Page 116 of Vile Bastards
“I’m aware.” The words come out sharp and angry, but it’s not her I’m frustrated with. It’s myself. It’s my father’s murderers. It’s everything but her, to be quite honest. “But I also can’t sit around all day and do nothing; I have to take action. You are here; Bohnes is here.” I pause for a moment. “The family will find me here.”
Bile rises in my throat, but even that disgusts me, so I swallow it down and shudder.
“Mm.” Scarlett looks past me, toward the other delinquent students slinking through the doors. “Luckily word has spread that you’re my fuckboy, so the girls will keep their hands off of you, but Prescott is like a wolf pack. Females boss females; males boss males. I can’t … no, actually, what I mean is, I don’t have the time to deal with the boys. It’s Widow’s job. If you have a problem, find him.”
“I will.” Her genuine concern for my well-being is reassuring. As she turns and heads up the steps, I follow. I can’t keep my eyes off of her ass, the way her trousers hug her tight pussy, cupping it, caressing it with every step.
My cock thickens in my hideous, zippered pants with the studded belt.
The metal detectors go off, and a small spark of alarm flares in me. My needles; my thimble. I won’t relinquish them to anyone.
“Let it go today, eh, Officer Bukkake?” Scarlett drawls as she saunters past, and the on-duty police officer wrinkles his face at her, watching her move away like he’d kill her if he could.
I’ll have to keep an eye on him.
“What do you have on you?” she asks me as several girls creep forward and form a cloud of body spray and laughter and clacking heels behind her. They look askance at me but say nothing. Scarlett snaps her fingers. “Right. Your needles, huh?”
“I don’t travel anywhere without them.” I rest a gloved hand on my pocket, relieved to see that when Scarlett walks, traffic clears. People do not bump into her and call her a faggot, which is refreshing. “This is the office.” She comes to a stop next to a door with bars over its single glass window.
How … authentic.
“If you need anything”—and here she rests a hand on my arm—“feel free to text or call.” She flashes a grin while I do my best to determine if I could get her into the bathroom for a quick fuck. Disgusting! Alexei Grove, get yourself together, you goddamn fool. I very carefully remove her hand—like it’s diseased—and she chuckles. “Try to enjoy the scene, Marie.” She holds up a hand, sweeping it across the hallway like she’s showing off a grand villa in the Aegean Sea. “Think of it like a safari. Here you are, the consummate tourist, experiencing a new and distant environment. Only, there are hyenas, lions, wild dogs. You’ll probably die, so you should enjoy the scenery.” She throws her pretty head back and laughs. The sound is like bells, tolling my not-so-distant funeral.
My newfound interest in this girl is going to kill me, mark my words. I almost died in the river because of her. I keep doing things the old Alexei would never do. My papa drifts further and further down a river of memories.
“Is Marcola really all that different from Prescott?” a girl with brown hair and blue eyes asks, blinking strangely at me.
“Come on, Jenn. You know Prescott isn’t like anywhere else on earth.” Scarlett takes off, and her girls follow. Widow appears in the doorway, jogging to catch up with her. He offers me a very brief, very polite nod as he passes.
I return the favor, watching as he disappears into the shadowy depths of this hellhole with my future wife by his side. I didn’t miss that ring of scrap metal winking from her finger. I’m in a race only it’s not on the track, and it doesn’t involve vintage cars. Oh no, it’s me and these boys competing for Scarlett’s heart.
And a Borisov never loses.
I open the door to the office, resigned that for the time being, I’ll be referred to as Marie by everyone that matters.
A small smile taints my lips as I step inside, flash Alex Marie Jenning’s ID, and walk out of there with a class schedule in hand.
It’s not just the bars on the windows or the oppressive staff, the metal detectors or the drug dogs that make this place feel like a jail. It’s the old, wobbly desks with their layer of grime, the putrid restrooms, and the press of humanity.
I am officially entrenched in hell.
When lunch hour rolls around, I’m certain that I can’t do this anymore. It’s too much. The whole world sickens me, but this place in particular is like a dumpster fire.
Exhausted, I find myself a bench outside, head hanging down, resting my elbows on my knees. I’m crawling in filth; I’m contaminated; I’m wretched and swarming.
