Page 84 of Vile Bastards
I’ve got some time to deal with this, but not a lot of it.
Eventually, Chet will not only put another of his goons on the job, he’ll realize something’s wrong with me when I don’t complete the acts. Because Aspen was a good boy for Jonas and Chet, because he did everything they asked of him and relished the work.
I’ll talk to Bohnes tomorrow, but if we’re going to solve this mystery, we need to solve it quick. Or else I need to take Scarlett Force and run, as fast as I can, as far away as I can, and leave everything and everyone else behind.
Including the inevitable bloodshed. Because even if it costs me my life, I’ll kill these men to save Scarlett.
I scratch at my forearm again and do my best to stop thinking about frogs.
Scarlett
Alexei is wearing the fancy-pants hoodie and sweatpants that I saw him in when Ash last came to the warehouse with us, freshly laundered (obviously). Bohnes is really earning that multi-million-dollar payout, eh?
“You run his stuff to the dry cleaners for him?” I ask, but Bohnes just shrugs his shoulders, hauling a bag out of the trunk of the Chevelle. It’s full of clothes for Alexei’s glow-down (opposite of a glow-up). That is, he needs to look like a Prescott brat or else the mayor’s people will find him in all of two seconds. He just looks shiny and expensive. We need to rough him up a bit.
“He puts it in a bag. I drop that bag off with one of my associates. It returns all shiny and new. That’s about as much thought as I put into it.” He uses one bone-inked hand to push open the warehouse door, ignoring Alexei who’s standing with his arms crossed off to one side. “Knock-knock, Mr. Borisov.” Bohnes chuckles as he moves into the building and tosses the bag onto the table.
Alexei shudders all over, turning to stare at the bag and its contents with a tense, unhappy expression.
“I don’t see why I can’t wear my own clothes. Is this not an appropriate outfit? All I ever see Kellin Bohnes wear is a hoodie and sweatpants.” Alexei pauses at the sound of a car on the gravel road, and we all turn to look.
The Stingray is pulling up just outside.
Widow climbs out, popping the trunk and removing two, large garbage bags full of clothes. As soon as Alexei lays his eyes on them, he blanches, turning to Bohnes with an accusatory burn in his green gaze.
“There’s no money left to purchase new clothes?” he asks, and Bohnes shakes his head.
“I can’t risk returning to the estate again, so …” Bohnes unzips the duffel, and then offers up a sickeningly patronizing smile. “No.” He yanks out a hoodie and tosses it in Alexei’s direction. He doesn’t catch it. Instead, he takes a step back to avoid the item and it ends up landing on the dirt floor. “That’s your loss, you understand?” He holds up his hands and retreats backward from the table, palms up in surrender. “Have at it, Borisov.”
Alexei frowns even harder, swallowing back a shudder of disgust as Widow approaches and drops both garbage bags in his hands on the floor beside the table.
“Here’s my contribution, seeing as you were admiring my look the other day.” He pokes one of the garbage bags with the toe of his boot, and I can’t help myself. I actually do admire him in an old black and purple Heavy Metal tee, faded black jeans with real holes (can’t even fuckin’ believe I have to specify that shit), and black boots with mismatched laces. One side has brown, the other gray.
Hot as fuck.
I bite my lip and reach down, giving my kitty cat a nice squeeze that draws and holds Widow’s attention.
“Fuck,” he grinds out, and Bohnes snorts. Alexei scowls and turns away, pacing over to the bed and pausing in front of the nightstand with his head down, fingers massaging his forehead.
“No, not exactly. We don’t have time for that.” He points at Widow with a single, bone-inked finger. “You and I are going to scout the meeting place ahead of time while Scarlett grunges up the rich boy. Did you bring the dye?” He turns to me, and I grin, lifting up the small bag on my right arm.
“Got it.”
“What dye?” Alexei asks, turning back around with such a thunderous expression in place you’d think we asked the guy to perform an emergency circumcision on himself, stat. “I’m not dying my hair, if that’s what you’re referring to.” He reaches up and, in what must be an act of total exhibition, runs black-gloved fingers through his blond hair. Chin up, lips parted, eyes half-lidded and sleepy. “I’d rather die.”
“Don’t be dramatic.” I move over to the table and reach into the bag, pulling out small plastic tubs of Punky Colour hair dye. It’s the preferred choice at Prescott when it can be stolen, purchased, or traded. Otherwise, it’s Kool-Aid for the win. Smells good, too. Cheap and klassy, just the way we like it. “I was thinking hot pink with a strip of blond in the front.” I tap my nails on the lid of the Flamingo Pink. “But we could also go with Cotton Candy and—”
