Table of Contents Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Join My Group
Introduction
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Unholy Terrors Cover
Throwaway Prince Cover
Havoc at Prescott High Cover
Stepbrother Inked Cover
Keep Up With The Fun
More Books By C.M. Stunich
About the Author
F*ckboy Psychos
F*ckboy Psychos © C.M. Stunich 2021
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
For information address Sarian Royal Indie Publishing, 89365 Old Mohawk Rd, Springfield, OR 97478.
www.cmstunich.com
Cover art and design © Amanda Carroll and Sarian Royal
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, businesses, or locales is coincidental and is not intended by the author.
this book is dedicated to
Layton and his ’69 Chevelle SS
just a boy and his car
you are greatly missed.
~
huge thank you to Amanda Carroll for allowing me to model Scarlett’s life, heritage, and backstory after her own.
you are amazing, as always.
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Whoa, there. Stop right now. You don’t want to read this.
Trust me: you really, really don’t want to read this. So back away slowly, hands up, and I won’t have to kill you.
They might, though. They might be willing to warm my bed, but I wouldn’t say I trusted them. Just a bunch of psychos, really.
My three f*ckboys, my three psychos.
Alexei Grove. God, what could I possibly say about him? How the mighty have fallen. Neurotic, violent, germaphobe. He hates to be touched; he hates the people who brought his family down even more.
Next, there’s Widow. Traumatized, edgy, unpredictable. Never have I seen a man so twitchy yet so alpha. Just … don’t make the mistake I did: don’t touch his f*cking car.
Lastly, there’s Bohnes. Oh, Bohnes … He’s the shadow of Prescott High. If you have enough cash, he’ll do anything. Literally anything—even bury a body. Also, he gave me severed fingers as a present. That must account for something, right?
Then there’s me.
I’m a boss-a** b*tch: I race cars and I always win.
Rule is: if I can ride it, I can win it. What I can’t do is protect you.
So, here’s my final warning: run, don’t walk.
Better yet: ride. Ride hard, ride fast, and don’t look back.
If you see my boys in the rearview, it’s already too late.
Love, Scarlett Motherf*cking Force
Scarlett
It’s damn near impossible to dig a grave without fucking up your nails.
“Shit,” I growl, examining the utter waste of a manicure on my dirty fingers. I paid a fortune for my nails, and they’re already ruined. “Thanks a lot, dickhead.” I kick the body on the ground with a bare foot and then shiver as it rolls just a bit closer to the hole I’ve been digging for the better part of two hours.
Six feet deep is … seriously fucking deep.
“Did you really get half-naked to dig a grave?” a man asks from behind me. He’s cloaked in the shadows of night, just past the bright beams of my headlights. That’s a ‘72 Pantera there, by the way. And it’s allll mine.
“You call this half-naked?” I ask, shivering at the same time I’m sweating. Because that’s how he is, Kellin Bohnes. Like, what sort of a last name is that? Bones. He was born into the macabre the same way I was birthed into South Prescott. It’s the environment that shapes the monster sometimes, ain’t it? “A bikini top and no shoes?”
Bohnes—because why the hell would we call him Kellin?—pauses beside the hood of my car and reaches out with two fingers, lifting up a pair of strappy red heels that I rocked all day at school on Friday. Widow noticed, I know he did, I think, greedily licking the memory of Adrian Lawless aka Widow in my mind. For every part of him I hate, there are equal parts I lust after.
“Louboutins, really?” Bohnes asks me, his voice like dark chocolate and nighttime secrets. I know those aren’t sounds, but it’s the only way to describe his voice. He terrifies me. He also excites me. I’m pretty sure we’re equal, swing for swing. That’s what I like best about him.
“What do you take me for? Some vagrant pickpocket? I’m a professional, Bohnes.”
He moves over to stand beside me, and it’s impossible to think about much else besides how huge he is. How alone we are, how secretive this entire moment is. If I ever really trusted Bohnes, it happened in that instant because there are so many other ways this could’ve gone if he’d been anyone else.
I’m not exactly liked at Prescott High. Feared, maybe. Respected. But not liked.
There are plenty of people who’d like to see me dead. This guy included. Not Bohnes, the dead guy I mean. Music filters from my car, this distant beat that underlies the whistle of the wind in the trees. This wasn’t how my day was supposed to go. No, I was supposed to meet that rich (and excruciatingly handsome) weirdo—Alexei Grove—at the country club in Oak Park. He was going to treat me to dinner while I listened to his plea for help.
Instead … some asshole tried to kill me.
“Let me handle this, Scarlett,” Bohnes whispers, leaning down so close to my ear that I can feel the heat of his breath. When I flick my gaze his way, the wind pulls his hood down and I can see the empty-winter-sky blue of his eyes in the light from my idling car. “This is my specialty, not yours.”
