Page 36 of Vile Bastards
“It’s like when rich people pay to go apple picking,” I explain as Widow looks around the place like he’s considering burning it to the ground. Bohnes on the other hand is maybe actually a bat with rabies; he’s switched from being disturbed to fascinated.
“They’re all wearing clothes from the nineties,” he states, and I realize he’s right. Probably a fucking TikTok trend or something. No thanks, my dudettes. I actually enjoy being cool. If you get your fashion trends from TikTok, you can be well-dressed or current, but you’ll never be cool. Mic drop, bitches. “Also, I didn’t forget to take my meds; I choose not to take them or any other mind-altering drug besides the devil’s lettuce.”
He makes the sign of the cross over his chest which is easily in the top three most disturbing things I’ve ever seen in my life.
“You ever consider the idea that you might really, really need them?” Widow quips, and Bohnes turns a killing glare his way before grinning.
“I’m excruciatingly sane seventy-percent of the time,” he tells him, and Widow cocks a brow.
“I’ll bite: what are you the other thirty-percent of the time then?”
“I’m nuts.” Bohnes sweeps past him to the counter, lowering his hood from his face as the bro-rista (that’s a bro who’s a barista; you know; you’ve seen ‘em) stares at him like he’s considering calling the cops. Actually … this bro is such a bro that I bet he’d ask Bohnes to step into the alley out back for peaceful conflict resolution or maybe also to talk about sports.
“Can you please tell me what the fuck a cortado is?” Bohnes asks, but then he lifts up a hand before the man can speak. “Just give me one. And also, this.” He points at a peanut butter brownie bar that’s beneath a curved glass lid.
“Okay, is that gonna be Apple Pay, Google Pay, cryptocurrency, or do you have the Industrial Coffee Co. app?” The bro-rista and Bohnes stare at one another in tense silence.
“Have you ever heard of … cash?” Bohnes slides a wad of bills across the countertop, and I struggle to hold back a snort. “It’s not traceable.” That last part is delivered free of mirth; he means it.
“Yeah, yeah, of course.” The bro-rista reaches out to take the money, and Bohnes slams his skeletally-kissed hand over the dude’s quivering one.
“Not. Yet. My girl hasn’t ordered. Where are your manners?” He releases the guy’s hand finally and nods for me to approach so that I can put in my order.
“You’re savage, Kellin.” I flash a grin at him, ask for duplicates of what he’s getting, and then head over to sit across from Emma Jean.
There are two booths up against an exposed brick wall. They’re the most private tables in the place, with huge ferns hanging on either side and … yeah, giant Edison bulbs hanging in the center of the table. Since when did bare lightbulbs become cool? In Prescott, lots of people have plain lightbulbs in their houses, and it’s considered trashy.
“Twenty-five dollars for two coffees and two brownies?” Bohnes asks in true bewilderment as he takes a seat in the booth just behind mine. We decided it’d be best if the boys gave me and Emma a bit of space. She’s so skittish that I worry she’ll startle like a bunny rabbit or something.
Widow comes over after ordering his own coffee and food, and Emma’s eyes follow him past. I tap my fingers on the table to draw her attention back to me.
“He’s not available,” I state firmly and simply, and she blinks these huge Bambi eyes back at me. “Widow, I mean. He’s my fuckboy.”
“I don’t—” Emma Jean lets out this horribly sharp laugh, and I sit my chin in my hand, waiting to hear whatever nonsense she’s about to deliver. “I would never be interested in a guy like that.”
“So you say until you see how they fuck,” I tell her with an unnecessary amount of honesty. It’s just fun, I guess, riling up a bunny rabbit.
I’d almost forgotten that this one bites.
“I guess that’s how you got the middle name Motherfucking?” She delivers that like it’s a real question, straight face and everything. Touché, little suburb bitch. I sit up straight and lift my chin imperiously. We both know who the cooler one is here.
That’s me. It’s always me. I lower my shades and blow a kiss at a pair of passing college boys. One of them trips, and the other runs right into his back. I turn to Emma again and take the shades off of my face.
“I bet you’d like a boyfriend, Emma Jean. Do you want me to find one for you? These little fuckboys are a dime a dozen at my school. Can’t throw a rock without hitting one. If big, muscled, mean, and stupid is your thing, I’ll hook you up.”
