Our eyes meet and a dark shadow swoops over my soul. Oh. My lips part, and heat floods my core, nipples pebbling beneath my scoop-necked vintage top. Fuck. I was already appreciating the new guy’s strong form, the swoops and swells of his biceps and corded forearms, but his eyes … those goddamn eyes.
My chest tightens, and I find myself struggling to pull in air.
There’s only one guy at this school who’s ever given me a reaction like that, and his name is Kellin Bohnes. Speaking of … he sweeps past dressed head-to-toe in black and white, as always. He pauses briefly to glance over at me. I turn my head slightly, just barely managing to drag my eyes away from Widow’s powerful gaze.
Bohnes’ ice-blue eyes meet mine, and I grit my teeth. He gives me the barest whisper of a smile before continuing down the hall like a specter, some living shadow that’s barely allowed to call itself human.
I look back at Widow to find that he’s still staring at me. That’s a good sign, right? Maybe I can get ahold of his car more easily than I thought? His gaze is raking slowly over me, taking in my black top, my high-waisted jeans, my red stilettos. I know what I look like: I calculate my appearance to deal maximum damage.
Thick dark lash extensions, sharp brows, my lips naked and clean, my lids free of shadow. I use a bit of blush, but that’s about it. My eyes are a deep brown, my skin flawless, raven hair plaited into a smooth braid and falling just past my ass.
I smile and this guy—Widow—frowns.
I pull my braid over my shoulder, stroking my fingers along the length of it as I make my way over to stand in front of him. He’s wearing a loose white t-shirt that’s splattered with paint, holey jeans, and dark purple Doc Martens that match his damn car. He has a lush, angry mouth and a haunted gaze that’s clearly seen a lot of shit.
I can relate to that; I grew up in the southside.
Prescott is not a kind or forgiving neighborhood.
“Hey,” I say, lifting both brows at him as I let my gaze purposely sweep his body before returning to his face. His eyes are this glorious amber color that pairs well with his hair. It’s this tousled mix of purple, turquoise, and black, a blend of jewel-tones that make his unusual eye color pop even more.
“Hi.” Just that. He curls his lip at me and turns away, looking down the opposite hallway in what’s very clearly a dismissive gesture. Also … his voice. Oh my God. What the fuck is with this man’s voice? It’s a deep timbre that crawls into my head and fucks my eardrums, making my thighs clench together in raw, carnal appreciation.
Yet … he’s dismissing me?
“You’re new here?” I ask, maintaining my careful smile as I hear Bastian curse behind me. He knows I hate to be ignored or dismissed—especially by Prescott boys. Not that this guy Widow looks like a boy at all.
He turns back to me, sweeping the hand with the tattooed spiderweb over his thick moue of a mouth. Shit, I wonder what he tastes like? He smells heavenly, like black plums and ripe apples, like the woods at night when the moon is low. I lick my lips and he notices, exhaling a long breath.
“Yeah, I’m new here. What do you want?”
“Oh fuck,” I hear Nisha murmur as she rejoins our little group in the hallway. Widow lets his golden eyes lift up to her before dropping them back down to me. I’m starting to get pissed, but I can’t let the asshole see that just yet.
I move a little closer, reaching up to touch the side of his face. There’s clear intent in my gaze: I’m going to kiss this motherfucker, reach into his pocket, and steal his keys. His hand comes up too quickly for me to take note of, and his strong fingers are holding my wrist in a punishing grip. A sharp exhale of pain whispers past my lips, even though I try to hide it.
“Let go of me—now,” I grind out just before Widow shoves me back a step. I end up stumbling in my heels, Basti catching my arm. My eyes shift to the side, searching for Bohnes, hoping he didn’t see this whole interaction. If he did then … Well, here’s the thing with Kellin Bohnes: he’s my fuckboy.
This is a new development for us. It’s only happened six times so far, but it’s been nice. Frankly, I’m not sure why I’m concerned about him seeing this at all. He refuses to acknowledge my existence within the confines of Prescott High.
