Page 81 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
“She’s screwing some senior guy who’s repeated so many classes he must be pushing twenty by now.” Scarlett pushes at me even as I hold her tighter, and then offers up a look of warning. I hold on for just a beat longer, just to see how far I can push her before she starts to get angry, and then I release her, setting her down on the floor.
She points at the door.
“Out.” Just that. I obey, yanking my sweatpants up and not caring about all the juice on my dick and balls. I want to keep it there. Already, I’m missing that scalding heat of her pussy, the ridged muscles inside, the slickness, the tightness.
I want it back.
“You’ll be at the track tonight?” I ask, looking into the mirror as I wait for her. My eyes are ringed in dark shadow, making me look disturbed. It’s a favor, really, to the rest of society. Of course I’m disturbed, can’t they see it? It’s their fault anyway.
I hate the world and everyone in it. It’s best if they all know, so they can stay away from me.
“I’ll be there,” she confirms, and I smile with pale lips, waiting for her as she, unfortunately, cleans herself up. I hate the idea of her wasting my cum, draining it out of her into the toilet. It’s upsetting. I almost offer her up a tampon. I bought a pack of them and stuck some in my pocket to carry around with me, just in case.
I allow it this time, wanting to earn more of her goodwill, wanting her to know that I’ll be a good monster for her, a pretty monster, a fuckboy monster. Hers and hers alone. I’ll do whatever she wants me to do, just so long as I can have her.
And I don’t just mean sexually.
I want everything.
Her body. Her soul. Her bloody, beating heart.
She opens the door and moves over to the sink to wash her hands. When she glances my way, I can see that she isn’t entirely displeased with me, regardless of whatever she’s about to stay.
“We’re toxic together, you know that, right? We could never have a normal relationship with the way we both are.”
“I don’t care,” I reply, hands curled around the edges of the sink, still looking at her, watching her, loving the striations of color in her dark brown irises. “It doesn’t matter to me. Normal is filth. Normal is complacency. Normal is accepting that this hideous world is right, and you are wrong. I don’t accept that. Not at all.”
Scarlett thinks on that for a moment before nodding, unrolling the waistband of her scandalously short, little black pleated skirt, so that it covers her almost all the way down to the knees. Now that she’s done playing for the day, she takes away that tantalizing bit of flesh from the world, and I smile.
“You stalking me, it’s fucked-up. It’s disturbed, Bohnes. You are disturbed.”
Exactly the word I just used on myself. Disturbed. I smile bigger. Even that looks disgusting on my pale face, doesn’t it?
“Keep doing it,” she says, and then she leaves the bathroom and I sit there for a while, grinning at myself in the mirror and wondering when I should challenge her to a race—and whether or not I’d be able to win.
Scarlett
I end up not being able to hit the track on Friday or Saturday because Geneva, Anita, and my grandma all end up having to work. I stay home with Alexis, sitting on the couch and unwrapping piece after piece of Halloween candy (even though the holiday itself is still a ways away), while we watch a bunch of horror classics.
Alexis enjoys watching actors and actresses pretend to suffer onscreen. I think it distracts her from her own pain. I know it does the same for me, watching that horror happen to somebody else while I feel cozy and snug on our sofa, and we can pretend like we’re just two sisters who didn’t also have a younger brother and a pair of cousins of a similar age.
Car accidents suck.
I unwrap another piece of candy, checking my group chat with my crew to make sure nothing unusual occurs while I’m MIA. If I have to, I can rocket down there in minutes and take control of the situation.
But I trust Nisha and Basti to handle things for me.
I don’t text Bohnes to tell him why I can’t come because I blocked his number. I blocked his number even though I’ve been letting him fuck me raw and come inside of me over and over again. Why I blocked it, I hate to admit to myself. Because I like a challenge, because I want to see what he’ll do and how far he’ll go.
I tap my temple with a single nail, painted a shiny, brilliant red in honor of my name and least favorite color, and I stare at my phone screen in my lap, reading over the sea of incoming texts with an aching case of FOMO.
