Page 97 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
As soon as I see that, I know that I can win this.
But really, did I? Am I? What the hell is he even doing?
As I said before, I only like to win when I really win, not because someone decided to pity me and throw the race. You don’t know that that’s what he’s doing, Scar. Calm down. Focus.
I finish the race, blasting past the finish line as the black-and-white checkered flag (now spattered with mud and soaked through with rainwater) is waved. I skid to a stop, letting my car drift to the side so that I can turn and face the track.
From here, I can see Aspen climbing out and laying rubber mats down, just as I said. He manages to free the Mustang from the mud, and then we both head up the drive to the parking lot.
Half the crowd has retreated to their cars, windows fogged up, some of them bouncing up and down as people take advantage of the high-octane, storm fueled evening to bang one out.
Personally, I can’t decide if I’m elated to be able to get the information I wanted … or if I’m furious with Aspen Kelly. As soon as I’ve parked my car next to Nisha’s, I’m out and storming across the muddy ground to where Aspen’s just stopped his Mustang.
As I pass by the bleachers—still filled with my girls—I do my best to stifle a smile at the way they cheer and shout my name. I pause briefly to look over at them, like drowned kittens with their wet hair plastered to their faces, their slutty-ass clothes stuck to them like second skins.
I blow them all a quick kiss, and they titter in a way that makes my cheeks flush. Nisha and Basti are there, too, but while the latter is just as excited, putting his fingers to his lips for a celebratory whistle, Nisha looks suspicious.
As she should be.
Bohnes is standing in the rain, one shoulder against the chain-link fence, his pale eyes watching me as I pause next to Widow’s car. He, too, has yet to move from his position, the rain be damned.
Our eyes meet, but I don’t say a word to Widow. What can I say? Does he suspect that, like me, Aspen Kelly threw the race?
Why would he anyway?
On the one hand, I’m certain that I must be imagining it. On the other … I know what I saw.
“I’m going to hop in Aspen’s car for a minute,” I whisper to Nisha as she moves close to me, and she nods, her gold makeup running down her face like the tears of King Midas. I continue on past Bohnes, whose stare burns like hot fire even in the cool downpour, and then over to the Mustang.
I wrench the passenger side door open, and Aspen lets me, watching as I slide in and slam it shut behind me.
“Drive us somewhere we can talk in private. Now. I want my payment.”
He shifts gears, easing slowly out of the lot and past numerous other cars, glancing up at his rearview to see that Nisha’s hopping in her Lotus with the intention of following us. Aspen wets his lower lip and then, as soon as we’ve rolled onto the dirt road outside the parking lot, he takes advantage of our slight head start and guns the engine, sending us flying down the small side road and onto a deserted suburban street.
I yank my seatbelt on, watching Aspen out of the corner of my eye as he does what few others have ever managed: he outdrives Nisha and finds us an empty campground to stop at, one of the ones that used to be a part of the larger park where the track now sits. It’s a bit ridiculous now, within walking distance to suburbia, but the old picnic table and the rusted-out grill are still present.
Aspen parks the Mustang inside the copse of trees, but as soon as the engine is off, I’m climbing out and into the downpour. I just can’t sit in a quiet car alone with him, not right now. I need to feel the rain on my skin, the wind in my hair, the energy of the storm.
He follows me, keeping his distance as I make my way around to the front of the Mustang, pushing stray strands of hair back from my face with both hands.
I turn around to face him, the rain coming down in thick sheets, just barely blocked by the thick foliage overhead.
Aspen is just standing there, his white fancy-pants sweater nearly see-through from the rain, his nipples dark and hard against the fabric. He notices me looking and glances down before lifting his ebon gaze back to mine.
“You let me win,” I accuse, and he says nothing, simply stalks forward to stand about a foot in front of me, his dark hair stuck to his forehead, the sides of his face, his neck. “We both know you were going to win. Why did you do that?”
