Page 106 of Vile Bastards
It’s a point of pride to have a fuckboy, even more so to have a stable. It’s even better if said fuckboy is known to have girth, length, and presence. Widow has displayed himself shamelessly for everyone at the track to see, and they’ve accepted this brazen, primal display.
“Ironic, isn’t it? Seeing him punish Aspen for breaking track rules.” Bohnes chuckles dryly and shakes his head. “Hypocrite.”
“Stop that,” I chastise, glancing over to find his ice-blue eyes on me. “You like him, don’t lie. He’s the first real friend you’ve ever had.”
“Friend?” Bohnes echoes, and then he gives a visible shudder, much the same way Alexei does when confronted with grime, dirt, people, bacteria, viruses, germs, insects, mud, etc., etc., so on and so forth. “Oh, Scarlett. You truly are too nice.” He hooks his hands together behind his head and offers up a whistle. “Look at that, the juvie boy has bite.” Bohnes watches Widow approach us as one might watch an unsuspecting quail during a hunt. He’s already cocking his shotgun. “You should’ve used that chain on his person instead of his car.”
Widow offers Bohnes a dry and disinterested look before turning back to me. Everyone is watching us right now. Not unusual. I’m used to being stared at. Truthfully, I like it. I crave it. I feed off of it. Even now, my palms are sweaty with excitement, and I’m wondering what exactly it is that’s got Widow so wild looking.
His face is a stormy enigma, and he offers up the most patronizing, most infuriating smile that I’ve ever seen on another human being. Ah, shit. Whatever he’s about to do, I’m not gonna like it.
Chains still hanging around his neck, knife handle protruding from one front pocket, Widow reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and withdraws a small object. He holds it tight in a cupped hand as his golden wolf stare latches onto mine, as he (metaphorically) bites down on my neck, holds me in place, claims me as his female in front of everyone in Prescott that matters.
“When you’re ready to marry me,” he starts, holding out his hand and uncurling his calloused fingers to reveal the ring waiting on his palm. “Put this on.” When I don’t move to take it from him, standing there in silent shock and fury, he reaches out and takes my inked hand with the upside down cross on the middle finger, and forces me to take it from him.
Because he’s just that much of a dick. Because I can’t possibly refuse him right now without crumbling his crown and, in the process, dragging my throne down in the ensuing aftermath.
I affect a sideways smirk as Nisha goes wide-eyed and Basti claps a hand over his gawping mouth.
“You willin’ to wait a while, fuckboy?” I ask with a sharp laugh, lifting up the ring in mock thanks. My eyes though, they slay. Widow can see it; I know he can. He pretends not to notice, reaching out to pat me on the head.
“Long as it takes which”—and here he offers up a mocking laugh—“won’t be all that long, now will it?” He takes off in a similar manner to Alexei, but not before pausing to look over at Bohnes. “You like that, you fucked-up ghoul? Beat you to the finish line.”
I can sense the chilly fury wafting off of Bohnes, but he waves a dismissive hand, effectively cutting Widow’s insult off at the neck.
“I skipped that train; I’m her Nightmare, Adrian. Forever. Regardless. No marriage, no divorce. Call yourself her fiancé all you want. Everyone knows the divorce rate is a staggering fifty percent. Ah, people just don’t stay together these days.” He pats his chest and pulls out a pack of clove cigarettes, lifting them up in blatant invitation.
I wet my lips.
He wants to fuck me in the woods. But … I’ve got Widow’s stupid-ass, rachet Prescott proposal to deal with. Ash-pen’s winter-dead fury. Alexei’s twitchy unpredictability atop the bleachers.
And a guy with a truly unfortunate name that’s looking me over like he’s ready to skin me and wear me as a suit. Eat your heart out, Buffalo Bill. Yeah, definitely gettin’ Silence of the Lambs vibes off this Cody bro.
“Your Nightmare?” Nisha chokes out, and then she groans and puts both of her hands over her face, turning away and stalking off through the mud. Bastian is just opening and closing his mouth like a fish, and Jennifer Atwell is squealing.
“Nightmare?” Widow asks, brow crinkling. “The fuck is that?”
“Nightmare is one of the oldest and most beautiful Prescott titles to have ever evolved.” Jennifer dances up to Widow, practically foaming at the mouth at the chance to tell a story. She knows that everyone is listening, and she, too, feeds off the attention. “Almost lost to obscurity, the term lives on in scribbled words on the bathroom walls, in old yearbooks tucked in dark corners of the library, and right there.” She turns and points at the old wooden sign across the way, the one that’s so covered in graffiti that you can’t read the words Prescott Motor Racing Circuit on the front of it anymore.
