Page 11 of Vile Bastards
Once the body is hidden in the bushes, I head back to the Stingray, moving it closer so I don’t have to haul the guy all the way to the trunk. Holy shit, Widow. Holy shit.
Once upon a time, I murdered my uncle with drain cleaner. He had it coming. The fucker molested me, shattering my childhood and stealing all my hope away. My parents were dead, and my entire world was flipped. Yet, I still had the audacity to believe the world was mostly good.
My parents died, but it was an accident. My aunt was going to take good care of me, and my uncle was so nice. He was always smiling and laughing and hugging me. But if an adult can be so cruel to a hurting child just to satisfy some fucked-up kink of his? Then there’s no hope for anyone.
Pedophiles are monsters who deserve nothing less than the chair.
But this guy? I have no idea who I just killed. Some random man on a country road?
I’m having a sudden crisis of conscience that I’m only able to fight off because of how I feel about Scarlett. Saving her is more important than salvaging what little morality I had left.
I open my door to climb out when headlights sweep down the road toward me.
I close the door and turn off my own headlights, breathing hard, the gun held tight in my hands. If somebody pulls over to see what’s going on … well, I won’t kill some random good Samaritan, but I’m not above knocking them out and leaving them comatose in their car.
The vehicle slows down, and I curse. I didn’t actually expect the person to stop. Who does that? Doesn’t this idiot know that pulling over in the dead of night to help some rando is a great way to end up dead?
That’s when I realize it’s not one but two cars.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Is this it for me right here? The end of it all? Because I’d rather die than spend the rest of my life in prison. The stolen gun seems to burn as I hold it close, considering what sort of threat might get these people to back off and keep quiet long enough for me to clean up this mess.
Because my last act—regardless of anything else—is ensuring Scarlett’s safety.
That’s the kink in my loose morals, Scarlett Motherfucking Force.
If I have to be deviant to protect her, then so be it.
The first car pulls up behind me, and I glance in the rearview to see that it’s none other than Bohnes’ Chevy Chevelle SS. In front of me, the Shelby Cobra parks just short of the spot where I dragged the body.
I’m stupid relieved to see Scarlett’s other fuckboys.
It’s not like we’re a unit or anything, some sort of wild teenage Prescott High gang; the only—and I mean only—thing we have in common is our obsession with Scarlett. Well, that and a deep level of psychosis probably.
I step out onto the road, joined first by Bohnes and then by Ash.
They’ve both seen better days, certainly.
Bohnes’ icy gaze slips immediately to the puddle of blood in the middle of the road before he looks back at me. His attention drops to my hood and the bit of … flesh stuck to it. There’s person on my car. There’s fucking person stuck to my car.
“What happened.” It’s not a question. He’s demanding an answer, and I feel my lip curl up of its own accord. Fighting with Bohnes right now is a terrible goddamn idea so I shake my head and turn, pointing at the cluster of blackberry bushes where I hid the body.
“Mowed someone down with my car. Accident.”
Ash is staring at me, smeared with blood. His suit is no longer pristine and sharp, and his dark eyes are haunted. He looks like a specter, lit up and glowing from the Chevelle’s headlights.
Bohnes moves away from us to check the corpse, and I turn in time with him.
“Please tell me you’ve made contact with Scarlett?” Ash asks, his voice thick with a British accent. I just stare at him.
“You still don’t know where Scarlett is?”
A strange, strangled laugh escapes Bohnes as he kneels beside the body.
“You just ran over Ralph Shipman.” There’s an eccentric sense of awe in his voice, and it takes me a second to make the connection. Shipman. Shipman. The mayor’s right-hand man, the one threatening Ash and Scarlett.
Holy fuck.
Relief rockets through me, and I almost stumble.
“Shipman?” Ash asks, and then he’s storming over to the bushes and whipping his phone out. He uses the flashlight to light up the corpse. “Thank God.” He heaves a heavy sigh and then turns back to me. “He took off on us,” Ash explains, flicking his gaze back to the body before looking at me again. “And we have yet to make any bloody contact with Scarlett.”
