Page 3 of Vile Bastards
Chiefly ‘Prescott High’ slang: Nightmare - noun - alternate evolution from the typical fuckboy to fiancé route; a boy who dedicates himself fully to a girl, who will kill for her, die for her, fight for her, even if he’s remembered so little and so infrequently that she isn’t sure if he’s a dream or a nightmare; permanent, forever, no take-backsies (use only in case of apocalypse)
Ah, snap.
Let’s shatter the fourth wall again, shall we?
You know what the definition of insanity is, right? Doing the same crap over and over again while expecting a different result. That’s you, my friend.
Or maybe you’re worse than insane because you know what the result is, and you came back anyway. Wait … don’t take this the wrong way, dear bibliophile, but are you a masochist?
If so, I guess it makes sense why you’d come back for a third literary wallop. We have a lot of sadists here in the Prescott neighborhood; I’ll hook you up. Anyway, you win: you’re as psycho as the rest of us.
That is, those of us who are left. I have to be honest with you right now: somebody died. Yeah, right there, at the end of the last book. But who was it? Did you figure it out? If you did, well, you’re just a regular ol’ gumshoe, aren’t ya? If you didn’t, don’t worry: you’ll find out soon enough.
Where were we? Ah, that’s right. My fuckboy’s million-dollar orange Lambo is in midair, my other fuckboy is facing off against a cop while gunshots ring in the star-studded ebon sky, and the most loyal fuckboy of them all is tied to a chair surrounded by mob goons.
So, where’s the fourth fuckboy? That was my question, too.
There’s a snake in the grass, my friends. I wore my best boots, but trenchant fangs sever even the strongest bonds. Sometimes, you think you know how to handle a serpent, but it still bites.
That sharp pain? It’s not the worst part. Oh no, it’s the slow, agonizing death that comes in its wake.
Hemotoxic hell, neurotoxic nightmare, cytotoxic corruption.
My heart, it’s still beating, but it’s gone necrotic.
Hit me with that antivenom, baby.
I need a pharmacological fix, stat.
There’s a viper in this bitch’s den.
Four weeks (and some change) before I receive a severed penis as an anniversary gift …
Some asshole brought the mob down on us.
If you’d been in your right mind, Scar, you would’ve turned this asshole down when he asked for help. Because I knew better than to get involved with someone like Alexei Grove-Borisov. Because I know as well as anyone else that while toxic chemistry and forbidden, impossible romance feels like taking that very first breath of air after emerging from deep waters, it’s also the same force that pushes you beneath the rapids all over again.
It strangles you. It darkens your lungs with wet. It makes you choke and gag and writhe.
I’ve seen it, more times than I care to count.
And yet, my dick-drunk pussy dragged me kicking and screaming into this mess.
So, some asshole called the mob—indirectly or not—and here we are, cannonballing through the air like bats in the night. Only, we’re bats with style because we’ve got a legendary Miura tucked under our asses.
The blond germaphobe mob brat is seated right beside me. At least I got to feel what he’d be like unleashed, unhinged, rutting and fucking in the mud. Carpe noctem, am I right? I seized the shit out of that dick.
Here I am, my stomach in my throat, the tops of trees whipping by on either side of me.
It’s the single most glorious and simultaneously terrifying moment in my entire life. I’m flying. I’m soaring. I can’t be caught or tamed or caged. It’s just me and Alexei and a night sky dotted with winking stars, coy and shy behind floating gray clouds.
Time slows down; I pull in a deep breath; the radio crackles like a living thing. I swear to God, somehow it’s tuned to KMZI 66.6, and it’s three am. It’s the witching hour. It’s a time for mischief and tricks and magic.
It’s also a really good time to die.
I open my mouth to call out to Alexei—take your seat belt off, get ready to swim—when the water comes rushing up toward the windshield, and I—
Alexei
The impact of the Lamborghini hitting the ice-cold waters of the McKenzie River is enough to knock my teeth together, one hand gripping Scarlett’s, the other clenched on the edge of the window.
There isn’t a spare second to contemplate our situation—or the news I received from the family on our very brief phone call. We’re on the dirt road; we’re flying; we’re in the water and sinking.
“Scarlett!” I grind out, turning toward her as water rushes in the open windows. We’ll be under in a minute or less, no doubt about that. My gloved hands fumble with my seat belt as I turn toward her, only to see the girl I just lost my virginity to slumped over the steering wheel. There’s blood streaming down the sides of her face, rapidly washed away by the shush and slur of the water.
