Page 74 of Vile Bastards
“You think that’s a fucking threat?” he asks me, and then he laughs again. “I’m not about to let you go, Scarlett Force. You screwed yourself by pursuing me. It’s over for you. I’m not going anywhere.”
My mouth twitches, but I’m not displeased.
“When do you hit the big one-eight?” I ask, wondering how much longer I’m going to have an underage boy toy running around.
“My birthday is Christmas day,” he says, and he sounds supremely annoyed by that.
“Oh, you really are a young, piece o’ ass, aren’t ya?” I look him over with a lascivious sweep of eyes, and then smack my lips. “Mm-mm. Fresh, young cock. Unspoiled. Organic.”
He lets out another scoffing snort.
“I’m getting kicked out of the halfway house on my eighteenth birthday. On Christmas day, I’ll be homeless. I mean, I’ll be more than glad to get out of that shithole, but where am I supposed to go? I’ll probably end up living in my goddamn car.”
I let that thought sit in the back of my mind for later.
“How’d you learn to drive? You’re good, better than I’d expect for someone who was raised in the juvenile detention system.”
“Better than you’d expect …” he trails off, and then he cuts through an alleyway, hitting a speed bump and catching enough air that I’m both thrilled and also almost thrown into another of those annoying and inconvenient panic attacks. Frankly, they piss me off. How dare my emotions take over me in a physical way like that? I didn’t even get panic attacks after the accident. Not after I killed that sniveling rich boy and his parents. Only now. “When I turned sixteen, I was offered a volunteer position to drive the van. I’d pick kids up, drop them off.”
“That explains how you learned to drive, but not how you learned to drive.” I switch the radio on but keep the volume low, so we have some pleasant background music for our conversation.
Again, there’s that devilish smirk. It makes me want to kill him and screw him in equal measures.
“I got out of juvie at the start of summer, used the money I earned from working at the drive-in, and bought myself the ‘Vette. I fixed her up with stolen parts, got to know her on a personal level …” He grabs his junk, and I roll my eyes. “I’ve only been drive-driving for that long.”
Widow, he’s probably the least skilled racer of all the boys.
Also … “You’ve only been racing for six fucking months?!” I shouldn’t give him such a boon, such highfalutin praise, but I can’t help myself. “How … really?” I’m gobsmacked. He might be the least good of my boys, but he’s far better than most anyone else. If he’s got this much skill after six months, what will he be like in, say, a year?
“I’m just that good, I guess.” More smirking, more slouchy, one-handed driving. I kept his Sherpa lined jacket from yesterday, by the way. I slept with it in my bed, like a crazy person.
“So good that you noticed the gift I left on your seat?” His hand tightens on the wheel, but the smirk remains. He knows about it. He likes it. “Let’s go to Market of Cost.” I turn suddenly back toward the windshield. “I want something fancy and pretentious sounding to eat.”
“Market of Cost?” Widow sounds genuinely confused. I’m not surprised. I’m the only person I know who goes there, and only after a big win. Speaking of … I need to give the money I won from Aspen (the real one) over to Evelyn’s family. I’d been saving it for the buy-in for the P-Triple-C track, but Alexei took care of that by giving me a very generous birthday present.
Oh, Alexei.
I’m going to break him, ride his fat cock until it’s dripping, lick him and contaminate him and make him feel so dirty that he’ll never be clean again.
“I’ll give you directions.” I indicate the upcoming turn with a wave of my hand. “We can buy goat cheese and little fruit jellies in glass jars, paper thin crackers that cost four times as much as a box of Saltines. That sorta stuff. I notice that Widow’s furrowing his brow, and I make sure to add, “all on me. I’m buying.”
“You’re not rich either, Scarlett.” It’s not an accusation, just a fact.
“No, but I win money at the track. I steal and pawn things from the Oak Park shopping district.” I pause there, mouth twitching. “I’m dating the mayor’s son …”
“He’s just a fuckboy.” Widow’s statement brooks no argument. I mean, he isn’t wrong, but I know he’s been getting money from Ash to pay off his parole officer. It kills him, but he has little choice. It’s that or follow the rules, and we all know that’s not going to happen.
