Page 65 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
People are swing dancing while smoke settles lazily in the air and then finds itself snatched up by the breeze created from the wild dance movements. It reeks of pot and tobacco and hard liquor in here.
I suspected that might be the case: whenever Bohnes hosts a party, the rich brats from across the bridge at Oak Valley Preparatory Academy try to sneak their way into our ratchet ass shit. In order to be allowed in our presence, they’re forced to pony up the good stuff.
Blow. Weed. Hard liquor from daddy’s liquor cabinet. That sort of thing.
Anyway, with the recent viral TikToks of swing dancers making their rounds across the internet, my fellow students look like the cast a low-budget indie film. The costumes might be cheap, but the dancing is top-notch.
I feel a grin spread across my lips as I move into the room and people get the fuck out of the way of my crew. We’re all here tonight: Nisha and Basti and Jennifer, our resident klepto Shirley, an amateur arsonist whose real name is Tuesday, hyperactive Juana and my best driver, Evelyn. Plus, you know, the three dozen or so other girls that make up the Crimson Crew.
There’s a checkered floor off to one side, the only spot in this place that isn’t blanketed with intricately woven hardwood floors. The original bar is still here, too, making me wonder even more what’s going on with this property.
Part of me wonders if I shouldn’t try to do something about it, but eh. Why the fuck would I? None of this is my problem, is it?
I mean, but it is my neighborhood, and … fuck me. I know before I even really dig into this that I’ll at least try. I’ll make an effort to see why the city of Springfield would allow a teardown of a beautiful old house like this one—complete with an historic speakeasy—and then allow rotting drug den shitholes to sit unperturbed for decades.
I gnaw at my lower lip as I make my way over to the bar.
Bohnes is already here, leaning against the wall behind the bar, eyes closed, a disturbing smile on his mouth. I don’t talk to him, and he doesn’t open his eyes, but somehow, I get the sense that he knows I’m here anyway.
I lean my elbows on the counter, catching the attention of one of the girls behind the bar. She’s one of mine, actually. I only allow my own people to make my drinks. I’m too nervous about roofies or whatever else might end up in my glass.
“Johnnie Walker Black, double, neat,” I say, tapping my fingers on the bar and then turning around with a huge grin. I’m getting expensive Scotch tonight, rather than the cheap ass fucking Pabst Blue Ribbon or White Claw shit that we usually drink out of cans.
Score.
My grin fades a little when I think about Lem, likely still walking back up the dirt road that leads to the closest suburban street. I’ve got two of my other girls watching her from the woods, but still. I feel like a royal asshole.
I felt less bad for breaking that guy’s jaw, or popping an Oak Valley girl’s right breast implant with a pencil (yeah, I did do that), but hurting Lemon?
The grin on my face disappears as quick as it came as Basti hops up onto the counter on my left side, Nisha on my right. I’m leaning back on my elbows now, watching the crowd. Jennifer is simpering around nearby, waiting for me to acknowledge her and offer some sort of praise or something to show that I’ve forgiven her.
I haven’t, not quite yet.
I decide to ignore her, taking my drink from my girl with a murmured, “thanks, honey,” and enjoying the way she simpers at me next. I give her a slow wink and a smile before turning back to the dancers and downing my glass in a single swallow.
“Jesus, Scar, are you planning to pass out tonight? Because I am not dragging your ass home.” Nisha crosses her arms to punctuate the statement.
“I’ll get Jennifer to take me. Right, Jenn?” I glance her way, noting the glass that’s raised halfway to her mouth. The cocktail is bright blue, probably an AMF—aka an adios, motherfucker. It’s a complicated drink to mix, but we’re Prescott kids. We can turn a bottle of Everclear, a rotten peach, and some sprite into something special. Think we couldn’t mix drinks with rich kid shit?
“Yes, Queen,” she says, setting her drink aside with a frown. I ignore her, tossing my glass back for a refill.
I can still feel Bohnes watching me as I grab my next drink without looking and down that, too, setting the glass aside and heading into the middle of the crowd to look for a dance partner. Like everyone else, I’ve been consuming those twenties-themed dance videos between classes.