“Don’t you want to know what happened?” I whisper back, because I’d expected something like that, some demand for information, an entitlement on his part that he had a right to know. Instead, he just shakes his head slowly and looks away from me, down to the body.
“Get out of here,” he says, taking the shovel from my fingers. He uncurls them one by one, and I let him, feeling a bead of sweat drip down my spine. Even with a dead goon on my hands, I’m thinking about Bohnes. The impossible boy. The one I most definitely cannot allow myself to truly have. “This is a terrible place to bury a body.”
“And how was I supposed to know that?” I snap, turning to leave when Bohnes drops the shovel and I pause, breathing hard as he steps up close behind me. I can feel his lips on my neck, warm and reassuring as his
tongue trails down my skin … “Shit, would you stop doing that?” I choke out, but Bohnes just laughs at me.
The sound is low and full of introversion, and it’s just fucking terrifying. But I like it. Because he only ever laughs when he’s getting what he wants. In this case, that just so happens to be me.
“Why don’t you take my car? Yours has too much blood in it; it needs a full detail. Go meet with that rich developer’s son in a clean, crime-free ride.”
He snorts and his breath fans against my nape, making my entire body ache for more than just his tongue on my neck.
I don’t ask how he knows about that. Bohnes knows about everything that happens at Prescott High. He’s willing to clean up any mess—no matter how big—for the right price.
So, what the hell am I going to have to pay in return for this?
“Keys.” I hold out my palm, but when Bohnes moves to drop the keys, I snatch his wrist with my other hand. “If you fuck up my car, I’ll kill you next.”
He looks at me for a long, agonizing moment. And then smiles.
“I’ll return it, safe and sound. Pinky promise.”
He winks at me, nice and slow, and then leans in, pressing our mouths together with the soft but violent sigh of the weak. We’re weak together, for whatever reason. There’s something about Bohnes that makes me crazy.
It just … never goes any further than sex.
I never allow it to go further than sex.
“Bye,” he breathes, standing back up and turning toward the body. It certainly won’t be the first one he’s helped me bury. When he bends down to pick it up, I move away, climbing into the ’69 Chevy Chevelle SS parked just behind my Pantera. With a sigh, I watch as Bohnes throws the body back into my trunk.
I hope it isn’t hard to get all the bloodstains out.
“Right. Alexei Grove,” I murmur, sliding my phone out to see if I’ve missed any calls or texts. I have. A metric fuck-ton of them.
There’s a fight down at the track.
Aspen and Widow.
My nemesis and my crush.
Fan-flipping-tastic.
Scarlett
Fuckboy - noun - an asshole who’s good for sex and little else
Chiefly ‘Prescott High’ slang: a semi-possessive term that denotes that said boy belongs to a girl as an exclusive paramour or consort with no expectation of a future romantic relationship
Now you know. You’re welcome.
Although I have to ask: why are you here? I warned you. I warned you not to read my story. Because at the end of this book, one of my four fuckboys will be dead. He’ll deserve what’s coming to him, too. You’ll see. But you’re going to have to trust me on this. I’ll get the happy ending I deserve—eventually.
Before this is over, we’re going to expose the heart of corruption in my neighborhood: South Prescott. But the problem is this: nobody can know about my story. They cannot know that I was involved, or it’ll ruin everything.
My career. My family. My fuckboys.
I’m trusting you with all of my secrets, so please: don’t mess this up for me.
More so than that, don’t mess this up for yourself.
When I fell in love with a bunch of psychos, I knew what I was getting myself into. I am, in fact, a bit of a psycho myself. But you? You’re not safe.
Keep your mouth shut and we all might just make it out of this, okay?
Five weeks before Bohnes helped me bury the mayor’s hired gun …
Some asshole stole my parking space.
I stop my car in the center of the street, slipping my sunglasses off as I gape at the offending vehicle. It’s a nice car, I’ll give you that. Truthfully, it’s the nicest car around Prescott High save for my own.
Shifting into park, I shove my door open, ignoring the vehicles backed up behind me. Don’t give a shit if they’re annoyed or not. Everybody in this godforsaken school knows who I am. More importantly, they know not to piss me off.
I fold my sunglasses up and hook them on the neckline of my low-cut top.
“The hell is this?” my best friend, Nisha Webber, asks, pausing behind me. She’s parked in her usual spot. It’s just mine that’s taken. “Let’s smash this motherfucker’s car to pieces and get our girl to tow it out.” She looks over at me, just waiting for the order.
Personally, I’m still suffering from a case of shock. Who in this school has the ovaries to park in my space? Must be a girl, right? No boy at this school would dare …
“Looks like we have a new student,” Bastian states, coming to the most obvious conclusion. He pushes his own shades up into his dark hair and looks around for the culprit. I ignore them both, circling the car and wondering who the new kid is, and what nefarious things they might’ve done in order to afford a car like this.
