Page 88 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
Aspen follows me, even though I wish he’d just fuck right off. Or … offer to suck me off again. If he gets on his knees and asks again the way he did, I’m not sure I’d be able to resist. And that mouth, what deity allowed such a horrible boy to be born with such a pretty, little mouth?
As I peer in at the colorful assortment of cakes, I realize that I’m still wearing my shades, lifting them up and perching them in my hair as I examine the assortment of baked goods. Fucking eighty bucks for one cake. Good thing I’m still flush from that fat-ass score I won the first day I met this cocksucker beside me.
Considering he can drop fifty grand like it’s nothing, I’m sure he doesn’t care much about the vase or the trust fund.
“Celebrating something?” he asks, and when I glance his way, he has absolutely zero emotion on his face. Just a blank slate. Empty. He shifts his dark eyes to mine, and I stare right back at him.
“If I were, would I tell ya?” I ask, and then I gesture the girl behind the counter over. “Give me that yellow cake with the pink flowers. Can you write something on it for me?”
“It’s an additional twenty dollars, is that okay?” she asks, almost sheepishly. I give her a look.
“Twenty bucks to write something with frosting? Shit, I just found me a new job. Alright, honey cakes, get on it then. I have places to go.” The girl blushes wildly as I smile at her. I have sway with girls. Can’t say why exactly. I think it’s because I’m that sort of ‘handsome’ pretty, like put me in a suit, tie my hair up, and drop a top hat on me, and girls get all swoony.
I enjoy it, too, teasing them and petting their hair and having them fawn all over me. I’m a safe crush, too, since I don’t have a dick. Everybody knows that’s both the reward at the end of the rainbow as well as patient zero for the plague: cock. One of those love-hate sort of relationships.
“You’re quite the heartbreaker, aren’t you?” Aspen asks, studying me as I sigh and turn to look at him. I’m about to tell him to get lost when my phone rings, and I glance down at it to see my girl Juana’s face and number splashed across my screen.
“Talk to me,” I say, balancing the phone between my ear and shoulder as I squat down and dig through the various small containers in the bottom portion of the bakery counter. I hate lemon cake, so I’ll just grab myself a single slice of—
“He shot her!” Juana is wailing, and I go completely cold. Goose bumps break out across my skin as I drop the cake slice and rise to my feet. “He fucking shot her, Scar! He shot her!”
“Calm the fuck down,” I growl out, and Juana goes completely silent but for a quiet, hiccupping sob and the sound of the other girls shouting in the background. “Who shot who?” I lower my voice so that my fellow bourgeois Market of Cost shoppers won’t hear me talking about gunshots in their quiet organic, fair-trade, ethically sourced sanctuary.
“Evelyn,” she sobs, sniffling. “The guy in the Cobra, he shot Evelyn. She’s dead, Scar. She’s lying here dead. He smashed right through our blockade and took off.”
I’m just standing there with my mouth hanging open, my blood chilled, my heart thundering wildly.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“I’ll be right there,” I say as cake lady moves tentatively up to the counter. I hang up my phone and turn, spotting Aspen and feeling that cold blood of mine turn white-hot. I grit my teeth. “Where is your Cobra right now?” I ask him, and he cocks his head slightly to one side.
“Pardon?”
“I said where the fuck is the Shelby Cobra.” I don’t bother to keep my voice lowered, not this time. I take the lives and welfare of my girls very seriously. The thought of Evelyn being dead … I can’t let myself process the emotions right now. Emotions are luxury items best keep for sleepless nights and long showers.
Right now, I have a crew to lead.
“Miss?” Cake Lady asks, and I whip a glare over at her that has her stumbling back like I’ve slapped her face. I turn back to Aspen only to find him with a dark frown carved into his pouty mouth.
“The Cobra …” he starts, and then he licks the corner of his mouth and affixes me with a disturbing stare. “What does it matter where it is?”
“Because somebody in a ‘63 Cobra just shot and killed one of my girls,” I hiss out, getting so close to him that I can smell that fresh-air-after-a-rainstorm scent of his. It’s strong enough to compete with the bright scents of sugar and chocolate wafting from the open-air bakery. “So, I’m going to ask you one more time: where is your Cobra?”
