Page 70 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
“You’re driving a Fastback when you have a Cobra?” I ask dryly, and he drops his dark gaze down to mine, making me shiver. I have a feeling that he’s as nuts as Bohnes—he just hides it better. “Whatever.” I gesture at the car as Bohnes moves up to stand beside me in his bloody t-shirt. “The Mustang is still a nice car; I’ll give you that.”
Aspen looks over at Bohnes, studying the bloodstains with a curious tilt of his head.
“Is it Halloween already?” he asks absently, but it’s a moot point. It’s always Halloween in Prescott. Bohnes says nothing which isn’t a good sign. Not at all. Aspen turns back to me and then says something in Japanese that I don’t understand.
And if I don’t understand it, I’m going to take it as an insult.
“You left your girlfriend to walk into town,” I remind him as Ash turns his head to look at the house, a slight frown creasing his mouth. “How twisted are you?”
“How twisted are you?” Aspen retorts as I study his black cashmere sweater, gray slacks and classic red high-tops. He looks money, that’s for sure, but it’s a decidedly different look than the suit he was wearing earlier.
I find it odd that he went home to change and switch cars before coming over here. Even his cologne has been washed off and reapplied, from that overwhelming black pepper stench to a light, airy floral kiss.
“Me?” I query back. “I’m not dating the girl. You are. And you just left her there to suffer in the mud under my shoes. What sort of man would just stand by and watch his girl get her ass kicked? You’re even worse than I expected.”
“Only a monster, surely,” Aspen replies, his voice slightly more accented than it was before. I swear, he had no accent at all earlier tonight, and now I hear the vaguest hint of one in his words. Not a Japanese accent however, but a British one which I find even weirder. I thought I’d noticed it the night Widow crashed our race, too. But not today, not until now. “She’s resting safely in that hovel she calls home. So you needn’t worry.”
I curl my lip at him. I know where Lemon is because I had my girls watch to make sure she got home okay. But I’m still furious at him. He left her there and now he’s here, at a Prescott party?
“Rich boys don’t get in without the right sort of gifts,” Bohnes breathes from behind me, and then he holds out his palm, the very same one with which he offered up the jock’s fingers. There’s still the faintest edge of dried brown on his skin. “What did you bring me, rich boy?”
Aspen moves back and opens the passenger door of his car, withdrawing an eight-ball of cocaine and tossing it over to Bohnes. My fuckboy catches it easily, examining the drugs in his hand before nodding.
“Access granted,” Bohnes purrs out, sending shivers down my spine.
Aspen returns his attention to me, and I feel myself flushing all over and hating myself for it. He is undoubtedly a million times worse than someone like Bohnes or even Widow could ever be. That, and not only is he fucking my friend, but he’s stringing her along, wrapping her in his rich boy web and strapping her to the chrome of his bumper.
By the time she realizes it, she’ll be cracked and broken in new and dangerous ways.
“What can I give you to back off my friend?” I ask him, and this time, he smiles, and it’s absolutely terrifying. Or it would be if I were anyone but Scarlett Force.
“I’m sorry to say, but there’s absolutely nothing you could offer that I could, in good conscience, accept.” He studies me again, and then his eyes flick to Bohnes. He absorbs the man’s presence in such a way that I can tell he knows how big of a threat he is—machete or no. “Not even yourself. My father has plans for sweet little Lucy Hall.”
That surprises me. Lemon never tells guys her real name. Never. She says a name holds power, and it’s just better if they know her by her nickname. That way, there’s always some small part of her that they can never have.
This isn’t good.
“She tell you that or did you have your daddy’s goons sleuth it?” I ask, and Aspen grins wildly at me.
“It was offered freely and without coercion,” he says, looking over at Bohnes yet again, like he isn’t sure if the man is about to kill him or not. It’s a valid concern. I can feel the quiet simmer of Bohnes’ instability behind me. It’s comforting, in an odd sort of way. “While she was stretched out on the bed, moaning and crying. I love you, Aspen,” he mimics with a desperate sigh, one that’s very clearly satire. “Oh, Aspen, Aspen, Aspen.”