But at the racetrack …
“What the hell is your problem?” I snap, yanking out of Bastian’s grasp and getting up close with Widow. He rises to his full height, staring down at me with an empty facial expression that, despite its relative blankness, gives away an important piece of information.
He’s dangerous, this one.
I’m going to have to watch him.
“Do not touch me,” he says, words that I’ve never heard from a man in all of my life. Don’t touch him? I’m tempted to kick him right in the balls. “Ever. I hate to be touched.”
“Yeah, well, I hate to get to school to find that some douchebag parked in my fucking space.” I throw my arm out to indicate the front entrance as my girls tense up behind me, ready for battle. If I throw down on this bitch, he’ll be sorry. Not only will I touch him, but my crew will kick his ass to the curb.
“Your space?” Widow queries, his voice this shadowy thing that causes my skin to pebble with goose bumps. He looks past me in the direction of the front doors. “I parked on the curb.” His gaze drops to mine again. “If there’s anything I know, it’s the law. That’s a public street. I’m fully in my rights to park there.”
Everyone in the hallway is staring at us now, waiting to see if we won’t get into some sort of confrontation. We might have, if I didn’t already have other plans.
I flash a feral grin at Widow, all teeth and sass and the promise of future violence.
“It’s my space. Ask anyone at Prescott who it belongs to.” I give Widow another dismissive once-over, ignoring my body’s reaction to him, and then turn my attention back to his stoic face. He isn’t angry, isn’t getting worked-up; he’s just matter-of-factly staring at me. “But that’s okay. You’re new. We all make mistakes.”
Widow just scoffs at me and shakes his head, murmuring something under his breath that I can’t quite hear.
“You want to repeat that for me?” I snap as he swipes his hand over his mouth for a second time.
“It’s a public street. If you want to park there, get to school earlier,” Widow breathes, and then the bell is ringing and he’s swinging around the doorway and into the classroom.
Even though it kills me to stand there and let him walk away, I do.
Because I’m going to jack this motherfucker’s car right out from under him.
Scarlett
Lemon—my petite five-foot-two bestie with a sour temper to match her nickname—shows up during fifth period with my kit in hand. That is, the kit I use to steal cars. Has everything I need to get the job done. Although from the looks of it, I won’t need much out of it for this heist.
“Sorry about this morning,” she says as I squat down beside the driver’s side door of Widow’s Stingray and slip a bobby pin out of my hair. Most students at Prescott know better than to leave their car without a steering wheel security lock, a boot, a hidden kill switch, a tracker, etc.
Not that I couldn’t steal those, too … but I don’t see any of those things on Widow’s car.
“Where the hell has this guy been living? Antarctica?” I grumble, grinning in satisfaction as the lock clicks open beneath my skillful fingers and I stand up, yanking the door open and sliding my ass into the driver’s seat.
I get wet just sitting in that car, I won’t lie. It even smells like that guy, Widow. He might be a total dick, but I’m not complaining. He doesn’t want me to touch him? Fine. He can fuck all the way off.
I run my hands under the dash, the seats, the back of the rearview, searching for a tracker. Lemon does the same after I pop the trunk for her.
“Are you even going to acknowledge that I said sorry?” she calls out as I grin in satisfaction, removing a GPS tracker from the center console and chu
cking it onto the street. It bounces and skids across the pavement as I continue looking. These things are cheap enough nowadays that even us serfs can afford more than one.
“Where were you?” I ask, digging through papers in the dash and pulling out the registration. The car is registered to a one Adrian Arden Lawless. I figure that’s Widow’s real name. I wonder how he got his nickname in the first place. “You better not be fucking that math teacher again.”
Satisfied that I’ve searched the front of the car thoroughly, I grab my kit from where Lemon left it leaning against the front tire. I need to hotwire this bitch and get out of here before the end of class. I noticed throughout the first half of the day that the asshole comes out to check on his car between every single period.
So here I am.
