Page 104 of Vile Bastards
“It’s enough.” She sighs heavily, and then smiles, more to herself than to either of us. “Give him the number for my burner. He can park in this lot and call me. I’ll come down.” She turns and heads across the parking lot in the direction of the Fifth Street Market.
I look back at Alexei, quivering and sweating beside me.
“Shall we?” I hold out a hand to indicate the ’69 Plymouth Barracuda parked nearby. It’s an avocado green, very much representative of its time. “If you hurry up, you might be able to squeeze into a race tonight.”
I grin as I take off down the sidewalk, heading back in the direction of the Chevelle. I slide in, start the engine, and peel out of there like a maniac, running red lights and cutting people off.
Then I head for the track.
Because my darkest darling is racing, and I’m not inclined to miss that.
Scarlett
I’m grooving on the hood of the Stingray, one leg stretched out, the other knee popped up. ‘Walking On the Moon’ by Stela Cole is playing, and I’m swaying to the beat while Widow pauses beside me.
Instead of his usual baseball bat, he’s got chains slung over his shoulders today. I like it, makes him look fierce. Plus, chains are such a great Prescott toy. You can buy it cheap by the foot at the local hardware store. Seriously, it’s like three bucks a foot. Get three feet of that for less than ten dollars, fuck a bitch up.
Brilliant.
“He’s here,” he tells me, voice all growly and alpha. At first, I assume he’s talking about Chet Jr. Cody Archer (LOL, sorry, but wooooow, that name), but then I realize that it’s Alexei that he’s talking about.
“I told you he would be, didn’t I?” Bohnes offers up from the other side of the Stingray, leaned up against the side of the Chevelle. He turns his head to watch as Alexei Grove steps out of a very pretty little Barracuda. My favorite year, too, 1969, the golden age of muscle cars.
People turn to look at him, dressed in that same red hoodie and mask, those fingerless gloves, the fake glasses. He slams the driver’s side door shut and then stares down at the mud beneath his feet like he’s paralyzed. Eventually, he gets his shit together enough to walk over to us.
I don’t expect what comes next, not at all.
Somehow, I keep forgetting that even if he’s got massive OCD issues, he’s rather daring.
“Scarlett Force.” It’s a statement, not a question as it should be. This boy tryna fuck up our cover? Our eyes meet, and I can feel the sexual tension brewing between us.
“Yeah? Who wants to know?” I shoot back, like I might if a guy I found attractive approached me out of the blue. “You new around here?”
“I’m enrolling at Prescott on Monday. I suggest you get to know me quickly: I’m your new boyfriend.” He moves past me in the direction of the bleachers, and the gathered crowd grows quiet in anticipation, hissing whispers passed around like the sound of a simmering pot, growing hotter by the second.
“Wait, your name’s Marie, isn’t it?” I call out, and several of my girls snicker. “Yeah, I’ve seen that guy around Marcola before. Alex Marie. Cocky fuck.” I flip him off, but I smirk, and I don’t deny that we’re dating.
That was always the plan anyway, wasn’t it?
Now I’ll be famous for two things at Prescott High: racing cars and having three boyfriends.
Kudos to me.
Only, it’s not fucking three. It’s fucking four. And fuck this world, just fuck.
I pause and glance over my shoulder in time to see both the Shelby Cobra and the blue Pontiac Trans Am that Ash borrowed on my birthday last month. Right. Because that was Cody’s car. I nibble on my bottom lip and then sigh, reaching up to brush loose strands of ebon back from my face.
I’m still dressed in the black crop top and form-fitting jeans from earlier, slung low as fuck like I’m a Y2K heiress popstar hyped-up on coke. I won’t have to do much to impress Chet Jr. over here.
The boys park side by side, and then out they come, all glittery and expensive.
Ash…pen is dressed in red slacks today, the color surprisingly bright against the mud. He’s paired them with a black dress shirt, tie, and a gold watch. Also, his eyes, they blaze with unspoken fury, as if he hates the world and everyone in it.
For a brief second there, I almost falter. I’m almost convinced that he’s actually Aspen. That’s how fucking convincing the facial expression is. My girls hiss at him, eyes narrowed, suspicion rife. Not only is Lemon missing—and everybody here knows what happens to poor girls who go missing after dating rich boys—but last time ‘Aspen’ was at the track, he was facing off against Widow in a fistfight, refusing to acknowledge his loss.
