First thing I do is use the chain from the front door and the new lock in my pocket to seal the door from the office. I can still hear the two idiots on the other side banging it out.
Sex turns people into idiots. It destroys their minds. It makes them do stupid shit like take their dick in their hand and jack themselves off while a girl with a scooped waist and round hips, heavy breasts, and an angry moue watches from a few careful feet away.
I make my way over to the red and black Pantera in the center of the room, finding the door unlocked and smiling as I open it. As soon as my eyes drop to that pretty leather seat, I can feel my cock stirring behind my jeans.
“Fuck.” I resist the urge to tear the knife from my boot and stab the shit out of that seat. Just the thought that it might’ve cupped that plump, round ass, that swollen pussy … I grit my teeth and climb in before I can think better of it, using the supplies I brought with me to hotwire that pretty, little car. It’s as simple as that. The Pantera roars to life and I slip back out, sprinting over to the button on the wall that opens the garage door.
The smell of burning rubber and gasoline fills the garage as I hit the throttle and tear out of the door with about an inch of clearance. That girl—Jennifer—comes stumbling out the front door of the office, her mouth agape, eyes wide and fearful as I spin purposefully in the gravel and send rocks and mud flying her way.
Her fuck-toy comes out after her, yanking his pants into place just in time to get a face full of dirt.
I tear through the parking lot and down the road toward the gatehouse, getting up close and personal with the ass-end of a truck as it clears the gate, and then zooming around it to head for the track.
All week, I’ve studied the patterns of the police in this area. Other than the officers at the school, I haven’t seen a single one. Not one police cruiser or motorcycle or bicycle cop. Nothing.
I don’t bother with shortcuts or alleys or backroads, taking the most direct route to the track.
As I’m driving, her smell hits me, this disturbingly sweet note mixed with musk and a bitter tang on the back of the tongue that has me cursing and reaching down to adjust myself with my left hand.
Don’t do it, Widow. Don’t let her get to you. Not after all these years, all this time.
As soon as I walked in the door of Prescott, I could feel the eyes of the other students. The boys were wary, but the girls? I could’ve had any one of them if I wanted.
But I don’t.
If I go to my grave without fucking a single person, so what? It’d be preferable, I think, to letting myself become a deviant like the rest of the world.
Even as I’m telling myself that, I can feel the leather under my ass, can imagine Scarlett sitting here, can see her high-heeled foot on the clutch. With a snarl, I jerk the wheel and end up under the shade of some trees on the edge of the road leading to the track.
Within seconds, I’m spitting into my palm and my cock is in my right hand, my left gripping the steering wheel for dear life as I jerk and tug and twist. My eyes slide closed of their own accord, and then it’s just her scent and the feel of that leather seat beneath me.
I imagine that I’m the one who has Scarlett Force bent over and keening, that I’m holding her hips with one hand, the other tangled in her hair, that I’m fucking her so hard that she can feel me hitting her cervix
Over and over and over again.
Would she call my name out, beg me for more? Would she put a tampon in and ride that track with my hot seed trapped inside of her? Better yet, she could drive in a short skirt with no panties, my cum dripping all over the leather seat.
“Oh fuck, yes,” I groan, leaning back as I drag my unwilling spirit over the edge, my very willing body an anchor that threatens to trap me at the bottom of a dark, tempestuous sea.
With another moan, I find myself curling over, ab muscles clenching, balls tightening, cock throbbing and pulsing as jet after jet of white ropes spatter the steering wheel and dash.
“Shit.” I’m powerless to do a damn thing about the mess until I’m done, until my nuts are empty, and I’m cursing myself out as I yank my shirt off and swipe as much of my semen off as I can, wadding the fuckin’ thing up and throwing it into the passenger seat.
For a moment, I just sit there with my head on the steering wheel, panting and sweating and smelling Scarlett Force all around me.
I hate people who touch my things.
I once broke my cellmate’s arm for touching my toothbrush.
Yet this girl jacked my car? She took my fucking car?!
As soon as I turned fourteen, I started working menial jobs: kitchen jobs, janitorial duty, the commissary, and I saved every single cent. By the time I got out, I had just enough to grab the shell of my Stingray.
