Page 105 of Vile Bastards
Yeah, he isn’t well-liked here.
“Lift your jaw, Scarlett. It’s on the fucking floor.” Widow smirks at me, yanking one of the chains off his shoulders and spinning it around as he approaches the pair of Richie-riches. As the only running candidate for the Class of Two-Thousand-Whatever King, it’s his job to confront the new, strange male in our territory as well as clear the air with a previous rival.
Because in their last fight, I pulled Aspen away. It was never finished. According to southside social order, that means it was a tie, and the King of Prescott High isn’t given the luxury of having a tie.
“Hey fuckface, who’s your friend?” Widow asks, pausing in front of Aspen and using his chin to gesture at Cody. For his part, he looks like any other blond douchebag with a square chin and rippling gym muscles, carefully coordinated and planned out. He’s one of those guys who says things like, ‘it’s a calf day today’ or ‘I feel like my quads seem out of balance’.
Widow’s the exact opposite of that. His look is more like ‘yeah, I have muscles because I fuck people up, and I’m on my back fixing brake lines, and I mount my woman and roooooll these hips’. Anyway, he doesn’t work out to look good. He doesn’t work out at all. His life is working out. Don’t need the gym to beef up when you’re constantly scrapping.
“This is Chet Jr. Cody Archer,” Ash-pen offers up, holding out a hand to indicate the guy. Clearly, he knows that Cody doesn’t like being referred to by his full name. Clearly, he also doesn’t care. It’s his small slight, his chance to get back at a mortal enemy without being noticed or clocked. “He’s here to play games with Prescott pussy.”
Cody laughs, almost nervously, reaching up to run his hand over his blond hair as he softens his brow, and emotes this shy smile that reeks of total bullshit. He’s just like the mayor, just like his father, one of those grinning, back slapping monsters who blends into society like a killer wasp blends into a bee hive.
It got stripes, yeah? It ain’t here to make honey.
“Oh, he’s cute,” Basti whispers, and I turn to give him a dark look. “What? I can tell he’s probably a serial killer, but does that take away from his cuteness?”
“You have worse taste than Scarlett.” Nisha huffs a sigh and crosses her arms. She’s looking at Cody and Ash-pen, but she’s not really looking at them. Mostly, I think she’s musing about Hype, the sexy hacker girl who’s ballsy enough to mouth off to Bohnes.
It’s not something most would attempt. Even fewer would live through it.
“If you’re vouching for him, then I’m sure he’s bad news.” Widow offers up a dark laugh, heavy and thick with the smug knowledge that he can—that he must—destroy Ash-pen in front of the mixed Fuller High, Oak Valley Prep, and Prescott High crowd.
If he wants to be king, he needs to secure his crown with blood.
One of Ash’s perfect, dark brows twitches. His expression, however, remains vile but placid. He knew what would happen if he came here tonight. How could he not? I keep expecting his gaze to slide to mine, just once, just a fraction of a millisecond, but I may as well not even exist.
“But,” Widow continues with an exaggerated sigh. “I’ll let him race. You, on the other hand …” He trails off and stretches one of the chains between his hands. Without another word, he stalks past Ash, swings the chain in a small circle, and then uses it to whip the hood of the ’63 Shelby Cobra. It was fucked-up from the day Aspen killed Evelyn and blew past my girls’ cars, but it’d been recently repaired.
As I watch in wide-eyed awe, the windshield shatters. Widow continues to utilize the chain like he’s done this a million times before, a regular Indiana Jones with a whip, smashing windows, denting doors. When he’s done, he removes a knife from his pocket—coincidentally, it’s the same one he pulled on me in the girl’s bathroom—and goes about stabbing all four tires.
“Are you quite finished?” Ash hisses out, quivering all over. He twitches, too. Hot rage sweeps through him, making his jaw tick, his fingers curl and uncurl at his sides. And then, just like that, it goes out. He turns cold, and an icy November breeze sweeps through the track, rustling mostly bare tree branches, sending wet and moldering leaves billowing.
“Almost.” With the chains wrapped around his neck, Widow undoes his jeans and, with his monster cock held proudly in hand, pisses right on the sumptuous leather seat of the Cobra.
Ash … looks like he might just kill him.
The crowd stays silent for exactly four heartbeats before the cheering and screaming starts, Widow’s name chanted like a nearly forgotten curse attributed to some long-dead god. He’s beautifully ticked off several tasks all at once: punished Aspen, asserted dominance over the other males, and showed off his massive dick. This is a boon to me as well, and several girls come up to pat me encouragingly on the back.
