Page 142 of Vile Bastards
“Because Bohnes thinks he can protect you better as a tail, and your rich boy beef can’t come?” He closes his eyes and leans back in the seat, arms crossed, eyes closed. “How long do you think it’ll take you to realize you’re better off without them? The rich boys, I mean. Bohnes is just stable enough that I think he’ll carry on for a few more years before he tries to kill us.”
“Aww, you like Kellin Bohnes?” I tease, but Widow refuses to open his eyes. “Just admit it. You guys have a hardcore bromance going on. Two genuine Prescott boys, born and raised.”
Well, who knows where Bohnes was actually born, but he’s as Prescott as they come.
“He’s the best thing you have going for you, romance-wise. Besides me, obviously.” This time, Widow does open his eyes, and I see now that since we’re growing more comfortable with one another, I get smirking teases instead of knives held on me. “Is it the payout with Alexei Grove? Because if it is, I can at least respect that.”
“I don’t need his money; I can earn my own.” I hit the gas, blasting onto the I-5 and past the hordes of semitrucks and cars with California license plates. God help them if they get in the left lane and go below the speed limit, I will cut a bitch. “This is going to be the start of it. What do you want to bet that I take first today, huh?”
“I’m not betting against you, Scarlett.” Widow snorts. “Particularly when all you’re up against are a bunch of rich boys. If you can race every weekend on the Prescott track and still win, these fuckers with the silver spoons up their asses don’t stand a chance.”
Widow reaches out to turn the radio down, and I get the strange sense that he’s about to say something serious to me. If it’s about Megan Face and Tommy Tits, I don’t want to hear it; I already warned both Bohnes and Widow to keep their mouths shut on the subject until after the race.
I’m sure I have heaps to look forward to tomorrow. Sarcasm.
“Promise me that if it comes down to it, and it’s between you and either rich boy, you won’t choose them over yourself.”
I give Widow a look, but what can I say? What decision did I make when I jumped the Miura into the river? When it comes to sacrifices, I seem to be great at picking myself for the slaughter.
“You worry too much.” That’s what I say instead.
“You worry too little,” Widow responds easily, exhaling deeply and leaning back in the seat. He barely fits in here, his huge form curled up, knees pressed close to his body. He eyes me from an impossible gaze, like dark honey and unspoken secrets. I wonder what else he’s keeping from me? Surely there must be something? “Since it’s obvious you’re going to ignore me—”
“Not ignoring you. Just don’t have any response to your statement that’ll please you.” I change gears and throw the Pantera around like it owes me money, whipping past a semitruck and then whizzing around a hideous gold minivan that’s driving ten miles below the speed limit in the fast lane.
Grrrrr.
The offending van disappears in the rearview as we leave the new hustle and bustle of the Eugene/Springfield area, moving into farmland and picturesque views of snow-kissed mountains in the distance. Soon enough, I’m sure Mayor Kelly will have all of this developed, stamped with tract homes and filled with the upper middle-class voters that enjoy his particularly ilk. To be quite frank, I’m not sure if the guy is a republican or a democrat—and I couldn’t give any less fucks either way.
Politics are a joke.
Widow sighs again and swipes a huge hand over his face.
“Try not to win by too much of a margin tonight. That’ll be your biggest issue, I think. Don’t show all your cards.” I glance his way, wondering if Widow hasn’t mistaken himself as my manager or some shit.
“Why not? Who cares if I lap the idiots ten times over? It’s not like they can extract the silver spoons from their butts and transmogrify them into talent.” I chuckle at my own wit, and Widow lifts a dark brow, leaning in toward me in such a way that I’m liable to crash into the field full of cows on our right.
“Rich boys like that won’t take well to losing. They’re used to paying to get what they want, and we both know you can’t be bought, Scarlett Force.” He runs a single finger down my arm, but I slap his hand away, flying down the I-5 at over a hundred miles an hour with a single hand on the wheel.
The very act of putting myself in danger like that makes me excited. I can’t shake the psycho in me, ya know?
