Page 93 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
I see them both.
I see all four of them.
I head upstairs as quickly as I can, pausing when I see Lemon—or Lucy Hall, or whatever—leaning against the wall near her bedroom door. She’s wearing a short, see-through negligee and batting her eyelashes at me coquettishly.
She doesn’t know there are two of us, Aspen and Ash. Nobody does. They know Aspen has a brother, but they don’t understand. They don’t know what it’s like to share half your soul with somebody who doesn’t have one.
“Are you coming to bed, baby?” she asks, and I just stare at her.
She’s part of the reason I can’t get closer to Scarlett Force. She doesn’t want to touch me thinking that I’ve had sex with her friend, that I’m using her for God only knows what.
This is why I still have high hopes for that woman.
“If I come to bed, you’ll know it,” I say, and Lemon giggles as I slip into my own room and slam the door. At least she’ll be ready for when Aspen stumbles up the stairs for those glorious two minutes of rutting her into the mattress before he comes and then passes out—that is, if he doesn’t get the maid to help him out first.
I make sure my door is locked a half-dozen times over—it’s the only way to keep Aspen out, and even then, only if he’s drunk or stoned—and then move over to slump onto my bed, putting my head into my hands.
It’d be so much easier if I could just tell Scarlett Force the truth.
Can I? Should I?
It’d put her life at risk. When Aspen thinks I want something or that I like someone, he goes for it with a rapaciousness that’s always shocked me. No matter how many times I see it. He’s mindless, like a shark scenting blood in the water. There are no thoughts there, just bottomless hunger and a senseless need to destroy.
On a more selfish note, I like that Scarlett can tell us apart. She never almost kissed Aspen—I know, because I was watching. She never let him touch her or flirt with her. His repulsiveness was enough so that, even in the market when we connected on a visceral level, when we almost kissed, she threw washing powder in my face.
I smile grimly.
No, I can’t tell her. Not yet. But if she wins the race, I’ll have to tell her something.
How, exactly, I’m going to go about this, I’m not sure. But I’ll figure it out.
I always do.
Scarlett
The track is buzzing on Friday. Not only is there a bonfire, but some guy has hooked up these massive ass subwoofers to his car and is blasting Lil Nas X loud enough that I can hear the lyrics in my goddamn teeth.
I can’t focus on any of it.
The usual churr and thrum of the crowd, the plangent roar of engines, the heartbeat of the music, it’s all background noise to me. I’m pacing back and forth on the driest part of the parking lot, wearing tall black wedges that keep my toes out of the muck.
I’ve got on black cigarette pants with a set of silver buttons that run vertically up either side of my pelvis, and a 1950s black and white polka dot blouse with a big ass bow around the neck. Paired with the big white cat eye sunglasses I had on earlier in the day (that are now perched atop my head), I look straight out of some black-and-white film about pioneering female drivers throughout history or some shit.
“Stop pacing like that,” Nisha groans, sitting on the hood of her ‘64 Lotus Elan and rubbing at her temples with both hands. “You’re making me nervous.”
“Why did you agree to race that d-bag anyway?” Basti demands, sulking as he goes over his pre-race checklist on the Devil. I had him come over last night to look over everything, but I’m paranoid. And this is important. It’s vital. Not just because I put my body on the line—again—but because in all my years of running my crew, I’ve never lost a girl like this.
Never.
I pause, hands on my hips, and glance over the packed bleachers on my right. Every single one of my girls is here tonight and then some. Shit, it looks like the entirety of Prescott High has shown up for this.
They might not know why this race against Aspen is so important, but they can feel the energy from me, from my crew, and so they’ve all gathered like moths to flame, willing to get their wings burned for a single taste.
“Because we need information. We need access to that car.” I look at Basti, but he’s frowning hard, dressed in a baseball cap, a t-shirt with torn sleeves, and holey jeans—his usual work attire. He glares back at me, but he knows I’m right.
