Page 69 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
“I don’t belong to you, Bohnes,” I explain, and he shrugs. “If I want to fuck someone else, I’m going to do it.”
“Someone who isn’t Widow,” he corrects, and then he lets his head fall back with happy laughter. It’s a disturbing sight, the moonlight turning his white hair pewter, the blood smeared on his jaw and staining his t-shirt. “Anyone who isn’t Widow—for now.”
“For now?” I clarify as he turns away again, and I come down the stairs. “And that means what, exactly?”
“I’m happy to be your fuckboy until you admit that you want me,” he says, moving through the shadows like he was born to them. He was, I think. We all were, in one way or another. Growing up around here comes with special challenges that nobody but a true Prescott brat can understand. “You can screw whoever you want,” he continues, guiding me around the side of the house and then turning so suddenly that I almost take a step back.
Almost. Because I’m Scarlett Motherfucking Force, and I’m not scared of Kellin Bohnes—not even after watching him machete some bro’s fingers off. He snatches the whiskey from my hand and chugs it, his throat working as he swallows several shots worth in a single go.
Bohnes drops the bottle down from his mouth and looks me over as I raise a brow that I’m not sure he can even see in the dark.
“Somehow, I don’t believe you for shit,” I tell him, and he laughs again. The sound is decidedly unhinged. He lifts the bottle a second time, finishes it off, and then throws it against the sagging fence, shattering it.
The glass sparkles in the light from the last remaining streetlamp before Bohnes is grabbing me and slamming me into the side of the house. I can hear the music from the basement echoing faintly into the quiet night.
In this neighborhood, buried in shadows between the fence of an abandoned house and the side of one condemned and ready for demolition, I should be scared. This is where Prescott’s darkness truly bleeds out and taints everything it touches.
Thing is, I’ve allowed myself to become one of those things that haunts the shadows. That’s the choice around here: hunt or be hunted.
Bohnes and I, we’re both hunters, and I’m not scared.
Instead, I’m so turned-on that my nipples hurt. I can feel them straining against the fabric of my little black dress.
Bohnes wets his lips in a very crude, very lascivious sort of way.
“You don’t believe me?” he asks, blinking at me. His eyes are so pale that I can actually see them, even in the dark. “Why not? I have no reason to lie to you.” He laughs again and reaches down, yanking my dress down my tits and letting them spill out into his waiting hands.
I moan and bite my lower lip as he squeezes and kneads the tender flesh, paying special attention to the painful points of my nipples. Bohnes drops his mouth down and lets his hot, sharp tongue tease them just enough to get them wet, so that the cool air feels like torture.
“I’m not getting with you until you admit it,” he says, lifting his head up to look at me. His white hair shimmers orange under the flickering streetlight. Moths flutter around near it, searching for a poor urban substitute for the moon.
“Admit what?” I ask, and Bohnes grins, his teeth as orange as his hair in the strange light.
He pauses, and a disturbing frown comes over his mouth as he turns his head, watching as a car pulls up on the overgrown lawn to my left. New partygoer? I hardly care, but Bohnes seems to.
It’s a nice car, I’ll give you that. A ‘68 Ford Mustang Fastback in silver with black hood details. Worth maybe a hundred and twenty grand or so. Not nearly as bourgeois as the Cobra or the Miura we saw tonight, but holy hot damn, it’s a beautiful car. I can just imagine being laid across the hood of that beauty …
A figure climbs out and my blood chills. I can tell who it is, even in this light.
With a growl, Bohnes reaches out and wrenches my dress up to cover my tits. That’s when I really start to get worried. He’s possessive as hell, and he shouldn’t be. I explained this whole situation to him. Besides, the only time we’ve ever spent together is while we’re fucking or arranging business deals.
It’s not like we hang out. It’s not as if we talk. We’re virtual strangers.
I shove past him, making my way over to Aspen Kelly.
He’s dressed in a different outfit and driving a different car, but it’s undoubtedly him. Same feathered crow-black hair that teases his neck, same ebon eyes, same flat, angry mouth. He must’ve washed the makeup from his face because I can see the tiniest hint of the cut on his cheek.
