Page 76 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
I know how to live, while barely existing at all.
There is no Ash Kelly, just Aspen Kelly and his all-consuming hatred.
Scarlett
Despite losing to Bohnes last weekend, Widow doesn’t change his daily routine. He continues to park directly in front of me every day without fail, and he keeps coming to the library to sit in the corner and read.
On Monday, he started some eighties bodice ripper about pirates and then finished it up on Tuesday. Today, he’s got some flashy new release with a pretty dust jacket that he’s very careful not to crease, even though the donated book will undoubtedly be used and abused by his fellow Prescott hoodlums.
I pretend to ignore him. Sort of. I can’t resist the opportunity to tease him when a book I come across needs to be shelved directly above his head. I stretch my body over his, fully prepared to put my tits right in his face.
“Don’t touch me,” he grinds out, dropping his book to the floor and then putting his hot hands on my hips. The touch makes me moan in a totally inappropriate way, but then he’s shoving me and I’m stumbling back, and I’m just friggin’ pissed.
“What is your fucking problem?” I hiss at him in a whisper that won’t upset the librarians. They’re my girls. No sense in upsetting either of them, especially not when they let me come and go as I please.
“You,” Widow states, lifting his amber gaze to mine. “You are my problem. Stay the fuck away from me.”
I curl my lip at him, bending down to retrieve his book so that I can read the description and tease him even more about it, when he snatches it up and gets so close to my face that I wonder if he might not try to kiss me.
“Don’t touch my things either,” he growls out, his breath scented with mint, sharp and clean. I want to kiss him and see if he tastes like it, too, but I can’t do that.
Because Widow lost to Bohnes, and he isn’t allowed to fuck me.
But a kiss is different, right?
I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It’s like, I’m desperate to wash the taste of Aspen Kelly out of my mouth by kissing somebody else. After he left the party on Friday, Bohnes disappeared into the crowd, and I couldn’t find him again.
I ended up swing dancing with my girls and Basti for the rest of the night, passing out drunk in Jennifer’s arms, and waking up in my own bed with an insistent ache between my thighs.
Fucking disgusting.
I hate myself for even kissing Aspen, let alone having perverse fantasies about him. Swear to God, that man is the real-life equivalent of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Sometimes, when I see him, I hate him. Other times …
Anyway, Bohnes has hit me right where it hurts, targeting the one guy I might actually want and crossing him off my list of possibilities. Even though I lie to myself and pretend that I wasn’t interested in Adrian Lawless before Friday, I’m most certainly interested in him now.
I want him because I can’t have him.
Does that make me fucked-up? I think it does. I think I like to chase after men that I know I can’t or shouldn’t have. It’s safer that way, right? Because if I go in knowing that they’re damaged and broken and twisted, then I won’t let myself fall any further than sex.
“Don’t touch your things?” I query, standing up straight and putting my hands on my hips. “That isn’t your thing; it belongs to the library.”
“I donated it to the library so until I’m finished reading it, and I return it, it is, in fact, mine.” Widow gets to his feet, his six-foot-whatever frame easily rising above my own—even with the heels on. He wrinkles his nose at me. “I should’ve killed you for touching my car. I hurt people who touch what’s mine.”
That’s doublespeak if I’ve ever heard it.
My skin prickles and I release a breath.
“Are you coming to the track this weekend?” I ask instead, but he just shrugs his big shoulders, waiting for me to move. I don’t. So unless he wants to touch me again, he’s trapped against the chair and the bookshelves that meet in a ninety-degree angle behind it.
We’re tucked into a corner back here. There’s nowhere to go. Students used to come here to fuck, but the current librarians—though both septuagenarians—are too vicious and too astute to allow such horseplay to take place.
Unless … it were me. They don’t watch me the way they watch the other students.
Not that I plan on fucking Widow. The rules of the track are too sacred to me. That, and he already used up his only given grace for mistakes by crashing my race with Aspen. Although, now that I look back on it, I’m sort of grateful for it.
