Page 6 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
Excellent.
You know how three in the morning (or midnight depending on your persuasion) is supposed to be the witching hour? Well, this is my witching hour, my time for mischief. As for Lemon … she clearly just got back from wherever the fuck she was this morning.
“I’ve got someone way better than Mr. Sheen,” she says, popping her head into the passenger side door and flashing a huge grin. She brushes her blond bangs back in a way that tells me she’s distinctly nervous about whatever news she has to share. “He’s like big-time, Scar. Huge.”
I pause as I take out a screwdriver from my kit, removing the screws from the top and bottom of the steering column. Next, I pry apart the plastic panels to expose the ignition cylinder. I could have tried jamming the screwdriver into the ignition and turning it, but that can seriously fuck up the car and we have pride in the way we commit grand theft auto over here in the Prescott neighborhood.
With my hands cloaked in rubber gloves, I grab the power wires out from beneath the steering wheel, cut them, and then use a wire stripper to peel back the protective rubber coating before I twist them together. The lights and the radio turn on, just a little bit o’ black magic. Next, I touch the starter wires together, firing that metallic purple beauty up, and then use some electrical tape to cover the ends so I don’t get shocked while driving. The Stingray rewards me with a rumble that vibrates my body in the most pleasant of ways. Not only that, but the sound of the engine is as dark and velvety as Widow’s voice.
I’ve always said that the right car, with the right modifications, is like an extension of yourself. It’s your wings in a world that despises those who try to fly.
“Big-time means bad news, Lem,” I respond absently, excited by the simplicity of our mission today. Shouldn’t be this easy to boost a car, eh? Then again, I owe a huge amount of credit for that ease to the reputation that I spent the majority of the last three years cultivating.
I own this school. Anybody see me out here? Of course not. Was Scarlett in the library where she was supposed to be? Abso-fucking-lutely.
“Follow me so you can drive me back,” I command, glancing over to see that Lem’s lips are pursed in annoyance. “Did you do a thorough check in the trunk and under the rear bumper?”
“You’re not my mother, Scarlett,” she snaps at me, slamming the passenger door before moving back to do another check under the rear bumper (which she likely forgot about until I mentioned it). She finds another GPS tracker and tosses it aside which just annoys the shit out of me.
I sigh and reach up to rub at my forehead. Everybody always thinks they want to be the leader, the boss, the queen, whatever, until they’re actually in my position. If you do it right, the weight of leadership is like a stone yoke around the neck, and the cargo you carry are the lives of the people that trust you.
And Lemon? She needs me more than any of the others. She’s also an ornery brat who gets herself into trouble far more often than the average Prescott bitch.
Whoever this new guy is, I’m sure he’ll be even more trouble than the last.
Out of all my friends, only Lemon—and sometimes Bastian—have trouble picking men. The rest of us are too aware that most guys in this neighborhood are worth one thing and one thing only: dick. They’re nothing but useless fuckboys.
Even Kellin Bohnes.
Lemon finally gives me a pair of thumbs-up, our easy signal for proceed as planned. I can see from the sour curl of her upper lip that she expected more excitement out of me, but what was I supposed to say? She’s seventeen; she doesn’t need to be sleeping with a thirty-year old married teacher. She also really doesn’t need any man who would fall under the title of ‘big-time’.
That only spells disaster—for both of us. I’m starting to get sick and tired of cleaning up messes she should know better than to make in the first place.
“Alright, baby, show me what you got,” I say, eyes glittering as I run my gloved palms down the sides of the steering wheel. I’m practically drooling as I press the clutch down and shift into first gear. The car glides forward like it’s barely of this world. “Oh fuck yeah.”
I hit the gas and punch the radio on at the same time.
Even as I’m easing the gas pedal down with my red heel, I’m tuning into the only radio station worth listening to in this dump: KMZI 66.6. They play everything from hip-hop to rock to pop, whatever they predict is going to be hot. They’re good at it, too. Swear to God the hosts predicted the last five hit songs before they ever even touched the charts.
