Page 91 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
“Fifty grand?!” I choke out, sneering at him in frustration. “You charged me fifteen hundred—”
“You were sixteen and in pain,” he says, snapping his fingers. “I charge tiered rates. The higher up you are, the more you pay. And Scarlett, you are the queen of Prescott High. The queen pays big. A date and sex that doesn’t involve pine needles or dirty bathrooms.”
I purse my lips.
It sounds like an easy trade. It sounds like a good deal. And, in the scope of things, it really is. But I’m suspicious. Nothing in Prescott is free. Everything comes with a fat ass price tag.
“Fine. But I want to come with you. Evelyn deserves that, at least. To have me help with her burial.”
Bohnes releases me and shakes his head, turning and opening the driver’s side door of the Chevelle. It gleams black under the silver light of the moon, looking more like a hearse than a track-worthy antique. Guess it really is a death mobile right now, isn’t it?
“No. Get some sleep, Scarlett Force. I choose the day, time, and location for our date. Don’t forget that.” He slams his car door and starts the engine, easing forward and then hooking a sharp left to get back onto the road.
I watch as he heads along the curving length of one of the wealthiest ‘streets’ in the city of Springfield. Technically, we’re about ten minutes outside of the city, on a country road full of million-dollar estates. Even the founder of Nike shoes lives here, that’s how ritzy it is.
Wherever Bohnes is going, he’s likely going to drive in a roundabout sort of way to make certain that I can’t follow him. He’s the only person I’ve ever met who might actually be able to pull that stunt on me.
Though it kills me, I climb back into my own car and make the long drive home.
Soon as I get there, I’m going to jack some of my sister’s sleeping pills, a fat blunt, and then I’m going to make myself pass out so that I can race hard and win on Friday.
Aspen Kelly is not an easy man to beat, but I’ll be damned if my girl dies in vain.
A. Kelly
I know who shot Scarlett’s friend. I know it as soon as I get home and see the Shelby Cobra with the front caved in on two sides, the deep gouges that stretch from hood to trunk. I stand there for several long minutes, just staring at the mess he’s made of such a beautiful car and hating him even more for taking the life of one of Scarlett’s girls.
That’s my brother in a nutshell: he takes whatever he wants, whenever he wants, consequences be damned. Why shoot the girl? We’ve both heard the rumors about a roving gang of hot as fuck Prescott girls who hold up rich boys.
Everybody here knows about it. It’s considered a badge of honor to be chosen. Shit, some men like it so much that they purposefully try to recreate the same scenarios with hopes of seeing the girls again, of feeling that rush of adrenaline when a beautiful woman pulls a gun on you, the way sweat pulls at the base of your spine, runs down either temple, clings to your lips as you lick them and wonder why you’re so goddamn hard during a robbery.
Anyway, those are the stories I’ve heard. Just give ‘em the cash, the watches, the credit cards. They don’t take wedding bands so curious wives never have to ask. Considerate thieves, that lot.
So my brother knew he could just fork over petty cash that would mean literally nothing to him or my father and move on with his day. He chose instead to pull out his favorite handgun—a Ruger LCP—and put a hole through a seventeen-year-old’s skull.
At least, I’m assuming it was him. I don’t know for sure quite yet. It’s possible that it was my father or one of his men, but … only possible. Not probable.
Probably, it was my fucking brother.
As usual.
I shouldn’t say anything to Scarlett Force. I shouldn’t tell her. I should win that race tomorrow and fuck her just the way she said, on the hood of my Mustang. Watch her tits bounce as I plow into her, listen to her sweet cries as she calls my name, as she threads those tattooed arms around my neck and holds me tight while I push my cock into her sweet cunt over and over again.
Or maybe I’ll ask her to bend over, palms on the car’s hood, and offer her pussy up to my waiting mouth. Take her with my tongue and make her drip, make her quiver and beg for my dick. Make her want me that night and every other night that follows. Make her crave me the way I’m craving her right now.
