Page 50 of Vile Bastards
Geneva’s mouth purses as she looks me over like she’s never seen me before.
My mom isn’t a bad person, not really. She’s just a typical Prescott girl who keeps falling in love with typically useless Prescott boys. Even now, when those boys are (barely) men, and she’s a grown-ass woman, the infection that is the southside seeps into her blood.
One useless loser after another. A failed college career recently revived but slow going. A dead-end job. And maybe she doesn’t realize it, but we haven’t spent any time together since Mikey died. We truly are strangers, despite the shared DNA.
My mom is yet another example of the future I don’t want.
Don’t fuck yourself over for a fuckboy, I warn, but I already know that I’m in trouble. Because Nisha is right. Because I fall too hard. Because now that I’ve fucked them, I want them, and I don’t want to let them go.
Because I think violent thoughts when I consider them leaving.
“Can’t you wear something more age appropriate?” she asks, but I’m not about to entertain this conversation. I move around the side of the sofa and pluck my phone from her hand.
“You can’t parent me now, Geneva. You missed your chance; it’s over.” I head for the door. I’d rather wait outside in the gloomy Prescott umbra than stand in here with this woman for a single second longer.
She follows me to the door and puts her hand on it when I try to open it. If the look I turn over my shoulder doesn’t scare her, it should.
“We’re starting over. Today. Right now.”
I laugh at that and try the door again, but my mother puts her weight on her palm and it clicks shut again. Our eyes meet, and I can see in them some sort of misplaced pleading. It’s as if my death has woken her up from a lifelong stupor. Good for her, but I don’t have time for this.
“Geneva, I have someone waiting for me who’s been there all along. I’m sorry, but I’m going out tonight.” I open the door again, and this time, she takes a step back and watches me go. Her mouth is still pursed, but she doesn’t say a word.
This isn’t the end of it, I’m sure, but we’ll have to deal with our complicated and seriously screwed-up emotional issues later.
Bohnes’ has just pulled up in the driveway and is in the process of climbing out of the Chevelle.
I open my mouth to offer up an appropriately snarky greeting when I realize that Bohnes isn’t wearing one of his usual black-and-white outfits, complete with skeletal embellishments. No hoodie. No jeans. No sneakers.
He’s wearing a suit.
Kellin Bohnes is wearing a fucking suit.
“What … what happened?” I whisper as he turns to look at me and offers up this gloriously blinding smile. It’s all cocksure and haughty, and dripping with carnal intent, but oh my God, is it devastating.
“What happened? That’s the greeting I get?” he asks, moving up to stand before me with a single black rose in his hand. No, not a black rose, a dead rose. He’s holding a dead rose, and I have no idea what to make of that. “After I went through all this trouble to clean up for you?”
Bohnes offers up the dead flower with a flourish and then leans in, breathing deep and exhaling against the side of my neck in a way that makes me wonder why we’d bother going out on a date at all. We could just go back to his warehouse and fuck each into a sleepy stupor.
“You smell so good, Scarlett Force.” Another inhale followed by a sighing exhale. “Like a funeral.”
“A funeral?” I hold the dead rose in my hands and then let out a sharp curse when one of the thorns pricks my finger and makes me bleed. I stare down at the shiny red droplet welling on the tip of my middle finger, and then Bohnes is grabbing it and sucking it into his mouth. He cleans the blood off with his tongue as I try and fail not to be turned on by his crazy. “That’s not particularly pleasant imagery, Kellin.”
“It’s not?” He draws back, sounding genuinely baffled by the idea. “Funerals smell of fresh flowers, like lilies and carnations, chrysanthemums and roses. Is that really such a terrible fucking thing?” Bohnes lifts his bright blue eyes to the sky, studying the stars as I study him.
His shock-white hair is slicked back and, in the golden glow of the garage light, it looks almost blond. He’s forgone his usual dash of eyeliner and the charcoal smudges of shadow he puts beneath his eyes to make himself appear more ghastly. I know he does it on purpose, that he enjoys the public’s reaction to his wide-eyed, gaunt, and grinning look.
