Page 10 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
It makes me steal cars and get crushed on by psychos.
Because, undoubtedly, both Widow and Bohnes are psychotic.
Thankfully, so am I.
“If I ask around and find out that you’re feeding me bullshit …” Widow starts in that low, angsty baritone of his. But I don’t care what he has to say. I’m not even listening anymore. Instead, I’m dropping to my knees and snatching my fallen knife, pushing up to my feet and throwing myself into Widow before he can react.
The point of my blade comes to rest directly over his belly button, pushing into him until I know he can feel the prick of the tip.
I look up and our eyes meet again.
There’s a clash of thunder there, the bright hungry burst of lightning.
“It’s not bullshit. Ask around. Then get your damn car back if you can. Next time, don’t park in my space.” I pull my own blade back, sliding it into my back pocket and taking off before Widow can think up a reply.
Scarlett
I manage to hold onto Widow’s car for the rest of the week. Pretty sure he tried to boost mine, but I have eyes all over Prescott High. One of the girls told one of my girls who told me. By the time I got outside, Widow was nowhere to be seen.
Not that he could’ve stolen my car anyway. I keep a boot on it. That, and several trackers, a kill switch, and a steering wheel security lock. Takes a while to put all that shit on and take it off again at the end of the day, but that isn’t my job. I have girls who do that for me in exchange for protection on campus.
“Thank fuck it’s Friday,” I comment as my girls—including Basti—and I head out front and down the steps. Friday is racing day at the old track. It hasn’t been in ‘proper use’ since the fifties, but we put it to plenty of improper use.
We have our own league here at Prescott High. It has no name. It has few rules. There are no trophies, no prize money, but there sure as shit are rewards. We play in bets and favors here at Prescott. Sex or violence, favors or stolen goods, quality intel or fake IDs, it’s all up for grabs at the racetrack.
“What are we doing tonight?” I ask, snacking on a chocolate bar with the paper rolled down to the base. I stroke it with my tongue in a completely inappropriate manner as Bohnes walks by, pounding down the steps and disappearing down the sidewalk with the hood of his skeleton hoodie thrown up over his shock-white hair.
He doesn’t even look at me.
I snap the end of the chocolate off with my teeth, turning away and almost missing the way he pauses near the end of the sidewalk. He glances back and even with so much distance between us, his ice-blue eyes catch and hold me. The edge of his mouth quirks up slightly, and then he turns away and takes off.
My heart is pounding, but I refocus on the conversation and do my best to pretend like Bohnes is nothing to me. Nothing. He’s nothing. I bite the chocolate again as Nisha goes over tonight’s plans.
“Nothing on the books, just a free-for-all,” she says, trying to get me to look at her. I turn her way, studying her mostly shaved head and the clever designs buzzed into it. We have a kick-ass barber around here. Today, Nisha’s sporting an anarchy symbol on one side and a heart on the other. Last week, she had the word Fuck buzzed into the back, but our principal—this total cock named Scott Vaughn—made her shave the whole thing off. Prick. I could’ve made a fuss about it, but Nisha didn’t think it was worth the effort. “Are you even listening or are you too busy staring at Kellin Bohnes?”
“I was not staring at Bohnes,” I hiss-whisper back at her, glancing over to make sure that Bastian’s made his way down to Lemon. The two of them throw their arms around each other with identical squeals, and Basti spins her in a circle, Lemon’s white flats popping off her heels as she shrieks.
They’re such children sometimes.
I make myself look back at Nisha, her dark brown eyes lined with thick kohl, her ebon skin dusted with gold powder that highlights her strong cheekbones. She’s staring at me like she wants to slap me.
“You’re supposed to be my girl,” she says, narrowing her eyes in suspicion. “We both know there’s no love found in Prescott that lasts. The dent the headboard leaves in the wall outlives any seedy romance found here. Don’t fall for him, Scar. He won’t do right by you.”
“I’m no Lemon,” I snap back, and then immediately feel guilty about that, letting my attention swing back toward my friends. Lemon isn’t a bad person. She’s just … broken. Like all the rest of us.
