Page 94 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
“You’re sure you were looking Aspen Kelly in the face right as it happened?” he queries, and I narrow my eyes on him.
“He was standing right in front of me, Bastian. Literally. If he hadn’t been, you’re damn right that I would’ve pegged this on him. But I can’t do that. It won’t bring Evelyn any justice. He can’t have shot her when he was in the fucking grocery store arguing with me.”
I pause as Basti lifts his head up to look over my shoulder, turning in time to see Widow pulling into the parking lot in his ‘Vette. He parks right next to me, which is unsurprising, and then climbs out in his ratty old brown boots, glaring daggers at me from eyes the color of pirate’s treasure, two tarnished gold coins in a ruggedly handsome face.
He stares at me before lifting up the edge of his lips in a sneer.
“You agreed to race that rich idiot again?” he asks, but I can’t explain things to him without giving too much way. So I shrug loosely, sliding my hands into my pockets as I look him over. How is it fair for a Prescott guy to be this tall, this muscular, this edgy and dark and alluring?
I think about his hand slapping my ass, the bright sting of it, the drag of his finger down my swollen folds. As if he can sense the direction of my thoughts, he turns away, climbing onto the hood of his car to sit and light up a cigarette.
Based on his location, he should be able to see everything from there and keep an eye on his Stingray at the same time. Smart move. Although, if he knew what I was going through right now, he wouldn’t dare think I gave a shit about stealing his ride at the moment.
I have more important things to worry about.
Still, I can’t shake that look on his face. He seems almost … disappointed?
“I have my reasons, you know,” I tell him, not sure why I’m even bothering to explain. I can sense Nisha and Basti exchanging a look behind my back. When I turn around, they’re both staring at me the way I stare at Lemon.
Like she’s an idiot.
“Don’t even start with me tonight,” I grind out, when Widow doesn’t answer.
I’ve already got Aspen and me on the roster for tonight. Checking my phone, I see that we have about fifteen minutes before we’re supposed to start. So where the fuck is he? Is he even going to show up? Why did I think he would?
Because he wants you. You’re the bait, Scar. He won’t be able to resist.
One thing I know about rich guys like that, they hate to be told no.
The very idea that something in this world might not belong to them is anathema.
He’ll show up.
I wait with my arms crossed under my breasts, watching the driveway as one classic beauty after another rolls into the lot. The line of classic cars is occasionally broken up by junkers and borrowed minivans, pickup trucks hiked up too high, and sedans with differently colored doors or hoods from previous accidents.
Yep, all of Prescott, not just track regulars.
Bohnes rolls in amongst the commotion, parking in his usual spot—just as nobody but Widow dares park in my space out front of the school, the same goes here for Bohnes—and then making his way straight to me.
“You still haven’t told me how it went the other night,” I whisper as he pauses beside me, looking over at Widow on the hood of his ‘Vette, smoking a cigarette and staring at nothing. Bohnes smiles, and as usual, it conveys so many differing emotions that don’t usually accompany that sort of expression. I mean, there’s joy in there, certainly, but also triumph and the intensity of an animal on the hunt.
“Taken care of.” That’s the response I get before Bohnes turns back to me, looking me over with a whistle. “Need a pregame warm-up tonight, Miss Force?”
“No time for it,” I say, even though my body aches, and I’d love a moment to just fuck and forget the world exists. Sex is a great drug. At least, with Bohnes it is. With Bohnes, it’s all-consuming, mind-shattering. There is no room to think about or care for anything else except heat and friction and climax.
I rub at my face as he frowns, a darkness settling over his features that makes me feel edgy. I cannot even believe that this motherfucker asked me out on a date in exchange for burying a body.
It’s very … Prescott.
I drop my hands by my sides just as the silver and black Mustang rolls into the lot and all eyes turn to watch as it trundles over muddy potholes and comes to a stop just in front of me. The headlights flick off, and out climbs Aspen Kelly, dressed in a white sweater and dark jeans, more of those classic high-top sneakers on his feet—green ones this time.
