Page 1 of Vile Bastards
Scarlett
Romance comes in the form of a severed penis, tucked inside a metallic blue jewelry box with a delicate white ribbon. The detached phallus belongs to an unfortunate man with an unfortunate name: Chet Jr. Cody Archer.
As tone-deaf as the name is, the guy is a creep. Was a creep? Is he dead? That’s the first thought that goes through my mind as I slide the lid back onto the box and footsteps pound down the stairs behind me. There’s not a chance in hell that I can let anyone in my family see that I’m holding a spare dick in a box.
I won’t lie: I thought it was a naked mole-rat at first, but the lamp’s on now, so there’s more light in here. They’d probably recognize it for what it is. It’s quite possible I’d kill my poor Grandma Patricia with a heart attack if she knew the sorts of gifts that my fuckboys sent.
What if this isn’t Cody’s dick? What if it’s somebody else’s? It’s far too small to belong to any of my missing men, so that’s a relief.
“What’s that?” my sister, Alexis, asks. She gestures at the box with her chin and then crosses her arms obstinately over her chest. “Another gift?”
“Another?” I ask, glancing over my right shoulder toward my fuckboy. He raises a brow as if he, too, was unaware of a second gift. Clearly, he didn’t send either of them. I can at least take a guess as to who sent the freshly diced peen. “Where is it?”
Alexis stares at me for a minute, and then rolls her eyes, stomping over to the coffee table and pointing accusingly at a black velvet box that looks suspiciously like it might hold a ring of the engagement variety. That is, pure poison. A throat punch. An elbow to the solar plexus.
My thumb plays absently with the crude metal ring I’m already wearing, the one I was going to discuss today with the domineering fuckboy dickhead that’s standing behind me.
“How was this delivered?” I ask, and Alexis huffs angrily.
“How should I know? It was sitting on the porch when I woke up this morning.” She storms off toward the kitchen like I’ve purposefully set out to ruin her goddamn day. I grit my teeth but do my best to ignore her.
“Fuck.” That’s all my fuckboy—or should I call him a fiancé now?—growls out from behind me. I ignore him, setting the wayward willy aside in its pretty, little box. Then I pick the other box up, the one that seems somehow more menacing than detached male genitals could ever be.
I crack it open.
There’s a ring inside. Actually, there’s a diamond inside. A whistle slips past my lips as I consider how much money I might get by pawning this thing. Even better, I could sell it online for top dollar. Only, I won’t do either of those things because money doesn’t drive me.
Danger does.
Adrenaline does.
Hot, angry sex with psychotic men does, apparently.
But not money.
I snap the box closed. Just by looking at it, I know who it’s from, and I realize that during our conversation yesterday, I agreed to this. “Tell me yes, even if it’s a lie.” That’s what the fuckboy said to me, and I agreed, and because he’s a fuckboy, this is what happened.
Never trust your sidepiece not to take things to another level.
My phone buzzes and—expecting it to be one of the monster cocks in my stable of men—I answer it. Only, it’s not any of them, it’s someone else entirely.