Fifth period is supposed to consist of me acting as the librarians’ bitch, but—despite my contrary nature—I’ve managed to charm both of the crochety old ladies on staff who are more used to being cursed at and threatened than treated with kindness.
I even baked them cookies last week and dropped them off first thing in the morning while they were still hot. I know how best to use my charms. Thus, I’m able to walk off during fifth period with a half-assed excuse, and yet nobody marks me absent.
Excellent.
You know how three in the morning (or midnight depending on your persuasion) is supposed to be the witching hour? Well, this is my witching hour, my time for mischief. As for Lemon … she clearly just got back from wherever the fuck she was this morning.
“I’ve got someone way better than Mr. Sheen,” she says, popping her head into the passenger side door and flashing a huge grin. She brushes her blond bangs back in a way that tells me she’s distinctly nervous about whatever news she has to share. “He’s like big-time, Scar. Huge.”
I pause as I take out a screwdriver from my kit, removing the screws from the top and bottom of the steering column. Next, I pry apart the plastic panels to expose the ignition cylinder. I could have tried jamming the screwdriver into the ignition and turning it, but that can seriously fuck up the car and we have pride in the way we commit grand theft auto over here in the Prescott neighborhood.
With my hands cloaked in rubber gloves, I grab the power wires out from beneath the steering wheel, cut them, and then use a wire stripper to peel back the protective rubber coating before I twist them together. The lights and the radio turn on, just a little bit o’ black magic. Next, I touch the starter wires together, firing that metallic purple beauty up, and then use some electrical tape to cover the ends so I don’t get shocked while driving. The Stingray rewards me with a rumble that vibrates my body in the most pleasant of ways. Not only that, but the sound of the engine is as dark and velvety as Widow’s voice.
I’ve always said that the right car, with the right modifications, is like an extension of yourself. It’s your wings in a world that despises those who try to fly.
“Big-time means bad news, Lem,” I respond absently, excited by the simplicity of our mission today. Shouldn’t be this easy to boost a car, eh? Then again, I owe a huge amount of credit for that ease to the reputation that I spent the majority of the last three years cultivating.
I own this school. Anybody see me out here? Of course not. Was Scarlett in the library where she was supposed to be? Abso-fucking-lutely.
“Follow me so you can drive me back,” I command, glancing over to see that Lem’s lips are pursed in annoyance. “Did you do a thorough check in the trunk and under the rear bumper?”
“You’re not my mother, Scarlett,” she snaps at me, slamming the passenger door before moving back to do another check under the rear bumper (which she likely forgot about until I mentioned it). She finds another GPS tracker and tosses it aside which just annoys the shit out of me.
I sigh and reach up to rub at my forehead. Everybody always thinks they want to be the leader, the boss, the queen, whatever, until they’re actually in my position. If you do it right, the weight of leadership is like a stone yoke around the neck, and the cargo you carry are the lives of the people that trust you.
And Lemon? She needs me more than any of the others. She’s also an ornery brat who gets herself into trouble far more often than the average Prescott bitch.
Whoever this new guy is, I’m sure he’ll be even more trouble than the last.
Out of all my friends, only Lemon—and sometimes Bastian—have trouble picking men. The rest of us are too aware that most guys in this neighborhood are worth one thing and one thing only: dick. They’re nothing but useless fuckboys.
Even Kellin Bohnes.
Lemon finally gives me a pair of thumbs-up, our easy signal for proceed as planned. I can see from the sour curl of her upper lip that she expected more excitement out of me, but what was I supposed to say? She’s seventeen; she doesn’t need to be sleeping with a thirty-year old married teacher. She also really doesn’t need any man who would fall under the title of ‘big-time’.
That only spells disaster—for both of us. I’m starting to get sick and tired of cleaning up messes she should know better than to make in the first place.
“Alright, baby, show me what you got,” I say, eyes glittering as I run my gloved palms down the sides of the steering wheel. I’m practically drooling as I press the clutch down and shift into first gear. The car glides forward like it’s barely of this world. “Oh fuck yeah.”
I hit the gas and punch the radio on at the same time.
