Page 147 of Vile Bastards
“Why does everybody keep saying that?!” I choke out, running my fingers through my hair. “I am not nice!”
“A nice person would never actually admit they were nice. It’d be like donating a shit-ton of money just to get a park named after you while pretending to be a philanthropist. Truly kind people keep their good deeds like dirty, little secrets.” He flicks me in the nose and leans down, perfuming me with that forest-y male musk of his. Damn near gives me a heart attack. I rest two fingers over my chest just to feel it beating. “You, Scarlett Force, are practically a saint. Close as they come in Prescott anyway.”
Widow turns me around suddenly, slamming my ass up against the side of the car, his arm wrapped tight around my waist. He gets way too close to my mouth to not be kissing and growls out another warning.
“Frat Boy at six o’clock,” he snaps, and then he’s kissing me like he really is going to drag me off to some cave. I’d go, but only for like two seconds. Somebody clears their throat from the direction of the sidewalk, but we’re too busy making out and grinding on one another to notice.
This boy’s mouth is sharp as hell, I think, smiling even under the sudden onslaught of his wicked tongue. His fingers knead at the flesh over my hips, and he tugs me so close that I swear that I can feel the beat of his heart through the hardness of his cock. If only, I apologize to my poor pussy as Widow draws back slightly and I hazard a glance over my shoulder.
Ah, if it isn’t the one and only, the ever-fabulous Chet Jr. Cody Archer.
I laugh, pushing Widow back with a single palm on the chest. But only because he allows it, of course. I turn around and then he’s grabbing me again and yanking my back to his front, that horribly lush mouth of his near my ear.
“No matter what he says or does, don’t trust him.” Widow releases me, and I swipe two palms down the front of my trousers in what I hope is a dismissive gesture. I make sure to take my sweet time, fluffing my hair and pulling out a clear lip balm to apply while Chet Two-Point-Oh stands there with his hands tucked casually in his jeans pocket, all the while pretending to be unbothered by the entire scene.
“What do you want?” I ask him, and I don’t bother to mince words. Why talk in prose-filled circles when I can cut straight to the point? After all, I’ve got better things to do than chat. “You here to gloat? You won’t like what’ll happen if you do.”
“I’ll help you get in,” he assures me, offering a small nod of his chin. “Come on in.” He turns away and starts toward the door to the office. I go to follow him, not because I actually believe that load of horseshit, but to show him what happens when he lies to me.
“Mr. Lawless,” I snap when Widow grabs my wrist yet again, preventing me from leaving.
“Don’t go in there with him, Scarlett.” I look back to see him watching me with narrowed amber eyes. “Just don’t do it.”
“There are other people in the office.” This obvious fact sort of underscores the idea of me actually going in there to cut the guy’s balls off with a pair of dull office scissors. I scratch at the side of my head in thought. “He might want to make a deal.”
“Unless you’re planning on making that deal on your knees, it won’t happen.” Widow offers up a harsh laugh, one that’s absolutely dripping with irritation. “I told ya so” is just poised right there on that ripe lower lip of his.
“You’re the one that should be making plans for your knees.” I turn toward him suddenly, using the momentum of my spin to rip my wrist from his grip. Then I use my free hand to squeeze my crotch suggestively, offering up a smirk in response. “You’re going to be choking on cunt before the day is out.”
Widow smirks at me, extracting the pack of cigarettes from his back pocket. He smiles around one as he looks askance at the No Smoking sign on the wall, and then lights up.
“I’ll look forward to it,” he murmurs suggestively, and my body goes hot as a dying star. I mean, I am fucking galactic, my friend. I’m imploding. Riding that high, I turn back around and shove through the office doors to find ol’ CJ waiting for me on the bottom landing of a staircase.
“The track’s owner owes my father a favor,” he explains, as if that answers the myriad of unspoken questions that I have. My gaze shifts over to Baldy’s office. The door is closed, and I don’t hear any sound from inside. Bicycle Lips seems to be missing, too. Probably enjoying her fat-free yogurt and watching daytime soaps. Huh.
