Page 132 of Vile Bastards
As per usual, my mother and aunt have both invited new boyfriends to dinner today. Happens every year. Apparently, I’m no exception to that rule.
“Scarlett.” My grandmother points to a large salad bowl, and I know what I’m supposed to do. I prep the salad, trying not to be annoyed at Emma Jean and how at home she seems here. Didn’t we just kill a dude in the living room all of six weeks ago? Or is that the reason she feels so comfortable here in the first place?
I stay where I am as my mother comes in from the backyard, offering me up a dark look on her way past. She ends up in the living room as I hear the doorbell ring followed by an unfamiliar male voice. My aunt’s loser boyfriend? Or my mom’s loser boyfriend? Not that it matters either way.
Eventually, my Uncle Bob shows up, offering my fuckboys much darker looks than the women in my family did. Trixie—Lemon’s aunt—is the last to show, and I’ll admit, I have a much stronger reaction to her presence than I expected.
“Trixie,” I say, breathing heavily and doing my best to control the panic attack resting at the very edges of my conscious. Bohnes hovers nearby, hand fisted in his pocket. I hate to even imagine what he might have in there. A knife? A gun? A smoke bomb? If he felt he had to, he’d toss one down in the room and spirit me away.
He’s just romantic like that, I guess.
“Scarlett,” Trixie offers, eying Widow like the piece of meat he is. Only, he’s my cut, and I don’t like to share. That helps a little with the grief and the panic. But just a little. Trixie stands there, looking decades older than she really is. Drug use rides you hard and hangs you up wet, you know? Or however the idiom goes. Pretty sure it has something to do with horses and not crack hos, but the meaning stands.
“Have a seat.” I hold out a hand to indicate an empty chair, aware that Trixie will only be here for twenty minutes at most. She’s fidgety, her gaze flicking every which way. Swear to God she locks onto the dudes my aunt and mother brought as guests, and I wonder if they’re not clients of hers or something. Clients, as in johns, I mean. As in, men who pay for sex who are quite literally some of the scummiest scum on the entire planet.
It’d figure that my mom and/or aunt would choose someone that pathetic to bring over for a holiday. Not like it hasn’t happened before.
Trixie takes a seat, and because nobody else can stand her, I sit beside her. Widow gets the spot on her other side, but he doesn’t look all that happy about it.
I’m about to sit down when I hear a knock at the door.
“Isn’t this everyone?” my mother asks as I move over to answer it.
Thank God my Prescott paranoia encourages me to check before I open the door.
You have got to be fucking shitting me!
“One sec.” I throw an apologetic smile over my shoulder—mostly for my grandmother—and step outside. “What the hell are you doing here?” I whisper, surprised to see Ash Kelly on my doorstep. I don’t see any fancy cars parked nearby, but he could’ve driven any one of the random, unremarkable sedans on the street.
He’s dressed up in an oversized black hoodie and sweats, a mask on his face. Right. Like two masked guys at our gathering won’t be a dead giveaway. I’m not even sure how poor Marie is going to eat with it on his face.
“You said prove it. Here I am, proving it.” He grabs my wrist, and I yank my arm from his hold. We don’t have the time to sneak off for sex—not yet anyway. I’m already overdue for at least three or four smacks with a rolled-up magazine. My grandma is old-school; she will beat my ass hard with it, too.
“Fuck. Come in.” I grab his hand and shove the door open before he can protest. Even with the mask on, I can see his already pale skin blanch even further. “Hey everyone! Last minute addition. This is … Kelly Kitagawa.”
He pauses there in front of my family, in front of the other fuckboys—Widow looks particularly furious—and mutters under his breath.
“His English isn’t very good,” I lie, sharing a private look with him. “He’s an exchange student.”
“I wasn’t aware that Prescott High was qualified to receive exchange students?” Geneva offers up, exchanging her own look with Anita. She’s right. Prescott High is such a dump, it’s not qualified to receive any person from anywhere ever. But still.
“Err, not exchange student. His family just moved here.”
“From where?” My mother is in fine form today, studying Ash’s tall frame with a deep-set frown.
