“I can’t wait to fuck you raw tonight,” he says, his form of polite camaraderie, apparently. Sounds about right for Prescott. The sound of his voice makes my stomach roil with nausea.
“Can’t wait to spend your sucker money,” I agree with a nod of my head, reaching across the seat to roll the manual window back up. With my hands on the wheel, I relax into the leather seat, Widow’s scent wafting around me. I try and fail not to think of his dick, the purplish veins in his shaft, the way he teased his foreskin back with his thumb.
With a growl, I reach out and slam my palm into the radio, turning on 66.6 again.
It’s Halloweenie by Ashnikko.
Okay, yeah, I’ve got this.
We keep a strict time schedule on the track, so when the minute finally ticks over, the starter waves the green flag and off we go.
Just as I expected, Aspen is too gung-ho, too inexperienced. He hits the throttle so hard that he actually starts off by spinning out, his wheels turning too fast on the muddy garbage we call a track down here.
It’s not professional by any means. Time of day, humidity, recent rains, all of those things affect our track in a dramatic way. It’s the first thing outsiders figure out: we know this backwoods nightmare better than they ever will.
Most important lesson a person can ever take to heart—they should pay us for the right to learn it—never underestimate your enemy.
I figured Aspen was going to blast past me on the straights and park in the corners, but he’s already stuck in the mud.
“Fuckwad,” I murmur, picking up speed slowly as I allow the leather seat to cup my ass, ignoring the slight soreness as I ease myself into the cushions. I forcibly relax, letting the car speak to me. Maybe I’ve never raced Widow’s car before, but so what?
I’m Scarlett Motherfucking Force. If I can ride it, I can win it. I’ll race anything with two or four wheels. Don’t care.
The thrill is what really gets me, digs its claws into my soul and makes me want in a way that I can’t explain. It’s hotter than sex; it’s better than money; it’s everything.
I’m letting the adrenaline take over me as I pick up speed, the world rushing by in a blur. I don’t care about any of it. It’s just me in here, with a little Princess Nokia and Yung Baby Tate playing. “Boys Are from Mars” is blasting as I flick my eyes up just in time to see Aspen coming up quickly behind me.
He nearly knocks me off the track as he zooms past, spattering the front windshield of the Stingray with mud. I curse under my breath, flicking the windshield wipers as I use my memory of the track to keep myself where I need to be.
Aspen ends up sliding badly on the last curve of the track, and I’m able to pass him again. We’ve got twenty laps of this shit, so I’m assuming at some point, he’ll get the hang of it. In case he does, I pick up speed on the straights, more than I normally would—especially with an unfamiliar car.
But I need this or it’s game over.
Just like I thought: he’s your typical asshole, the sort with too much attitude who never checks his mirrors, who hires a mechanic to do all the work for him while he relaxes poolside with a piña fucking colada.
No way would I ever lose to someone like that.
Much to my surprise—and horror—Aspen catches up for a second time, taking the curves of the track like he was born here. Fuck. He manages to pass me on a curve, forcing me to the outside of the track, my wheels slipping in the thicker, more clay-like mud.
I get myself back on track fairly easily, but his car is faster, and if I were in my Pantera …
Oh God. Have I finally let my arrogance walk me right off a cliff? It’d figure right, that tonight of all nights, when winning could change my life and losing would destroy me, I’m going to lose.
No.
Fuck. That. Shit.
I press the gas to the floor, hugging the inside of the track so that when I make my turns, and I slide through the mud, I end up on the outside in the thicker mud. I use that as a launching point to blast down the straights.
Since Aspen doesn’t check his mirrors, he doesn’t see me coming, narrowly missing me as I move past him. He overcorrects and ends up spinning a complete three-sixty. He recovers surprisingly quickly, but I’m past the point of underestimating him again—even if he is a rich douche.
He’s far, far better than the usual Oak Valley Prep kids who find their way down here.
I hit the finish line, and the starter waves the black and white checkered flag. I slam the brakes in just such a way that Widow’s car makes a pretty one-eighty, sliding through the mud to face Aspen as he blasts over the finish line and hits his brakes so hard that he sprays the Stingray with mud.
