Page 40 of Vile Bastards
Emma swallows hard, and then finally takes a bite of her frosting-less cupcake.
“Police Chief Bolin’s youngest son, Bryson, is missing. The entire city is looking for him.” Emma shakes her head. “Other than that, he’s doing what he’s been doing, ignoring crime in Prescott and catering to the mayor’s every whim. Tell me about the dead cop. Was his name Pierce Cranston?”
“I have no idea what his name was, but if the last time he was seen was the Friday night before last then he’s probably dead, and it probably has something to do with the mayor and the New York City mob.”
I stand up suddenly, snatching the peanut butter brownie bar on the way. I take a bite of it as I walk out the front doors of the coffee shop, offering a wink to the girl who scrambles to open them for me.
“Thanks, babe,” I tell her as I strut past in my fifties wiggle dress. I take another bite of the brownie and groan. “Fuck, this is good.”
“That girl just creamed her goddamn pants,” Widow snaps out as he chases after me. “Why do you have to do that?”
“Jealous?” I ask and then I turn and walk backward into the crosswalk, eyes closed.
Widow lunges out to grab me, but I already checked: there are no cars, and the sign says it’s okay to walk. He yanks me to him, and I grin with closed lips seeing as I just took another bite of brownie. I chew and swallow it as Widow walks me backward to the curb and Bohnes follows, fingers twitching. Then I open my eyes.
“I am. And I’m not ashamed of that.” Widow releases me, and then steps around me, heading for his ‘Vette as I glance over my shoulder at his retreating back. “Just don’t take it so far that I have to intervene; I’m the possessive type.” He waves a dismissive hand as I frown around another bite of brownie.
“Dickhead,” I mutter before turning my attention back to Bohnes.
“Ash Kelly piss you off, Scar? You don’t like to be told no, do you?” He pats my head as he passes by, and I slap his hand away. We all drove our own cars up here, so he goes for the Chevelle as I slip into the Pantera.
As I drive away, I see Ash in the rearview mirror, standing on the sidewalk and watching me leave. I flip him off out the window and do my best not to obsess over him.
Who the hell am I kidding? I know I will anyway.
Might as well lean into it.
That’s something we do well around here in Prescott, obsession.
Ash Aspen Kelly
Crickets. I have to pay money for fucking crickets.
Never in my life did I see myself forking over cash for insects.
I’m standing in a pet store, buying the items I need for the frog that’s in my bathtub, and doing my best not to think about Scarlett Force.
Even though I know that it’s more imperative than ever that we put space between us, I’ve agreed to meet up with her and her … associates today. I almost declined because of what happened in the coffee shop. I cannot control myself around that woman, no matter how much danger my raging obsession seems to put us both in.
It’ll have to be the last time for a while, I tell myself as I head to the checkout, and the employee helps me load the large aquarium that I’ve just purchased into my car. This will be my first time having a pet without having to worry about Aspen torturing it, murdering it, or burying it alive.
I’m thrilled.
Sigh.
I head back to the house and get the frog set up in its new habitat. Apparently, it’s a Pacific tree frog, and it’s native to the area. I should probably let it go, but for some reason, I can’t bear to do that. Instead, I name it Aspen and set it up in my dead twin’s bedroom, right on his dresser. I even make sure to shove all of his things onto the floor so that the framed photo of himself shatters, and then I kick it aside for the maid to deal with tomorrow.
There’s a certain sort of sick satisfaction in that, in destroying the things that Aspen held most dear.
“I’m going to dismantle your life and turn it into one that you never would’ve lived,” I whisper, leaning down to peer into the glass at the frog. Fortunately, I haven’t seen the delusional specter of my brother since that Friday, but that doesn’t mean he still isn’t lurking in the twisted pathways of my brain.
I consider taking my anti-psychotics, but decide against it, dressing down to jeans and a t-shirt and selecting a nondescript vehicle to drive to the meeting. As has become habit as of late, I execute a series of maneuvers meant to drop anyone that might be tailing me, and then head to the safe house.
