Page 101 of Vile Bastards
Just as Scarlett feared, romance undid Kasumi Kitagawa.
“I’m working on a project, Kellin,” he hisses out, and I snort. Bold of him, isn’t it, to refer to me by my first name. I don’t like the sound of it. Only Bohnes works; only Bohnes fits. It was my birth mother’s last name, not that of my adopters, the ones who abandoned me in light of their impending divorce.
When my birth mother died, I was only three. I remember very little—essentially nothing—about her except for this. She was, as Scarlett put it, a ‘scene kid’, this little dark-haired emo girl who sang me ‘Welcome to the Black Parade’ from My Chemical Romance like it was a lullaby. I was able to track her down online, find photos of her. I know what she wore, what she liked. That’s where all the clothing came from, bags and bags of it. I’ve purchased more emo, goth, and metalcore memorabilia than I care to admit.
See? Even death is human. Even death has flaws.
I release the safety on the pistol and Ash sighs heavily, whirling around to face me. He’s red-faced and angry, not at all disturbed or frightened. I noticed it on Halloween night, when I delivered that severed head to Scarlett. Ash Kelly wasn’t freaked-out (as any well-adjusted human might be), he was annoyed. Frustrated. Because he sees that Scarlett likes my crazy and now, he doesn’t want to hide his either.
“Humor me,” I offer up with a pout followed by a huge, blinding grin. That one always throws people. It’s the expression of a person smiling on the outside, but screaming on the in. People can hear it, even if they don’t realize they’re listening. “Because I have six rounds with your name on them.”
“I need to move the suspicion off of Scarlett,” he snaps out at me. “Did you listen when I told you that Chet Archer contracted me to kill an innocent suburban reporter …” He trails off and chuckles, privately, almost gleefully, to himself. “Journalist.” Ash clears his throat and stands up straight. “He contracted me to kill the woman that we’re both desperately in love with.”
He bends down and hefts the tarp into his arms, grunting at the weight of it. Ash chucks it unceremoniously into his car, putting a hand on the edge of the open trunk lid to lean in and peer at the unremarkable bundle.
“I’m so sorry, Lucy Bree Hall,” he whispers, and then he slams the trunk lid closed before turning to me. “Did you know that I kissed her?” he asks me, almost absently. It occurs to me then that Aspen née Ash Kelly Kitagawa doesn’t have many friends.
“If you’re going to confide something personal in me, I’d recommend against it. I’ll willingly sell that information to the highest bidder.” I’m joking, but only slightly. I very well might. “Kissed who? Lemon?”
I glance over at the trunk before looking back at Ash. He sighs and turns away, moving over to the open door of the sedan and reaching in for his clothes. Uncaring that I’m standing right beside him, he shoves his wet boxers to the ground, grabs a towel from the back seat, and proceeds to dry himself off before getting redressed in his suit—complete with Larron Van Gordon cuff links.
Real cute, wearing his brother’s kill trophies.
“I kissed Lemon as she was dying,” he remarks, breathless, eyes rich and wondrous.
I frown.
That bothers me. Ash Kelly is a bit … deeper than I expected. I almost grudgingly respect him, but he is a rich boy, so any kernel of possible admiration I might have for him goes right out the window.
“She thought I was Aspen, and her kiss was full of wonder and acceptance. She knew she was dying, and she didn’t care because she thought she’d found it.” Ash huffs, leaning down to examine his pretty face in one of the sedan’s side mirrors. He arranges the dark locks in an artful, rueful prince sort of way, and then stands back up. He scoffs, looking at me like an accomplice instead of a rival. I suppose, for now, I am one.
I realize I’m still holding the gun on Ash and then continue to hold the gun on Ash because, well, why not?
“Can you believe that? With my brother of all people. Only a true moron would be able to see something other than the miserable, slimy cretin that he was.” Ash slides into the front seat of the vehicle, but he hasn’t answered my goddamn question, and even some pretty story about final kisses and wondrous eyes isn’t going to get me to budge.
I make sure to step between him and the car door, so that he can’t close it. I rest my forearms on the roof of the vehicle and lean in to look at him, too close almost, enough so that he grows distinctly uncomfortable.
