Page 163 of Vile Bastards
“How?” I whisper, scrolling down to look at the comments. Never a good idea. First one is a guy ranting about how unfair it was that I dared ruin the rich boys’ race. The next one is a girl asking where I got my breasts and my nose job done. Overall, the vast majority are either congratulatory or certain that the video is doctored.
Regardless, they’re watching it; they’re sharing it; they love it even if they want to hate it.
“This is incredible.” I sit down on the bed next to Widow, hitting play and watching the video twice through with a growing smile on my lips. I haven’t exactly forgotten about the sleeping bag or Chet Jr. or any of that, but I have to take these little kernels of joy where I can get ‘em. “Now what?”
“Now what?” Widow repeats, looking me over with a sigh. “Are you ever done with the adrenaline rushes, or is it just your drug of choice?”
“Maybe you’re my drug of choice?” I quip back. It’s meant to be funny and snarky, but then it sort of feels … gross. It feels like, romantic or something. Widow smiles at me, and I can’t decide if it’s mocking or genuine. Either way, I’m annoyed.
I stand up suddenly and he reaches out for my arm, pausing only when he notices that my door is still open and that my grandmother is standing there, staring at us. I remember then that I’m wearing an oversized black t-shirt and panties, nothing else.
Oops.
“Scarlett Diana Force,” she whispers, and I see that she already has a rolled-up magazine in hand.
Widow very quickly rises to his feet, clears his throat, and does his best to smile at my grandmother.
“I’ll just wait downstairs then.” He moves to scoot past her, and she smacks him with the magazine.
“In my day, young men didn’t creep around girls in their bedclothes.” She smacks him again, and he very dutifully accepts the light beating from a seventy-year-old indigenous woman who weaves baskets in her spare time and prefers old-school country like Dolly Parton, Willie Nelson, and Loretta Lynn.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Force. It won’t happen again.” Lie. But he says it with such sincerity that I almost believe him. Widow tosses me a secret smirk, and then slips down the staircase while my grandmother glares daggers at me.
“Put some pants on,” she orders and, unlike when Geneva issues a command, I actually listen. Respect works well with me, but anything else is sort of a moot point. She moves down the hall toward her own room as I slip on a pair of joggers and hit the stairs.
Widow is waiting, ass leaned up against the couch arm, arms crossed as they often are. He looks up when I hit the landing, and we exchange a glance.
“I’ve never been beaten up by an old lady before,” he remarks, and I grin.
“Old women are the best. They stop giving a lot of fucks, and just start being. It’s the purest form of existence, Adrian.” I pause at the sound of a knock on the door, moving over to check the peephole and spotting one of my girls outside.
When I open it, I see that she’s got a metallic blue box in her hand, the sort that might contain a piece of jewelry or some fancy truffles. It’s tied with a white satin ribbon, and it’s being offered up to me as a gift.
“This is from Kellin Bohnes,” the girl—her name is Joanne Kingston—says as she hands it out to me. “I owed him for a job, and this is part of my repayment. I promised I’d deliver whatever it was so long as it was respectful.”
“Thank you, sweetheart,” I murmur, offering her a wink which then causes her to blush furiously from chest to forehead. Pretty sure she’s a junior and also obsessed with Magic: The Gathering. I try my best not to fault her for that.
“As always, Queen,” she replies, retreating off the front stoop. I wait until she climbs in an idling car and takes off before closing the front door with a frown.
Huh.
A gift from Bohnes, eh?
Why didn’t he just leave it here last night?
For dramatic effect, I’ll bet.
Widow moves up to stand behind me as I extract the small card from beneath the ribbon and open it.
My Dark Love, Happy Anniversary. It’s been three weeks since I became your Nightmare. Enjoy.
With a contemplative frown, I untie the bow and pop the lid on the box so that I can see what’s inside of it. I don’t expect anything passé or gauche, not from Bohnes. Like the dead rose he presented me, it’ll be anything but normal. A taxidermic spider in resin? A fruit bat skeleton? Maybe a dead butterfly?
Something akin to a Mary Shelley novel on crack with metalheads for parents.