Even as I’m easing the gas pedal down with my red heel, I’m tuning into the only radio station worth listening to in this dump: KMZI 66.6. They play everything from hip-hop to rock to pop, whatever they predict is going to be hot. They’re good at it, too. Swear to God the hosts predicted the last five hit songs before they ever even touched the charts.
Sometimes, it feels like the station itself is magic, as if whoever they say will get big does simply because the hosts liked them.
With a grin, I crank up “Trap Door” by Yacht Money, tapping my right hand on the steering wheel as I blow through the next stop sign, triggering the school officer to turn his lights on and take off after me.
That’s what I like, a little police chase in the early afternoon. I drag Officer Feels-Up-Teenage-Girls around the block before skidding into the empty parking lot of the old elementary school.
I’ve got my window rolled down, my left arm resting on the door as I continue to tap my right hand against the wheel as the song plays. Oh yeah, this is fire. Yacht Money are gonna be big.
Officer Douche comes up to my window with his hand on his gun. I don’t even bother to take my shades off, glancing his way with a what? sort of look on my face.
“Can I help you, officer?” I schmooze as he grits his teeth at me. He removes his hand from his gun, but he knows better than to start shit with me. I glance at the GoPro camera on his shirt, but he’s clearly already turned it off.
See what I mean?
He was ready to start trouble before it even began; he just didn’t recognize me in Widow’s car.
Officer Moron puts his hairy hands on the door near my arm and leans in menacingly toward me, his hat and shades still in place.
“You’re going to get yourself into trouble one of these days, Force,” he snaps out, and I laugh.
“Wow, you are such a cliché,” I say, reaching up to push my shades into my dark hair. “Go ahead. Arrest me. But then, I have videos of you fucking Lemon, so …” I trail off and shrug my shoulders, rolling up the manual window with slow, easy cranks, forcing Officer Idiot to remove his hands.
His real name is Brian; it’s right there on his badge. But I feel like names are somewhat respectable to use, and this guy? He doesn’t deserve any respect whatsoever.
Also, what did I say about Lemon? Worst taste in men.
I rocket out of there before Officer Hentai has a chance to move, leaving rubber marks on the pavement as I whip out of the lot, taking the Stingray for a little joyride before circling back t
oward my house.
I’m the only family member living in it who has a car besides my grandmother. But she likes to park on the curb so our elderly neighbor across the street can get into it without walking up the steep incline of our driveway. Grandma Patricia takes the older woman to the fitness center to swim laps every other morning.
That means our garage is gloriously empty. I grab the button from my purse and hit it with my thumb as I pull into the driveway with Lemon right behind me. She’s a phenomenal driver; she could have a strong career if she’d pull her head out of her ass and leave the boys alone.
I park Widow’s car in my usual spot, snatch my bag—it’s Versace, I know, I’m a great thief, thank you—and then slam the driver’s door shut with my hip. Slipping out into the sunshine, I hit the button again and down the garage door goes.
Lemon is already on her way around to the passenger side of my Pantera (code name: the Devil), slipping in as I take my spot on the butter-soft leather of the front seat, purring and groaning and biting my lower lip as I grind on it.
“Oh yeah, that feels good,” I moan as Lemon gives me a look, and then slaps her hand over her pink-painted lips. Shit. That look … there’s someone behind me, isn’t there?
I spin around with a guilty look on my face to find my grandmother staring down at me, her arms crossed over her chest. She might only be five-two (the same height as Lemon coincidentally), but she’s terrifying. That, and I actually care about her opinion of me.
I can count on one hand the number of people who meet that definition. Even Lemon isn’t one of them.
“Hey Gram,” I say, flashing a big smile as I pull my shades off. “You’re home early.”
“So are you,” she says, gesturing with her head in the direction of the garage. “Whose car is that, and is it going to get me in trouble?”
“No trouble, I promise,” I say, avoiding the majority of her question. “But study period is almost over, so we should probably get back …”
F*ckboy Psychos Page 2