Page 33 of Vile Bastards
“If you want to race, let’s race. I’ll let you kick my ass if it’ll make you feel better about getting back on the track.” Nisha opens her burger, scraping off the sauce with a spare fry, and then closes it up again. She takes a bite and chews thoughtfully. “Not to sound like a wet blanket, but it’s not the race I’m worried about, Scar. It’s you, and the motherfuckin’ mob, and the goddamn mayor. It ain’t all that hard to figure out where you live, you know?”
Widow sits up suddenly, drawing Nisha’s attention over to him. She wrinkles her nose, as if she forgot he existed and is disappointed to remember. My besties—and my girls—aren’t used to sharing me with men. And they’re not very happy about it.
“Bohnes and I are watching over her; nothing will happen.” Widow’s confidence is absolute. At least, at first glance, it sounds absolute, but then he’s grinding his teeth and scowling in the general direction of the track.
He thinks he failed. Bohnes thinks he failed. Alexei definitely thinks he failed.
Ash … well, I’d tell ya if I knew what the hell fuckboy number two was up to. He hasn’t answered any of my texts or calls to his burner phone, and I’m pretty sure he blocked me on his regular number. Bohnes promised to contact him and arrange a meeting, but I don’t like this sudden lack of contact. Another asshole playing hard to get?
I snort and pick up another fry.
“If they were going to kill me outright, they’d have done it already.” It’s not a lie, but also, I can’t figure out why that is. A lot of men died that night, on both sides. Do they blame each other? They can’t possibly have figured out it was four high school students (plus a nineteen-year-old) who ended up fucking them over, right? That defies anyone’s rational logic.
I’m hoping my meeting tomorrow with Emma Jean sheds some light on the situation.
“Put our girls to work, Scarlett.” Nisha sets her burger aside, and I pick it up, finishing it off as she drinks her milkshake. She never eats a whole one, and I can put away two pretty easily. “Not directly, but the way you did with the Bolin kid. Let them do their jobs. The Crimson Crew didn’t earn a reputation by sitting around and twiddling their goddamn thumbs.”
“Don’t refer to us as the Crimson Crew,” I tell her with a groan. “I fucking hate that name.”
“We can’t just go terrorizing Prescott without a proper name,” Basti asserts, and then his face falls suddenly, and I know without a doubt that it’s Lemon that’s just crossed his mind. “I’m dancing every night this week; I’ll see if I can’t dig up more information on that UGG boot thing.”
“Don’t play dumb when we all know you’re anything but,” I warn him. “It’s not UGG like the boots, it’s UGB, urban growth boundary. I’m curious to see who’s opposing the mayor. It might not tell us anything, but it’s worth asking about.”
I scoot to the edge of the table and hop off, moving over to stand beside Widow’s ‘Vette. Two fuckboys’ vehicles totaled at this point. I wonder if the Stingray and the Chevelle will live to see the end of this tragic tale?
“You could race me, you know?” I suggest, but Widow offers up a simple shake of his head. There’s a flash of concern in his amber eyes as he looks down at me. “Why the fuck not?”
“Because of your current mood, I might just beat you, and I don’t think you need that with the state you’re in.”
I just stare at him.
“You better be fuckin’ with me,” I warn him, putting my hands on the hips of the high-waisted capri pants I’m wearing. They’re checkered like the flag we use to indicate the end of a race. Paired with a short-sleeved black turtleneck and red cat-eye sunglasses, I’m looking fierce today.
Nobody would know that I’ve had several more panic attacks since last Monday.
Nobody would know that—other than the night with the boys—I haven’t been able to sleep for more than an hour or two at a time.
Nobody but Widow, eh?
I appreciate his concern, but it also annoys me.
“Race me or I won’t let you come in the house anymore.” I cross my arms under my breasts and Widow’s eyes follow the motion, studying the curved weight of my tits as they rest against my inked skin.
“You’d leave me out in the cold like that?” he asks slyly, scooting over to the edge of the hood and sliding off. He looms over me, big and muscular and intimidating. Before he suddenly fell head-over-heels for me, the guy actually had me worried.
Maybe he really could be the King of Prescott High? He’s been doing a nice job this week whipping the boys into shape. It usually takes three or four good fights before a person is even considered to be in the running for such a position.
