Page 30 of Vile Bastards
“Don’t let this distraction get to you,” Jonas says, rousing me from my thoughts. I hate my very existence so much that the moment I come to, my skin ripples with disgust, and cold beads of sweat form on my forehead. “You need to keep your head in the game.”
“What distraction?” I ask incuriously. “Ash? I consider myself lucky that he crashed his car into the sea.” I stand up as Springfield’s police chief, Ernest Bolin, stumbles back over to us, drunk off his ass, his pants undone from whatever cheap fuck he just paid for in one of the building’s dark rooms. He’s stressed about his son—as he admittedly should be—and trying to screw away the pain.
“Your usual girl is here tonight; I already paid her for you.” He slaps me on the back and then hollers for another drink.
But there’s only one girl in this world that I want, one precious person.
I’ll do whatever I need to do to keep up this charade: anything but that.
I won’t hurt Scarlett, and I won’t fuck desperate girls with sad faces so they can pay their rent.
“I’m already bored with her; you can have her.” I shove past him, ignoring his cry as he drunkenly topples into a table and falls over. Laughter follows, and I can hear Chet Archer offering to take over in my place.
I head outside, head held high, nodding in response to the polite greetings from staff and regulars that stream past me. Everyone here is a member of the same, pretty little club. It doesn’t have any official name, but there’s one specific idol that they all worship: greed.
I hop into the newly repaired Shelby Cobra, breathing heavily and leaning my head back against the seat. Two parts of me war for attention: the half that’s thrilled to have captured Aspen’s power, and the half that’s exhausted.
Aspen versus Ash Kelly, all taking place inside of me.
With a sigh, I lift my head and start the engine, smashing the throttle and rocketing out of the parking lot in such a way that causes the Cobra to careen dangerously from side to side.
But, not only is this what Aspen would do, it also burns off some of that tight, trapped feeling beneath my shoulder blades. I want nothing more than to head to the track, to race someone, anyone—especially Scarlett.
To see Scarlett, touch Scarlett, fuck Scarlett … I visited her in the hospital before she ever woke up; I left flowers. I’m practically frothing with the need to prove to myself that she is, in fact, alive. But I can’t. Because Jonas is watching me. And Chet and Ernest are watching me. The press is watching me.
I can’t lead them back to Scarlett, no matter how desperate I become.
Of course, this is nothing new: I’ve always been, and will continue to be, attracted to the one place in the world where I’m not supposed to go.
Since I can’t go to the track and I can’t go to Scarlett, I head downtown, to that spot of bare earth where my father’s opponent from the last mayoral election—Larron Van Gordon—is buried. Well, it was bare earth anyway.
I park half on and half off the curb, climbing out in a black-on-black three-piece with shiny white and black shoes that make me look like a movie villain.
The parking lot’s been poured for the future condo that’ll one day grace this spot and block other resident’s views of the old train station and the tree-covered hills behind it. But who cares about them?
The goal here is to shove every last riffraff and street rat out of Prescott and fill it with wealthy voters who buy luxury condos and like politicians who smile a lot. I turn and glance across the street, at the condemned apartment building that was still half-full last I heard about it.
It’s late, almost three o’clock in the morning, but as I watch, the front doors of the building open and several men come out, dragging reluctant renters along behind them. The people are shoved onto the sidewalk, bags and suitcases chucked along with them. Boxes crash on the pavement and items spill out into the street.
I turn around and move to lean against the hood of the Cobra, watching as the displaced people—probably the last of the building’s residents—are left to pick up their broken and spilled items, and then stand there in the icy autumn air, wondering where it is exactly that they should go.
Eventually, some of them make a phone call—or two or three or four—until someone comes to get them. I decide to start recording as more people are escorted outside and left with whatever they can carry. It takes a while, but I count forty-two residents in total.
The front doors are then locked with a heavy chain, and notices are plastered across every square inch of the walls and windows. I can’t read what it says from here, but I can guess.