Or how they got the skills to fix up a hunk o’ junk to get it to this level.
Currency at Prescott Senior High School is as follows: violence, sex, and classic cars. We love classic cars in this dump. Since none of us have money, we get ahold of rusted-out junkers, steal parts, and fix the shit ourselves.
I squat down to peer into the driver’s side window, admiring the lovingly polished leather seats. Hmm. The car is a glorious metallic purple with black rims and new tires. It’s clearly a ’69 Stingray but modified for racing. That much is obvious from a single glance.
“Huh.” I stand up straight as Nisha and Basti take up on other side of me, anticipating violence or petty bullshit. I’m prone to both, Lord knows. Instead, I pull my sunglasses back out and slip them on my face.
I don’t really give a shit whose car this is. Since it’s clearly been souped-up to race, that means the owner knows our deal here at Prescott: we race on the old track every Friday and Saturday night. If they know that, then they must know the other golden rule of this school.
If you’re stupid enough to get your car stolen, then it doesn’t belong to you anymore.
Get over it.
Only way to get it back is to, well, steal it again.
“Where’s Lemon?” I ask, referring to our other best friend from fucking forever ago. Seeing as we all go way back, I have my guesses. “She isn’t banging that teacher again?” I continue with a sigh when Nisha and Basti exchange looks. “Goddamn it. Bring me my kit.”
“Sure thing, Queen,” Nisha says with a quick glance at Bastian. They both turn to me with accusatory gazes. “But … You’re not skipping class today, are you, Scar? Tidwell won’t like that.”
I wrinkle my nose; she’s right.
Officer Tidwell is the school’s truant officer. It’s her job to round our ratchet asses up and drag us to this pathetic excuse for a school. As much as I’d like to steal this car right now, I have to choose my battles.
“Fuck.” I grit my teeth, nostrils flaring as I close my eyes and take in a deep breath. I would love nothing more than to grab the baseball bat from my trunk and beat the shit out of this Corvette. But no, that’d be disrespectful. “Poor baby,” I murmur, stroking my hand over the roof and down to the hood. “None of this is your fault.” I pat the hood and then jerk my chin in the direction of my own car—a gorgeous metallic red coupe bisected by a bold black racing stripe and blue accents. “Park the Devil for me.”
“On it,” Nisha says, taking off to slide into the driver’s seat. Nisha, she’s like my second-in-command. Basti, he’s my mechanic. And Lemon? She’s a pain in my ass. Anyway, Nisha knows it’s an honor to be able to drive my car; I don’t let just anyone touch it.
I head up the front steps with Bastian on my left, numerous other girls stretching and standing up from their spots to join us. I wouldn’t call us a gang, per se, but you know, I’m the boss and people do what the fuck I tell them.
I sweep in the front doors, right past the metal detectors and the on-duty officer with his German shepherd. Let’s just say, our school has a bit of a reputation. After all, you don’t come to Prescott High because you want to be here. You come here because you have
no other choice.
Doesn’t exactly breed tranquility and happiness, now does it?
I can feel the officer’s eyes on me as I pass by. He once decided he was going to ‘frisk’ one of my girls. I followed him home and set his house on fire. Nobody died, but he hasn’t touched any female at this school since.
Officer Pervert quietly slips me a pocketknife as soon as I’ve passed safely through the metal detectors.
“Did you hear that they finally finished construction on that stupid condo?” one of the girls behind me—Jennifer Atwell—says, whispering to one of the others. I ignore them both. Oftentimes, their gossip holds valuable information, but I’m not in the mood for it right now.
I want to know whose car that is that’s parked out front.
I get my answer much sooner than expected, pausing in the middle of the hallway abruptly enough that my girls nearly tumble into me.
There’s a guy standing outside the classroom just ahead and to my left. He’s got his head leaned back against the wall, eyes closed. Despite his seemingly relaxed stance, I immediately pick up on his hands, curled into fists at his sides. He’s squeezing so hard that the black-and-white tattoo on his right hand—that of a spiderweb—is distorted and twisted.
“Oh my God, it’s him,” Jennifer mutters, forgetting all about the ‘affordable housing project’ that she was discussing earlier.
“Who?” I snap, glancing over my shoulder and making her jump. Jennifer only looks skittish; I’ve seen her inner demons. Also, like I said, her gossip is top-notch.
“That’s Widow,” she whispers, her blue eyes flicking toward the guy before returning to me.
“Widow?” I query with no small amount of disdain. A laugh escapes me as I turn back around, surprised to see that his eyes are now open and he’s watching me. Clearly, he heard me mention his name. And what a name it is. We have some stupid-ass nicknames in this school, not gonna lie. I mean, my best friend’s name is Lemon for fuck’s sake. But Widow?
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