Page 56 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
He glances in Bohnes’ direction as he pauses by the girl who’s serving as our grand marshal of the night. That is, the person who’s in charge of arranging each race and recording the bets. Occasionally, people bring small gifts for the grand marshal, like travel-size bottles of vodka or hand-rolled joints. Not to curry favor or anything, just out of appreciation.
The way Bohnes is standing gives the three of us a very clear view of his ass in his tight leather pants. I should’ve grabbed it more when he was naked, really felt up those sculpted cheeks. Fuck. He better not lose this thing tonight.
On the other hand, my eyes shift to Widow’s huge form, bathed in dancing shadows from the bonfire as he signs the document on the grand marshal’s clipboard. Once all bets are paid, each page is burned, and no records are kept.
If there are any outstanding payments, the pages are filed in alphabetical order of the winner’s last name and kept in a file cabinet at the lumberyard where my car was stored. We used to pay a few hundred bucks a month to rent it out. That, and we allowed guys from the mill to race—even ones that were far too old to be playing with high school students.
Now, Jennifer’s practically engaged to one of the younger guys that works there—I think he graduated like two or three years ago—so we use the warehouse for a pittance. It was the perfect spot until recently.
Widow didn’t seem to have much of a problem getting in and out of there without incident. I don’t like that. Either it speaks to my incompetence, or it speaks to his competence. There’s something decidedly wrong here.
“Okay,” Basti declares, yanking me close for a hug. He squeezes me nice and tight, and I throw my arms around his neck, giving him a look with one, cocked brow. “I’d have given my permission. He’s not my type—I am not one to play bottom—but hey, you do you, girl.”
“Whoever said I was a bottom?” I snap back, pushing at my best friend’s chest as I glance back to see both Bohnes and Widow staring at me. They both look like they want to kill Bastian. They wouldn’t be so nervous if they knew how grossed-out he is by vaginas. I turn back to Basti and ignore them, running my palms up his chest and curling my fingers over his shoulders, just to tease them a little bit more.
Let those two assholes make bets regarding me. That’s their problem. If Bohnes screws this up, maybe I’ll just start sleeping with Widow? A fuckboy is a fuckboy is a fuckboy.
“I enjoy a good, hard fuck every now and again, but don’t make the mistake of thinking that puts me at the bottom of anything.”
Nisha nods in agreement and lifts up her beer.
“Okay, okay, Queen, calm your tits. We get it.” She pauses, a frown tracing her gold lips as the Shelby Cobra rolls into the lot, and I feel my heart drop to my stomach.
Aspen Kelly is back.
I haven’t mentioned our encounter at the market to anyone. I’m not sure that I want to. I’m not even sure that I understand what really happened between us. He almost kissed me? I almost let him kiss me?
“Do you think Lemon’s with him?” Nisha asks as Basti’s face drops. Out of us all, he was the closest to Lem. At least, recently. She and I used to be inseparable, but then she discovered men and I discovered power, and we started to drift in separate directions. If women could truly gain power over men with sex, it would’ve happened centuries ago. Her ‘feminine wiles’ are not going to save her from this hell we call Prescott.
I watch as another car—a motherfucking Lamborghini Miura—pulls into the lot behind the Cobra, my brows lifting up in surprise. My lips part in shock and my palms tingle. Here I thought the Cobra was big money; that ’69 Miura is worth almost two million.
Another car that’s worth a shitload of cash, and another newcomer to the track.
The two vehicles park side by side, and my teeth clench as I see Aspen Kelly’s long leg, encased in expensive black slacks, emerge from the Shelby. One leg, then the other, then the rest of him, tall and lean, diamond cufflinks shining, his feathered black hair falling around his face. It’s longer than most of the guys at Prescott would ever wear theirs, but it still isn’t long by any means, just enough so that it falls in razored perfection around his ears and against the collar of his shirt.
Out of the passenger side steps a girl that I almost don’t recognize. Her brassy hair is now a soft, unassuming natural blond, her makeup heavy but done in such a way that it’s clearly intended to look like she’s a walking, talking filter instead of a person. Her dress is worth at least a couple grand, her platform heels intended to skirt the mud without ruining that pretty, little pedicure.
