Page 111 of Vile Bastards
Someone hooks up a set of speakers, and then the radio station is blasting into the night.
Oh yeah, this is Prescott. This is home.
I hit the throttle, tearing down the track as Chet struggles to get the mud off his windshield, finally flicking his headlight on to tear through the dark shadows. Too late. I’m lapping him and snickering as I go, mouthing the lyrics to the next song on Nessie’s playlist.
Once the checkered flag is waved, I spin muddy doughnuts in the winner’s circle, spattering the bottom rows of the bleachers and hoping I get Alexei in the process.
When I get back to the parking lot, I can see that I’ve succeeded.
He’s shaking all over, mask pulled down as he breathes frosted clouds in the air.
As soon as I open my car door, Alexei’s grabbing me with a muddy hand and yanking me out of the Devil. He slams my back against it, pinning me on either side with his hands on the roof of my car. His mouth—the only clean part of his entire body—crashes into mine, tongue diving down my throat. His left arm curls around my waist and yanks me into his dripping body. Mud smears between us as I put my arms around his neck, and he kisses me back, shuddering and panting all the while.
Can’t hide that hard dick though, can he?
“Not bad,” Chet offers up, as if he’s not spitting mad. He must be. I don’t care. I ignore him, aware that Basti’s moaning and studying the damage to the Pantera. He growls out curses in Spanish, and I get the idea that he’s going to be at the body shop all week getting my ride ready for P-Trip.
“New guy really is Scarlett’s fuckboy!” Jennifer calls out, and the news spreads and ignites, a wildfire of gossip that heats my skin up like the comforting glow of a campfire.
“You’re a dirty bitch, aren’t you, Marie?” I murmur as Alexei pulls back, sliding his muddy mask back into place. He stalks away from me, and I laugh, watching as he slips into that green Barracuda and off he goes.
“Not bad?” I query, finally turning to address Chet. “You even know how to drive that car? Or you’re just here to play games? Bro, ain’t a single bitch here who will race you after that shit.”
“I didn’t break any rules,” Chet offers up as Ash-pen moves up to stand beside him. He’s splattered with mud and quivering. I see in the wild gleam of his eyes that he knows I’d die to finish a game of chicken right.
We’re made for each other, aren’t we, Kelly? I lick Alexei’s saliva from my lips, and Ash closes his eyes against the sight.
“Deal’s a deal.” I hold out my hand and gesture with my fingers. “Write the check out to Scarlett Force and make it snappy. I’ve got other shit to do tonight.” Mostly, I snagged us a late-night appointment at Treasure’s, and I’m finally, blessedly, getting my fuckin’ nails did.
“Sure thing.” Chet scribbles out a check and passes it over. I scan it for accuracy, nod, and then fold it up so that I can slip it into my back pocket. The expression on that guy’s face, however, is too pleasant to be real.
His eyes give it away: the fury, the annoyance, the sense of unfairness. That’s how these types are, so used to getting whatever they want that, even when they lose on their own merit, they blame the world.
Without a word, Widow stalks past me, taking the chain off his shoulders and then swinging it so that the tip smashes Chet Jr.’s windshield.
“What the fuck, man?!” Chet Jr. Cody Archer screams, but then Ash-pen is smiling, and Bohnes is sidling up behind me while Nisha moans about unruly fuckboys with long leashes.
“Is now a good time for me to mention that Emma Jean Thompson is Nessie?” Bohnes whispers, and I turn wide eyes back to look at him. He smiles at me. “Oh, and also: I just moved Alexei into her apartment.”
Right. Because it’s Friday night in Prescott. What would it be without a series of carefully calculated mind-fucks?
Ash Aspen Kelly
Jonas Kelly likes to drink before bed, whether he’s alone or with his buddies. As always, his well-paid muscle stares blankly from this doorway or that doorway. I wait patiently for my father to stumble up the stairs, heading for the hallway that houses his bedroom.
If all goes according to schedule—it always does—he’ll take a handful of prescription-grade sleeping pills and collapse in his bed, dead to the world. I allow enough time for all the expected events to occur before moving up to the guard at the end of the hallway.
Can he tell that I’m jacked-up from the race, from watching Widow destroy my car and then piss on it? God. And don’t even get me started on the image of Alexei Grove’s cock barreling into my soulmate’s tight, little cunt on the floor of the safe house. That memory will stick in my brain until I get the chance to correct it.