Not that it matters. It was covered in mud anyway.
I climb out—heeled boots and all—and I don’t give a shit about the mud. I cross my arms over my chest as Aspen shoves his door open. His expression is quiet fury as he steps out, breathing hard as I make my way over to him.
“How’d you like that? Guess I still am the one to beat.” I hold out my hands and curve my fingers. “Pay up.”
The way that man looks at me … I’m going to have to be very, very careful.
Unlike the others, I have a bad feeling that he’ll be back.
With a disturbing level of control, Aspen Kelly brings that intense fury under his command, the expression on his face neutralizing as he reaches into the pocket of his suit jacket and removes a checkbook.
“I assume you’d like it made out to ‘Scarlett Force’?” he asks, his voice careful, his every word a weapon. I smile at him.
“That’d be lovely,” I reply, not even bothering to hide the disturbing smugness in my words. I’m playing with fire here and yet, I’m going to keep on doing it. Because I live for that thrill. I’m not even sure who I am without it.
Aspen rips the check off, handing it over to me.
I move to take it and he grabs me by my wrist, yanking me through the mud in my heels. I almost stumble, but his grip on my arm keeps me on my feet. My first move is to tear away from him, whipping that trusty knife of mine out and putting it to his pretty neck.
“Hands off,” I breathe, but Aspen doesn’t look scared. Instead, his dark eyes flash with more of that deep-seated fury. He isn’t going to stop until he gets me underneath him; I can see it now.
This is going to go very badly for me if I’m not careful.
“I’ll be back next Friday. Will you be here?” he hisses, far too excited for his own good. As close together as we are, I can feel his hardness through his pants, and the feel of it makes me sick.
I don’t want Lemon going home with this guy tonight.
“I’ll be here,” I say, but I know sure as shit that if he wants to race me again, not only is he going to have to pay up big, but he’s also going to have to try me in my own car. I won’t even take a small risk of having to fuck this guy. I move the knife away carefully, stepping back and turning to get in Widow’s car again.
I head back to the parking lot, climbing out to find Nisha waiting for me. Basti is nowhere to be seen, and Nisha sighs as soon as she notices my gaze wandering.
“Our girl is planning to take off with Rich Boy for the night,” she says, and my heart goes cold. Goddamn it.
“Where is she?” I ask, and Nisha gives me a look, her brown eyes blazing.
“Don’t think I’m going to forget to ask about those freakish, bloody hickeys on your neck,” she says as I search for Basti in the crowd. I spot him near the picnic tables, gesturing frantically as he tries to get Lemon to listen to him.
Bastian might not make great choices when it comes to romantic partners either, but he’s still a virgin, so that must account for some level of taste that he has and Lemon doesn’t.
Me … I guess my taste is just as bad. Maybe worse.
I move across the parking lot in muddy heels to stand beside Basti with my arms crossed. Lemon barely acknowledges that I’m standing there.
“He ju
st challenged our best friend for a chance at some dub-con action. Doesn’t that strike you as a little screwed-up?” Basti’s pleading as I narrow my eyes and exhale.
Dub-con. Dubious consent. I agreed to the race full well knowing the consequences, but that doesn’t make Aspen Kelly any less of a disturbed creeper. My eyes sweep the crowd, looking for either Bohnes or Widow.
The former is there, standing near his car: a black 1969 Chevy Chevelle SS.
His eyes meet mine from across the lot, but then he simply turns away to talk to someone else, accepting a bundle of cash that he slips into the pocket of his black jeans.
I ignore him, taking note of Widow’s absence. He did say he was leaving early. So why did he even show up here in the first place?
“You can’t leave anyway,” I say, gesturing at Basti to emphasize my point as I turn back to Lemon. “He drove his car; Nisha drove hers; I have Widow’s. Somebody has to drive the Pantera back.”
Lemon’s cheeks heat up with irritation.
“You stole the new guy’s car, so now I’m bound to your plans? This is bullshit, Scar.”
