Page 8 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
“Earlier, you asked where Widow’s been living,” Lemon starts, reaching out to turn down the radio. “Sad World” by Yacht Money and Jung Youth was playing. Damn. I like that song, too.
“Huh?” I reply, turning briefly toward her and lifting a brow. “Widow? Oh yeah. He come from Antarctica or something? How does that boy know we race, but he doesn’t know how to safeguard his car better?”
“He just got out of juvie,” she whispers conspiratorially, despite the fact that we’re alone in the car. “After five years.”
“Five years?” I choke out, eyes focused on the road as I take a series of shortcuts through the city, avoiding any spot where a less sympathetic cop than Officer Cheater might be waiting.
“He killed his uncle,” Lemon explains, leaning back in the seat and sliding her phone from the pocket of her dress. She wears cute little sundresses, but I’ve seen her stab a bitch. Don’t underestimate this girl. She don’t give a shit if she spatters blood on that pretty daisy pattern.
“Seriously?” I repeat, thinking of the quiet, contemplative guy I met in the hallway. Sure, he’s a dick, but a murderer? And he’s what, probably seventeen if he’s at Prescott High (most eighteen-year-olds drop out of our school), so he killed the guy when he was twelve? That smacks of an abusive situation to me. “Did they ever determine a motive?”
Lemon shakes her head, smiling to herself as she taps out a text with her thumbs.
“Nope. He pled guilty, but never said why he did it. They tried him as a minor and locked him up for five years. He just got let out.”
“Who did you hear all of this from?” I question, because Lemon never has gossip unless she gets it from one of her lovers.
“Jennifer,” she admits, and an icy chill takes over me, that same dark shadow that I felt when I first met Widow. If Jennifer said it, then it’s probably true. She peddles in truths, not lies. Lies have no currency at Prescott because everybody tells ‘em. “And she heard it from one of her brothers who was in juvie at the same time as Widow, so this is only like secondhand information.”
It’s more like fourth-hand information at this point, but I still believe it.
Widow killed his uncle, did he? Interesting.
We return to school with plenty of time to spare, and I make sure to run over the GPS tracker, crushing it with my car before I leave my little red devil in its usual parking spot. Order has been restored at Prescott High and holy-hot-damn does it feel good.
Red shoes, red car, a name that means red.
People often say to me: hey, your name is Scarlett, so like, your favorite color must be red.
Wrong.
I hate it.
My name might be Scarlett, but I hate the color red. Ironic, isn’t it? Being named Scarlett and hating the color red?
The reason I don it, use it, drive it … a challenge to myself and my fucked-up psyche.
“Are you not coming?” I ask as Lemon climbs out, phone still in her hands, and offers me up a loose shrug.
She’s infuriating sometimes.
I storm over to her, heels loud on the pavement. She barely notices, too caught up in whoever it is that’s on the other end of that text. I snatch it out of her hands and take a look at the screen.
“Aspen? Who the fuck is Aspen?” I ask as she snatches the phone back from me, eyes narrowed with hurt.
“I told you, Scarlett: he’s big-time. He’s a chance to get the hell out of Prescott.”
“Oh, Lem,” I say, reaching out to cup the side of her face. She slaps my hand away when I do that, but I just sigh. “No boy is a ticket out of Prescott, honey.”
“What would you know? You’re a virgin anyway,” she snaps at me, and I purse my lips. Was a virgin. Was, was, was. Until about two weeks ago when I ran into Kellin Bohnes while out smoking a cigarette.
To be honest, I’m not sure how it even happened the first time. I remember rewarding myself for finishing a race by lighting up a clove cigarette—which are illegal now and really hard to steal—and then glancing over to see Bohnes doing much the same. We both turned to glare at one another, he smiled, and then … my mouth was feverishly pressed against his.
I rub at my forehead. I should tell Lemon. I should tell Basti or Nisha. Only, I haven’t told anybody, and I’m not sure why.
“Whoever this guy is—especially if he’s got money—he isn’t going to solve all of your problems.”
“We all have our own ways of getting out of Prescott, okay?” Lemon snaps back at me, and then she’s turning and taking off down the sidewalk. Clearly, she isn’t going to class today.
