Page 58 of Vile Bastards
I’m a disgusting, filthy rich boy with a fetish for silk and lace.
I took those panties, laid back on my bed, and used them to jack myself off. Over and over again, I cupped the sweetly scented fabric over my shaft and chafed myself raw. Even with lube, I squeezed so hard and rubbed so fast, I burned my skin.
When I came, I caught my release in the panties. Not once or twice, but many, many times. The offending underwear are now in a plastic bag in my pocket, and I hate myself for it. I’m disgusted by it, too, and I know without a doubt that I’m contaminated down to the veins. It’s in my blood, this strange and unwelcome need.
I should’ve allowed myself to die a virgin, I think as Bohnes’ black Chevelle approaches the front of the safe house. Losing the Lamborghini was both an emotional blow and a practical one. I have no transportation of my own now. I have no more pieces of Papa left.
I don’t allow myself to drift down that river of thought. What good will it do me? I have to address the family before they address me.
The passenger side door of the Chevelle opens up and there’s Scarlett, folding her arms along the top of the door and peering over it at me.
“Good morning, fuckboy. How are you feeling today?”
“I am nobody’s fuckboy,” I repeat, a surge of white-hot rage sweeping up inside of me. I move across the gravel to stand in front of her, holding my ground with our gazes locked. “I explained this to you: either I’m your boyfriend or I’m nothing at all. You can forget all about me.”
I don’t mean any of that which is a terrifying thought. I saved Scarlett from that river for a reason. My dying wish—as she so eloquently phrased it—was to bury my naked cock in her slick pussy. The clamping of those muscles, the weight of her body in my arms, the sound of her panting breaths.
I can’t stop thinking about it. It runs through my mind on repeat. No matter how many times I shower, how much I rub my skin raw with soap, how much mental bleach I pour over the image, I can’t shake it.
“No.” Her word is absolute. She frowns at me and lifts her head from her arms. “You are my fuckboy, Alexei Grove. Whether you like it or not, it’s true. If I dropped my trousers and grabbed you by the hair, you’d fall on your knees and suck my cunt like a good boy. We both know it, so stop lying to yourself.”
“I am Alexei Borisov,” I snap through gritted teeth, and there it is.
As much as I claimed to despise the blue bloods at that party—and I do—it’s not because I feel harmonious and in perfect equality with the rest of the world. Oh, no. It’s because I’m superior to them all, the rich ones and the poor ones both.
“Sure ya are.” Scarlett steps back and gestures at the back seat. “Hop in, mobster.”
I scowl at her, but she ignores me, and I swallow back a rush of bile at the idea of sitting on that seat. I know what happened back there: Lucy Hall’s body and blood graced this exact spot not all that long ago. It’s not the idea of the tragedy that keeps me from climbing in, some distant and vague fear of a haunting spirit, it’s the idea that there could be biological waste hidden behind the supple shine of the leather.
“I’m a very thorough animal,” Kellin Bohnes says, turning over his shoulder to look at me. He has his right arm tossed over the back of the seat, as if he expects Scarlett to take advantage of the bench seat to cuddle up against him.
That bothers me.
It’s bothered me from the moment I first sought this man out to inquire about his services. He wasn’t her boyfriend then, just her fuckboy, and I was still annoyed. I didn’t understand why until now.
She’s intended to be mine, the bride of a Borisov.
I’m going to make Scarlett a very wealthy and powerful woman one day.
“I don’t trust what I can’t see.” I slip a garbage bag from my back pocket, unfolding it and laying it out on the seat. Scarlett sighs dramatically from behind me as I drape another over the back, ensuring there’s an appropriately sized spot for me to sit.
Only then do I deign to sit in the backseat of some grifter’s car, arms crossed obstinately over my chest. I don’t think about the enclosed space or the fact that I’m sharing breath with both Bohnes and Scarlett. I definitely do not think about the way she smells, like plump, ripe cherries crushed between too-white teeth.
Stop that, Alexei. Get ahold of yourself.
