Page 54 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
“It’s scheduled to be demolished. Figured we may as well use it while it’s still standing.”
“Demolished?!” I blurt as I yank my skirt down and look around for my underwear, remembering too late that Bohnes has them stuffed in his back pocket. I frown and hold out my hand. “Also, panties. Those are worth fifty bucks, and they were incredibly hard to steal.”
He looks at me with a stoic expression and then just gives a small shake of his head.
“Those are mine now; I earned them.” He reaches out to run his knuckles along the side of my jaw, and I narrow my eyes back at him. “They’re my good luck charm for the race tonight. Isn’t that right, Widow?” Bohnes lifts his head up to look behind us, and my eyes widen as I turn in time to see Widow move out from behind the trunk of a large tree.
This time, his dick isn’t out.
He glares at the pair of us like we’re the crazy ones.
“Were you watching us again?” I demand, but Bohnes is already chuckling beside me.
“Nah.” He lifts his head up and his expression completely snaps, like every ounce of sex-sated pleasure and dark mirth is wiped away, and he’s one scary motherfucker. There’s a coldness to his expression that I’ve never seen before. My eyes widen, and then my gaze darts over to the spot where I dropped my clutch—the one that has my grandmother’s Glock 19 inside of it.
I look back at Bohnes as Widow makes his way closer to me, pausing a good twenty feet back, as if he knows better than to cross that imaginary threshold.
“Because I warned him last time, didn’t I, Widow?” Bohnes jeers, turning away with a scoff and a scowl. He yanks his shirt off the ground. I guess I just assumed he’d come here shirtless, but apparently, that was all for me. “Watch us without permission again, and I’ll fucking kill you.”
He slips the shirt on as I spot the red panties hanging out of his back pocket. I reach for them and his hand clamps down on my wrist hard, fingers squeezing. Our eyes meet.
“If I win, let me keep the panties. If I lose, you can have them back.”
I feel a frown trace my lips. Bohnes and I are fairly evenly matched. It hits me then that this is exactly why I picked him. It’s also starting to piss me off royally.
I yank my arm from his grip and steal the underwear back anyway. Bohnes sneers at me as I drag them over my heels and up my legs, ignoring the warm fluid between my thighs.
“If you win, you can have them. Who are you racing?” I ask as Bohnes turns his head to look at Widow again. For his part, Widow’s expression is entirely blank. His amber eyes reveal nothing, his mouth in a thin, flat line, arms crossed over his chest.
If he wasn’t tenting his pants, then I might think he was entirely unaffected by the situation.
“You and me, Widow,” Bohnes says, inclining his head in a disturbingly gentle and noble way. It’s entirely bullshit. He’s strung tight and ready for blood. It stains the white shirt he’s wearing, all those claw marks that I left in his skin. “You must be thirsty to redeem yourself after last weekend’s utter embarrassment. Not only did you lose your ride on day one, but you interrupted the first race in Prescott history that Scarlett Force might’ve actually lost.”
I bristle at that. In the moment, I was concerned. Now that it’s over, I’ve convinced myself I would’ve found a way to kick Aspen’s ass. It’s not entirely false bravado either. I’ve analyzed my performance, and I’m sure I could’ve done better—even in Widow’s car.
“If I win, you stop fucking her for the rest of the school year,” Widow says, shrugging his huge shoulders as my eyes go wide. Bohnes goes so still that I actually wonder if I won’t have to grab my Glock and put him down.
Instead, he throws his head back with wild laughter, raking his fingers through his white hair and grabbing a handful of it. He yanks on it for a moment, his ice-blue eyes sliding over to mine. His pupils are dilated, his lips swollen from kissing me. I’ve absolutely wrecked him; there’s so much blood staining his shirt that I’m almost ashamed of myself.
Almost.
Shame isn’t an emotion that I understand very well.
“Take it or leave it,” Widow snaps, getting angrier by the second. Over what, and why, I’m not sure. “We could race or not. I don’t particularly care much either way.”
“You came to Prescott with a souped-up ‘69 Stingray with no intentions of hitting the track?” Bohnes asks, cocking his head as he drops his arm by his side. “I call bullshit, my friend.”
