Page 93 of Vile Bastards
“I’ll see what I can do, but I can’t promise anything.” Ash pauses here and wets his lips, looking over at Bohnes and not me. “Before I forget, Chet Archer’s contracted me to murder both Emma Jean as well as Scarlett.”
And there we go. Typical Thursday in Prescott, am I right?
Scarlett
As promised, Widow pulls up in the driveway just after Bastian leaves with the Pantera. Not only is tonight at the track suddenly a lot more important than I expected, we’re heading to motherfuckin’ Portland next Friday.
“You could be a big deal, you know,” I tell him after we’ve been driving for a while. He glances over at me with this what the fuck? look on his face, and I grin.
“I’m already a big fucking deal,” he quips back at me, and I get hot all over. I love it when he talks like that. Also, there’s a romance novel wedged between his seat and the center console. It has Fabio on the cover. Legit. Fabio. “The hell are you even talking about?”
“On the track, I mean. You’re this good, and you’re nothing but an itty-bitty baby racer.” I reach over and pinch his right nipple through his shirt. He damn near crashes into a parked car and then throws me this look of pure thunder that I hope foretells a breaking storm later on. Please dear God, let the rains come down. “You should keep practicing and try your hand at P-Trip, too.”
“I’m not interested in a racing career; I just wanted to fit into Prescott car culture. Where else on earth is like this place?” I’m semi-disappointed that he doesn’t want a career, but also … he’s not wrong. Also, also …
“If you don’t want a career in racing then what do you want?” I ask, looking him over as he drives in that signature one-handed style of his. “Besides a fucking yuppie, bourgeois, middle-class fairy-tale ending with a wedding, kids, and a house. I done already fuckin’ heard you on that one.”
Widow’s mouth purses then twitches. At least he found my insult funny. I was serious. Mostly.
“I’m only partially serious about all that,” he adds, glancing over at me. “I mean, I do want to be your husband. Everything else is eh, I can adjust my vision. You want a career in racing, don’t you?”
“Or stunt driving.” I make a frame around my face with my hands. “Doesn’t this look like a face made for Hollywood?”
“You want to be an action star or something?” he asks, and I shrug.
“I’d do all my own stunts. On my résumé, I’d list drove a fuckin’ orange Lambo Miura into a frigid November river. How do you think that’d go over? I’d have something to talk about in the audition, at the very least.”
Widow smiles but then frowns again, glancing out the window at the frost on the edges of the road. A cold snap arrived overnight and everything in this town is frozen to the bone.
“If the weather had been like this on that day …” he doesn’t finish his sentence. We both know.
“I’d be pushin’ up daisies,” I murmur, closing my eyes and leaning back in the seat. I had to dress for the weather today. That is, I’m wearing a Sherpa denim jacket that smells like plums and wet, moist earth in the middle of a fairy-tale forest. I hold the lapel up to my nose and pull in a deep and audible inhale.
“Nice to know that you can joke about your own death. What was I supposed to do, Scarlett? I already fuckin’ told you that I’m only going to try this romance thing once. If you die, what then?”
I open my eyes and turn to look at him, curiosity piqued.
“What were you planning on doing?” I ask, knowing I should want and expect a healthy answer like I’d grieve, but I’d go on; life goes on. But come on, there’s a reason I call this crew fuckboy psychos.
“Going on a killing spree,” he admits, grim-faced but stone-serious. “I’d start with the mayor, but I’d get as many of those bastards as I could before the cops mowed me down.” He shifts gears and then slides the ‘Vette riiiiiight into my space out front of the school.
“You son of a bitch,” I whisper, but I’m doubly thrilled, both at his disturbing admission and also his boldness. “This is a one-time thing.” I lift up a finger in warning before opening my door and climbing out to see Nisha waiting.
I drop my oversized shades down to cover my eyes. It’s sunny as shit, but cold as the devil’s butthole. How is that even possible?
“Morning sunshine,” I greet, enjoying the feel of Widow’s gaze as it burns holes through me. I know what I look like from behind today. I’ve got on my lucky pair of jeans, a pale wash denim absolutely riddled with holes all down the front. Real holes, as in, from being worn, not from being purchased pre-ripped. Don’t get me started on that shit again. Anyway, the denim is soft and supple now, shaped to the round curve of my ass and hugging my thighs and calves where it dips beneath the leather of my ankle-high boots.