When I take a step toward her, that famous temper of mine rising to the surface, Basti puts out his arm to stop me. But I didn’t get to the top of Prescott’s feral social structure to be disrespected by my best friend.
“Scarlett,” Basti warns when it’s very clear that it’s Lemon who should be apologizing here. Not only is her new boyfriend a disrespectful sleazeball who threw her around right in front of me, but he raced for my cunt, for fuck’s sake!
“You know what?” I say, pointing at Lemon in that way that she hates. She says I look just like my grandmother when I do it, but you know what? My grandma is the bravest, strongest, most incredible woman I’ve ever met. She grew up on reservation land with her grandparents, took care of her sick grandmother and forfeited a full ride scholarship to college when it was much harder for girls to get in at all.
So if I look like her, so what? It’d be better than whatever it is I’m becoming now.
“What?” Lemon challenges, standing up from the table to stare me down. Or … up. As I said, I tower over her. I take advantage of that in my anger.
“I’m getting sick and fucking tired of dealing with you and all of the stupid decisions you make.” I grind my teeth together to keep the barrage of other horrible thoughts back. People are staring at us, and I have to maintain my reputation.
You don’t just get to run your own crew at Prescott High without some major clout. I’ve spent the last three years earning mine, and I won’t be undermined by Lemon and her thirsty-ass cunt.
“Me?” she shouts as Nisha finally makes her way over to us. I don’t like leaving the Stingray vulnerable for Widow to steal back, but somehow, I feel like if he were here, I would know it. “You’re the one banging Bohnes in the woods!” Lem throws her hand out in the general direction of where Bohnes and I were earlier.
Great. Just fucking great.
Nisha’s eyes go wide, and she looks over at me like I’ve absolutely lost my mind.
Me … I make the biggest mistake of my life, looking up to see that Bohnes is staring at me. He’s smiling wide, like a colossal maniac. And everybody around him … has taken a step back.
“Wow. And I thought I could trust you?” I scoff as I look back in time to see Lem’s face flush. She knows she’s made a huge fucking mistake. I hold out my hand, palm up. “Give me my keys back. Now.”
“Scar,” she tries, but I’m just done with her shit. I’ve been done with her shit for a long, long time now. You always see these memes floating around everywhere like, Let toxic relationships go, blah, blah, blah and while I don’t disagree with the idea that someone can literally be so poisonous that the only recourse is to let go, there’s also something to say for loyalty and friendship.
Lemon is my friend, even if she fucks up a lot and sleeps with horrible men. It’s just a symptom of how few options are available in a neighborhood like ours. We don’t have a lot of choices; we make the best of what we’ve got.
My friend’s lived a hard life—we all have—but I can’t deal with this right now.
She’s thoroughly worn a hole through what little patience I possess.
“Give me my keys,” I repeat, my voice a low, dark slithering thing.
“Why can’t we just talk this out like we always do?” Basti is pleading as Nisha looks between me and Lemon and, in this horrible moment of clarity, I realize at the same second that Lem does which side Nisha would choose if she had to.
Mine.
It’ll always be mine.
I will always be Queen to everyone at Prescott that matters.
I almost consider withdrawing my hand and telling Lemon to forget about it, just like I always do. Even though she blew my secret about Bohnes to both Bastian and Nisha. I’m really standing there considering letting it slide when I’ve beaten the shit out of girls for much less.
Then Aspen Kelly rolls up, his window down, and gestures with his chin in the direction of the passenger side of his car. Lemon’s eyes light up and I can see that she’s going to leave with him whether I like it or not.
“If you get in that car, we will never see you again,” I warn her. The look she gives me is pure disdain. It’s a front for her hurt. She’s upset that Bastian isn’t fighting harder for her the way he normally does; even he looks exhausted. And Nisha? She’s picked her side, crossing her arms and remaining quiet. Then there’s me, standing there with my hand outstretched. “Give me the fucking keys, Lemon. You’re a waste of life.”
