Page 2 of Vile Bastards
“Scarlett Force.” That’s how the man greets me. It’s not a question. He knows who I am. Also, he has that generic So Cal accent where every single part of every single word has to be enunciated, but also there’s a hint that he might say like, dude, and bro a lot.
“What do you want?” I ask, because I’m holding a box with an absurdly expensive ring in it, and there’s a decapitated wank on my coffee table. I don’t have the time to fuck around.
The man laughs, as if I’m somehow amusing to him. It’s that right there, that cocky expectation, that puts a little extra piss in my step. I hang up on him. He calls back three times in quick succession, and I see that the phone number has a two-one-three area code. Huh. I’m not familiar with that.
I pick up on the fourth call as my fuckboy paces around behind me, hands on his hips, obviously frustrated but doing his best to maintain his temper.
“Talk quickly.” I hold my phone between my ear and shoulder, opening the velvet box again and taking out the ring. I try it on, and I’m pleased to see that the crude metal ring that I’m already wearing looks just as good if not better than the fancy blood-diamond in its silver setting. “My patience is waning …”
“Let me get right to the point: I saw you race in the Portland Classic Car Circuit prelims yesterday. What happened to you was shit. Girl, you’re a rockstar.”
“Um.” I set the velvet box down so that I can grip the phone again. “What about it? You call just to offer up your condolences?”
“I called because I pulled some strings. Scarlett, you are back in business. You’re racing next Friday at seven o’clock.” California Bro sounds pretty damn pleased with himself. As I’m standing there in my grandma’s living room, I can’t possibly know that the guy’s pulled all of the wrong strings.
That comes later.
“I’m racing next week?” The question is tentative, disbelieving. The fuckboy behind me stops his pacing to stare. I can’t see him, faced away as I am, but I can feel his eyes boring into my back, two spots of heat that light me up on the inside in a way that even this phone call can’t accomplish.
This phone call that’s probably a barb, a bribe, or bullshit. Maybe all three.
“Oh yeah. Not only that, but I’ll be watching you throughout the tournament.”
“Dude, you’re creeping me the hell out. Who is this?” I put the phone on speaker so that Widow can hear. Alexis reappears in the doorway leading to the kitchen, sucking on the straw of a juice box so damn loudly that I have to cover the phone’s mic for a second.
“Right, my name.” The guy chuckles again. “I’m Burt Cramer. I work for Tricked Out Talent.” I can just see him waving his hand around absently as he lounges by a pool or sips a mimosa or snorts coke and screws a hooker or something. “I like you, Scarlett Force. Even the name is gold. I’ll make sure to say hi on Friday in person. See you at the track.”
He hangs up on me like I’m one of a million calls he has to make today.
“Tricked Out Talent?” Alexis says, voice quavering as she moves into the living room. She stares at me with wide, broken eyes.
“Sounds like the name of a brothel,” Fuckboy says. Obviously, I’m not going to tell you his name. Let it go. Somebody died. Be anxious about it.
I ignore him.
“You know what that is?” I ask Alexis, cocking a brow. My eyes stray back to the pair of rings on my finger. If I agree to wear these, will the boys agree to wear collars? That seems like a fair trade to me. They can sport leather ones with metal spikes on them, like proper mutts.
“It’s a famous talent agency in Hollywood.” Alexis just stares at me. “What the fuck did you do to get a call from a talent agency?”
Um, crashed a rich boy race with the Devil, went viral, pushed a guy down a flight of stairs.
A smile teases across my lips. I can’t help it. I know I shouldn’t get too excited over this. After all, there’s a long road between a phone call and a future fandom. But there’s possibility there, the possibility of truly, honestly, blessedly … seeing my name in lights.
But first? I have to beat those rich boys’ asses at their own game.
Didn’t anyone ever teach them not to con a con-woman?
I’m from Prescott, bitch. It’s in my blood.
Scarlett
Fiancé - noun - the name of the last stop on the highway to hell; you’ve passed boyfriend status and are careening dangerously close to the edge of holy matrimony, this is your final warning; fuckboy to boyfriend to fiancé evolutions are rare and don’t often last (use only in case of emergency)
