster that made me, and I’m unashamed of what I’ve become.
The world is cruel, that much is obvious.
I may as well be the crueler of the two.
The driver’s side window comes down—it doesn’t often roll down that easily, usually more threats are involved—as I allow a pretty grin to stretch across my lips beneath the mask. Nisha has the cell phone blocker in her car, preventing our target from making any phone calls to the police, to his bodyguard, to whoever the fuck.
Did you know you can buy a handheld cell phone jammer for about two hundred bucks? Oh yeah. Technically, they’re illegal in most areas, but we’re about to rob this guy, so it’s not like that matters. Anyway, the one Nisha is holding has about a thirty-foot range. Not much, but enough to keep this private.
Meanwhile, my other girls are watching the police scanner.
Even with all of these precautions in place, it’s important to get this over and done with as quickly as possible.
The darkened window finishes rolling down, and then I’m staring into the eyes of a guy about my age. I always prefer them a little older. It’s like, some of that cocky wears off a bit with age, and the rich assholes in these cars know better than to play games with us.