She throws them at my face, but I manage to catch them as she takes off for Aspen’s car, climbing in and tossing me the finger out the window as he spins out of the parking lot and splatters every last one of us in mud.
This. Motherfucker.
The next time I see him, I’m going to wipe the floor with his face.
I squeeze my hands around the keys.
“Jennifer,” I say, and she scrambles to obey, breaking away from the nearby crowd to take the keys. It’s an honor to drive the Devil. I wouldn’t normally leave it with anyone other than Basti, Nisha, or Lemon, but what choice do I have now?
I refuse to give up Widow’s car; I’m having far too much fun playing with him.
“Back to your place or …?” she starts, and I give her a look. Widow came here tonight for a reason; I need to make certain that he doesn’t get a chance to snatch his car back. My pride would be far too wounded. We’ll use our special hiding place instead.
“I’ll take you there.” Even though Jennifer knows where the lumberyard is, I’m going to guide her, utilizing some careful shortcuts and maneuvers to make certain that nobody follows us.
I look back over to where Bohnes is sitting, but he’s curled over, his hood up, arms crossed tight over his chest. Nobody will dare go near him when he’s sitting like that. I decide to ignore him. So what if everyone knows we’re fucking? What does it matter?
I take off for Widow’s car, climb in, and peel out of the parking lot with my crew behind me.
A. Kelly
I’m always attracted to the one place in the world where I’m not supposed to go. When I was younger, it was my brother’s room that I migrated to. I would slip in when he wasn’t around, sit on his bed, run my palms over his comforter and his silk sheets. I’d wonder why people didn’t flock to me the way they did to him.
Because I’m the better person between the two of us.
Today, it’s a place that my father would kill me for visiting.
I crouch down on a spot of bare earth, teasing my fingers across the wet ground, closing my eyes as I listen to the murmurs of the city all around me. This lot is empty, but only just for now. Soon enough, the foundation will be poured for the condominium that my father’s associate is building.
I won’t be able to come here anymore. Not the way I am now, where I’m the only person in a sea of humanity. I glance to my right, studying the recently condemned a
partment building that still has people living in it.
The developer—same guy who owns the plot I’m standing on—gave the residents a thirty-day notice to vacate. Since most of them are low-income and living there on a week-to-week basis, it’s all he has to give.
So, it’s been thirty-one days and half the building is occupied. I wonder how Chet Archer—the CEO of Archer Realty Investments—is going to handle that?
I scoff and stand up, running my hands down the front of my shirt. I didn’t drive down here with the intention of coming to this place, but I ended up here anyway. Just like I always ended up in my brother’s room.
“Stupid,” I breathe, reaching up to pull at a hank of my hair. I yank on it so hard that it hurts, and then I turn and strut back over to my car, pausing for a moment to collect myself. I run my hands down my front, smoothing out any imaginary wrinkles.
I fix my hair.
Then I climb in and make my way over to the club. I don’t even bother finding a parking space. I just leave my car in the middle of the road, in the pouring rain, and I head for the front door.
The bouncer removes the velvet rope for me right away. He does, however, pause to give me a once-over.
“And you are …?” he starts, and I smile. The expression makes the man shiver, despite his superior size. Good. He should be afraid of me.
“Aspen,” I say, my smile very quickly turning into a frown. “Aspen Kelly.”
The man scrabbles like a rat in his pathetic attempt to obey. It’s enough to make me want to kill him. My hands itch with the urge, but I push past it, finding my way into the shadowy recesses of the club.
Almost immediately, I’m surrounded by girls.
“Do you need someone to play with tonight?” one of them asks me, but I’m already reaching down to grab her wrist. My eyes flare with a dark severity that I hope she can read. This isn’t a game. “I don’t want to be bothered by women tonight. Find another dick to ride.” I push through the throng of disappointed girls, well-aware that this move is going to get me in trouble tomorrow.
That is, if my brother finds out that I was here at all. My goal is to make sure that nobody mentions it to him. I make my way through the crowd to find my father seated behind another velvet rope, enjoying expensive bottle service, spoiled by his admiring constituents.
F*ckboy Psychos Page 6