Page 89 of Vile Bastards
I grab Widow’s hand as Bohnes sighs heavily, and then I yank him out the door and off we go.
Scarlett
Alexei nearly gags when we walk into Wesley’s, but I love the smell of hot grease and fried food. It’s comforting and consistent in a way that so many things in this world are not. He keeps reaching into the pocket of his black pants to clutch a bottle of hand sanitizer. Also, he’s wearing a mask with a skeleton mouth across the front of it, courtesy of Bohnes.
It’s a brand-new one, though. Straight out of the package. A lot of Prescott kids pretend to have colds and act like they care about masks, just so they can hide their identities. I mean, if you were from this neighborhood, wouldn’t you?
So while Alexei stands out a little, at least he doesn’t stand out a lot.
“You smell that, Marie?” I ask, glancing over at him. Oh my fucking fuck, the sex. The sex was so good. Already, I can feel my body tingling all over again, and I smooth a hand down the front of my suspender swing skirt with a shiver. Alexei notices and tenses up; I know he likes the tease whether he admits it or not. “That’s the scent of home cooking.”
“It’s the scent of clogged arteries, heart attacks, and health code violations,” he retorts in a low growl. I think he’s mad at himself for giving in and fucking me, but refuses to admit it because, like, male pride or something? I honestly don’t even know. This is why—other than Basti—I don’t allow penises into my crew. They’re just not smart or stable enough to be counted on.
I ignore him, waiting for Bohnes to move ahead of me in the direction of a girl with short, purple hair in a sleek bob. Her bangs are cut straight across her forehead and stand out from the rest of her hair in a brilliant lime green. She looks bored out of her skull, sucking on a straw and gazing out the window at the lineup of vintage cars in the drive-in spaces.
Waiters and waitresses use rollerblades to deliver orders, while the diner’s owner, Sandra, sprints around the busy interior taking and delivering orders. As usual, oldies music filters into the space, drowned out by the chatter and the distant bubble of a million fryers from the back.
“She looks like Lisa from BLACKPINK, don’t you think?” I ask, but only Ash seems to understand even remotely what I’m talking about. Widow just lifts his brows and continues past, eying Nisha as she sits off to the girl’s right with Bastian beside her.
I called in backup because, well, I can’t keep doing business without my besties. Firstly, they chewed my ass out for leaving them in the dark before. Mostly, because we work better as a team.
Before I even get to the table, I can see it: my girl has a crush. Bastian glances over to see me coming and then hooks a not-so-subtle flick of his chin in Nisha’s direction before raising both brows. Uh-huh. I’ve never seen Nisha look at a girl like that before, and it freaks me out a little. What if she takes on a fuckgirl?
You’re such a hypocrite. I realize this ice-cold fear is the same sort that my friends likely entertain in regard to yours truly on a semi-regular basis. The thing is, I always had this fear when it came to Lemon and, voilà, my fears became reality. I know Nisha is smarter than Lem—Nisha is smarter than me, too—and that dating girls is quite a bit safter than dating boys, but … still, you never really know, do you?
The chick is a hacker and one of Bohnes’ contacts.
Shit, she could be a serial killer for all that I know.
Bohnes slides into the booth beside the girl, and I follow. Ash is next, decked out in that My Chemical Romance zip-up with the hood thrown over his ebon hair, and Widow takes up the remaining bench space. His Majesty Alex Marie elects to pull up a chair at the end of the table, and Basti peers into his hood in an effort to see who it is that’s hiding in there.
With the thick-rimmed black glasses over his green eyes, the skeleton mask, and that red hood thrown over his (still) blond hair, he’s not nearly so recognizable.
“Do I know you?” Bastian asks, reaching up to touch the edge of Alexei’s hood.
“No, no.” My hand snaps out and curls around Basti’s wrist before he can make a colossal error that may or may not end with a knife being stabbed into his thigh. Remember Pete, at the racetrack? Yeah, Alexei Grove don’t mess around none, does he? “No touchy.”
Bastian stares at me as I release his wrist, rubbing at it and glaring at me with an accusatory gaze before his eyes widen and then snap back over to Alexei again.
