Page 47 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
Aspen stares at my mouth for a hot minute before his dark gaze lifts up to my eyes. Something strange passes between us, something that makes me absurdly uncomfortable. His hand ends up on the side of my neck, and I tense, my own hands coming up to snatch his wrist.
Instead of squeezing my throat like I figured he might, he leans in and whispers something to me in Japanese that I don’t understand but almost like anyway.
Told ya I was psycho.
My lips parts slightly as he considers kissing me, really and truly considers it as his lids droop and he gazes with carnal delight at the way I flick my tongue across my lower lip. His other hand settles on the deep curve of my waist before sliding up and cupping my left breast.
In the melee, one of the silver lids on the numerous glass jars—which are designed so that the top faces outward and is angled slightly up, for easier scooping—has fallen to the floor. As soon as Aspen is thoroughly entranced by my body, I reach my hand into the jar and grab a scoop of sweet-scented powder, tossing it into his face and making him howl.
“Tell Lemon to fuck off. Stop sleeping with her. And stop telling her lies.” I grab the cart and yank it away as Aspen curses at me, leaning back against the shelf and panting heavily. When he lifts his gaze up to mine again, the whites of his eyes are red, and there’s so much fury in that stare that I can feel it in my very bones—especially in that horrible spot on my right leg, where I shattered my tibia.
See, I told you I could sense incoming storms in my bones. This might not be a weather pattern, but it’s a tempest, nonetheless.
“I’ll be at the track on Friday,” he hisses at me, his words clipped with pain as tears roll unbidden down his cheeks. Hope I blinded the fucker. “You should make sure you’re on the pill because I hate condoms.”
He storms off, heading in the direction of the bathroom—likely to rinse out his eyes—and I head for the cash register. People are staring at me, but I can’t decide if it’s just my ratchet ass outfit or if they heard the commotion in the aisle.
Not that any of them would’ve intervened anyway; I don’t know what I was thinking. Sometimes, I imagine the whole world is as involved as I am.
I load my items up on the belt, wait for the clearly annoyed employee to ring them all up, and then feel myself scowling as Aspen reaches over my shoulder and taps his credit card to pay before I get a chance to dig out the cash from inside my back pocket.
“Consider that prepayment for the pussy I’m going to be enjoying this weekend,” he snaps, and then he’s out the door, and I’m left wanting to throw something. In the end, I head outside, twist the cap off the wine, and chug most of it before throwing the bottle against the market’s exterior wall.
I take off in the Devil before anyone can chew me out over it.
Alexei
Losing that cash the other night has left me in serious trouble.
I stalk down the hall toward my father’s office, not even bothering to knock before I swing around the corner and move into the room. He’s sitting at his desk, head in his hands, eyes closed. He seems stressed. He’s been stressed a lot lately, but it isn’t like we maintain an open dialogue about such things.
“Papa,” I say, licking my lips. They’re dry. They’re always dry. My hands, especially. I had to wash them a hundred times after the robbery before I felt clean. Not only that, but I soaked myself in scalding water until my skin was red and painful.
The Lamborghini is currently being deep-cleaned by our staff. As if I would dare drive it again after those dirty girls smeared their hands all the fuck over everything. Just thinking about the way the pink-masked one licked her fingers before touching the money …
I almost gag, closing my eyes and forcing myself to pull in a deep breath. I sweep both of my black gloved hands over my hair.
“Yes, Alexei?” my father asks, and he’s speaking Russian instead of English which never bodes well for either of us. “What do you need?”
“The party tonight,” I begin, thinking of the lavish affairs that I’ve been dragged to since before I can remember, my earliest memories of glittering gowns and carefully tailored suits, secrets and lies and machinations.
My lip curls and I resist the urge to retreat to my bedroom so that I can wash my mouth out. If I could, I’d wash my brain, too, scourge my memories with bleach, but that isn’t how life works, so I’m reduced to eliminating filth on a physical level.
