Page 62 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
“Scarlett …” Basti starts, but then I whip a look his way, and he understands.
I’m not his friend, Scarlett Force, right now.
I’m the Scarlett who runs Prescott High like a tight ship.
“Let’s go,” I say, and even though Lemon continues to scream obscenities at me, we ignore her, climb in our cars, and head for the old speakeasy.
Widow
I pull up front of the halfway house where I live, parking the car and putting my forehead on the steering wheel. I grind my teeth together in frustration and then sit up, punching the dash several times, until my knuckles are scraped and bleeding.
I shove the driver’s side door open and climb out, pausing to examine the damage to my car. There’s a bit of curb rash on the rims, and some scratches on the finish, but nothing that I can’t buff out.
That motherfucker.
Every cell inside of me screams that I should go hunt Kellin Bohnes down and kill him.
At the same time, those same cells are begging me to find Scarlett Force, bend her over, take her from behind.
I kick the tire and slam the driver’s side door, panting heavily.
The only way I’m going to be able to revoke the rules of that race are to challenge Bohnes again.
That thought gives me pause.
Challenge Bohnes again?
Why the fuck would I do that? What do I care that I can’t fuck Scarlett Force? Who is she to me?
Nothing but a pain in my ass.
I stand there for a minute in the dark, listening to the murmur of the wind in the trees. The halfway house that I live in sucks, but at least I have my own room. That’s more than most of these places offer.
With a snort, I reach up and run my fingers through my hair, trying to find that inner calm I’ve held onto for so long. Certain things—like people touching my stuff—will trigger me, but everything else? I once stood by while blood spattered my face and watched a guy kill his cellmate.
In juvie. That’s just juvie around here. Imagine what the prison must be like.
I’ve promised myself that I won’t end up there.
I turn toward the steps that lead up to a wooden front porch and then pause when two guys come out of the shadows. Clearly, they’re looking for trouble. Cleary, I am not in the fucking mood.
“Nice car,” one of them says, but I’m not here to play games or posture with men twice my age. Instead, I move around to the trunk of my car and open it, selecting a wooden baseball bat from inside.
In my experience, wood is better because it acts as a sort of litmus test for how hard you’re beating somebody. Metal can make mistakes more easily, and I’m not about to kill some thugs and go to jail—for real this time.
I’ll be eighteen in just a few months; I can’t risk it.
I turn around to see that both men have approached me. I figure they’re both in their late thirties/early forties. I’m sure I seem like easy prey, seventeen and alone in the world with nothing to my name but this goddamn car.
“I’ll warn you both,” I tell them, sizing them up. “I’m in a mood tonight.”
“You’re in a mood?” one of them asks, and then he’s coming at me, and I’m cracking the baseball bat against the side of his head, sending his body slamming into the side of my ‘Vette. He crumples almost immediately, but the second guy is smarter than that.
He draws out a gun and levels it on me, but I don’t give a shit.
I swing the bat up, the wood connecting with his elbows as he lets out a howl and drops the weapon to the pavement. I hit him again, right in the stomach this time, and then I keep hitting him until he’s lying on the ground and groaning next to his buddy.
There’s some blood there; I can feel it hot and acrid on the side of my face, but the two men will live.
“Next time I tell you to leave me the fuck alone, listen.” I spit on them as I walk by, hefting the bat up to my shoulder—but not before wiping the blood off of it with my shirt—and then pounding my way up the steps.
My room is on the second floor which is fine, but I make sure to check for my parole officer before slipping up the staircase. If I get caught with a baseball bat, well, it isn’t a weapon. I could have feasibly gone out to play some sports, but it wouldn’t look good for me.
The floors creak, but I don’t hide my progress. I don’t have anything to hide, now do I?
Yanking my keys from my pocket, I unlock my bedroom door and slip in, slamming it shut behind me and then leaning the baseball bat in the corner. For a minute there, I just stand still and stare at the floor, at the mud on my boots, and then I grit my teeth and shove off the wall.
