Page 96 of Vile Bastards
“Scarlett.” Widow’s amber eyes blaze as he looks into mine. “You’re done, okay?”
I jerk away from him, huffing and puffing, realizing as I do that there’s a bit of blood leaking from my lip. True must’ve gotten me, and I didn’t even notice. I jerk my knuckles over my lip to clear the blood away, but only end up smearing more of it.
“I’m done,” I agree, looking around at the messy cafeteria, my ready and willing crew, and the bloody face of True, the overly gung-ho sophomore girl I’ve just taken my anger out on. It’s not her that I’m angry with—although she did break my no-Lemon-gossip edict—it’s the mayor. It’s Chet Archer. It’s Ernest Bolin. It’s this horrible world, and the systems in it that buoy horrible men like that, this terrible social contagion that teaches people to punch down in the hierarchy instead of up. All of that.
I turn away and shove out through the doors only to find Bohnes waiting for me. He hands over the already open umbrella he was carrying.
“Bravo,” he murmurs, and I snatch it from his hand, turning and storming toward the front doors of the school. It’s hailing outside right now which is just fine. The weather fits my mood. I slip past the metal detectors, past Officer Two-Pump Chump, and down the front steps.
The hail pings off the surface of the umbrella as I stand there panting, my breath frosting in the cool November air. It’s Friday. One week until P-Trip. Only six days until Thanksgiving.
I force myself not to think about Lemon and how she’s been at every holiday dinner since preschool. It’s not helpful. It won’t bring her back.
“Where are you planning on going?” Widow asks me, coming up to stand too close behind me. I turn around to see that he’s under the safety of the umbrella, hot-blooded and beautiful with bits of hail stuck in his jewel-toned hair. He’s panting, too, and I’m tempted to stand on my tiptoes, just to see if I can’t inhale the little white clouds coming from his plump lips.
“I need to center myself for the race tonight. More than that, I need to center myself for Portland next week.” I go to turn away when Widow grabs my arm, fingers burning hot against my skin. He opens his mouth to say something, but then notices Officer Tidwell—the idiot probation officer—strolling up the sidewalk with a boy’s arm clenched in her hand.
“Fuck.” Widow swipes his inked hand over his mouth as I reach out and push up his shirt sleeve, studying the ink on his arm. Clearly, this isn’t a prison tat. He must’ve gotten it right after being released. There’s a car—it looks like the ‘Vette—but it’s black with a red hourglass on the hood. Widow. A black and white checkered flag serves as the background, and there are red roses with wicked thorns sprouting from the edges that create a nice, clean border. I rub my thumb over the art, and Widow shudders. “I can’t wait until I turn eighteen,” he murmurs, and I hook a smile, reaching up to brush some bits of hail from his hair.
Stepping forward, I reach around him and slip my hands into his back pockets, just the way I’d planned to do on the first day we met. Instead of slapping me away this time, he lets me do it, and I move back, dangling the Stingray’s keys between us.
“Let me borrow your car?” I ask, affecting a pouty moue. Bastian will be gone with the Devil all day, working with a friend of his at the autobody shop on the damage Widow left on the front end. That, and preparing her for the track tonight.
Widow crosses his big arms over his chest, his denim jacket tossed over them.
“Look, I’m growing up. I asked this time.”
“Mm.” He glances back over at Officer Tidwell as the bell rings, and then works his jaw in annoyance. “Take it, but don’t go alone.” He turns back to me, uncrossing his arms and taking the jacket so that he can drape it over my shoulders. Yep. He reads a lot of romance novels. “You’re ruining my life, you know that?”
He takes my face between his hands before I can offer a retort, kissing the blood from my mouth with a punishing sweep of his tongue. When he pulls back, his lips are shiny and red.
Nisha comes to stand beside us, hands tucked in the pockets of her long coat. She has a hoodie underneath, the hood thrown up to protect her from the hail.
“I’ll go with her. Young people should go to class,” she offers up dryly, and Widow sighs.
He doesn’t think it’s enough, me and Nisha.
“I’m safer in your car anyway.” I look at the keys and then turn to glance over at the metallic purple ’69 Corvette, parked in my fucking space. Sigh. Some asshole stole my parking space is right. I look back at Widow. “You’re the only one with zero connection to this shit.”
