Page 18 of Vile Bastards
“We’ll have to make it up to her then, surely?” I quirk a brow at Widow, resist the urge to stab him in the throat, and then climb into the Chevelle.
Not to leave, obviously.
No, I think I’ll sit here and wait for Widow to leave, and then I’ll stalk Scarlett through the windows of her house for the rest of the night.
Once the family goes to bed? Eh. Who knows what might happen?
Scarlett
I’ve never died before; that’s a new one for me.
“Self-resurrection makes me infinitely cooler, right?” I ask Nisha as she sits on my bed beside me, staring at me like she can’t believe I’m still here. Frankly, I can’t believe it either. I also can’t believe I have to keep telling people that, essentially, I’m a stupid fucking moron.
“Telling everyone you jumped into an ice-cold river late at night in November does not a cool person make,” Basti warns me, sitting on his sleeping bag on the floor. It’s the same sleeping bag he’s been using to spend the night at my house since kindergarten.
Lemon had a special sleeping bag, too, an old Care Bears one that my mom gave to her from when she was little. I wonder if that sleeping bag is at Ash’s house even now? Could he find it and give it to me? I’d like to have it.
My friend’s face flashes in my mind, and I reach up to rub at my eyes, willing the image of her away. In my dream—or whatever it’s called when you’re dead and you see things—I saw Lemon with blood on her lips, and a knife protruding from her chest. When I reached out to remove it, she snatched my wrist in tight fingers.
Aspen was right behind her, hands on her shoulders, smiling at me through the shadows and the blood spattered across his own face.
I shudder all over and drop my hands to my lap.
“You okay, Scar?” Bastian asks gently, climbing onto the end of the bed. “It’s not like you to ignore a quip.”
“I’m just …” I start, and then panic seizes my chest. My hand comes up and I clutch at my shirt as I gasp, struggling to take a proper breath.
“Call an ambulance,” Nisha commands, moving over to me and putting her hand on my back.
“No, no,” I wheeze, shivering all over. “I don’t—”
I pause as a man appears at my window, crouching on the roof and staring in at me with eyes the color of an empty summer sky. I’m able to suck in a shuddery breath as I stare back at him, and then I’m pushing up from the bed and unlocking the window.
“Is that Bohnes?” Nisha asks, sounding shocked. Right. Because she doesn’t believe in shitty, unhealthy toxic relationships, and I apparently can’t get enough of them. One fucked-up fuckboy? Not nearly enough. I had to collect four.
Four fuckboys.
It still hasn’t fully hit me that Alexei Grove screwed me in plain sight, mud up my ass crack, sans condom. All that. It’s a mindfuck, but then, you know, I died and came back to life, so it sort of overshadowed the moment.
“Are you okay, my caliginous and gloomy love?” he asks, sweeping in the window with his large form as if he were little more than the shadows he was crouching in. Bohnes gathers me up in his arms and tucks me against him.
“Something’s wrong with me.” The words are muffled against the front of his hoodie, and I wonder if anyone but Bohnes can hear them? “Not physically so much, but …”
“You looked as if you were having a panic attack.” His words are hoarse and dark, like a lullaby that simultaneously creeps you out but also puts you to sleep. I’m so glad I got him the big dick candle; he deserves that goddamn candle.
“A panic attack?” I pull away from him, turning and shutting the window against the November chill. “Bullshit. I’m Scarlett Motherfucking Force.” I affect a swagger and flip my braid over my shoulder. It smacks Bohnes in the face on the way, and he shivers all over, clenching and unclenching his hands.
Can I politely ask my friends to leave? I wonder.
I want to fuck Kellin Bohnes so bad.
No, no, I want Kellin Bohnes to fuck me.
A panic attack, please. I don’t have panic attacks. I’m … and then the thought trails off, and I realize that, for as much bravado as I have, I wasn’t ready to die on Friday. Most especially, I wasn’t ready to die over all this.
Prescott shit that I should never have gotten involved in.
I want to see my name in goddamn lights. The surge of pain I feel when I imagine leaving this world early, like so many of my fellow southside peers, is immense. Like Lemon. Lemon died the very same death that I just escaped. That is, one sans meaning. Empty and sad, young and full of potential, squandered.