I spent the whole summer working on it, pinching the parts I needed, on my back or under the hood from sunup to sundown, my nights spent working the drive-in for money to buy whatever I couldn’t steal.
So if I broke a guy’s arm for touching my toothbrush, I rightfully should’ve killed Scarlett Force.
But this is better. This is better because I just defiled her car, and I know how much it means to her. More, even, than my Stingray means to me.
I put the Pantera in drive and hit the gas, tires spinning in the mud, and I make my way to the parking lot.
There’s a bonfire going, but few students surrounding it.
As soon as I roll down the window, I can hear it, the sound of cars on the track, the roar of the crowd.
Scarlett’s racing again, I think with a violent surge of adrenaline.
“Holy shit,” one of the girls near the bonfire says as she turns to look at me, mouth agape. “Is that … is that the new guy in the Devil?!”
With a smirk, I roll the window back up, reverse the car, and then blast my way over the grassy strip and the small, cracked cement walkway that leads down to the track. The ground is bumpy, a huge mound of dirt acting as a natural wall on the first curve of the track.
I line the Pantera up with that, parked far enough away that when I see the Stingray and, oddly enough, that Shelby Cobra that belongs to that rich shithead, I’ve got enough space to get some speed.
I time it perfectly, hitting the mound at just the right speed that I catch air. For a moment there, it’s just me and Scarlett’s intoxicating scent, her sweet leather seat, and her mechanical baby flying over the roofs of both the Stingray and the Cobra.
Surprisingly, the Cobra pulls ahead at the last second, and the Pantera slams down in the small space between Scarlett and the rich bro. My eyes flick up into the rearview, not entirely unprepared to be rear-ended. To die, even. If I did, I’m not sure that I’d care. I haven’t feared death since I was twelve years old, so what does it matter?
Scarlett slams on the brakes, spraying mud that glistens in the bright white glare of the spotlights, and the Stingray spins a full three-sixty, skidding through the mud and waffling back and forth as she struggles to get control of it.
My attention returns to the track as I hit the brakes on the Pantera, aware that I’ve just ruined the entire race. I don’t give a fuck. There are consequences to touching my shit.
I’ve just taught this girl lesson one: leave me the hell alone.
I hit the brakes on the Pantera in just such a way that I spin a one-eighty, turning to face the Stingray as it comes dangerously close to toppling over. At the last minute, Scarlett turns into the slide, correcting the dangerous slip of the wheels in the mud without panicking or overcorrecting.
She comes to a stop as the rich dude pauses at the starting line, opening his door and climbing out into the mud in loafers and slacks.
I ignore him, focused more on Scarlett as the crowd begins to shout and scream, and I get out of the Pantera. She’s already on her way over to me, eyes flashing.
“You fucking idiot!” she growls out, getting close to me but not touching me. Maybe she can sense how close I am to violence, how angry I am,
what a mistake it was for her to take my car. “You could’ve killed us both!”
“There are worse things,” I reply easily, and I hope she can see by the set of my face that I mean it.
I have never been more serious in my entire life.
Scarlett
There are no words to describe the way I feel toward Widow in that moment.
Oh wait, yes there are.
Murderous.
That’s how I feel. My fingers itch to go for my knife again, but I’ve already made enough mistakes with it tonight that I don’t trust myself. Sometimes, I struggle not to elevate situations to that last level, to make mistakes that I won’t be able to correct.
“Maybe for you,” I reply as Widow stares me down and Aspen makes his way over to us. I can hear my fellow students shouting for blood. Nobody interrupts a race in Prescott, not like this. If sexy, shirtless Widow over here isn’t careful, he might find himself the victim of collective rage that has little to nothing to do with me. “I have a sister. I have a grandmother. I have a family that needs me.”
I’m shaking right now, my hands curled into fists, my bright red nails digging crescents into my palms.
I glance over just in time to see Aspen pulling a gun out from inside his suit jacket. He puts the barrel to the side of Widow’s head, and the entire crowd goes silent. Nisha and Basti are halfway across the muddy track, making their way to me.
Even they stop.
For a split-second, the world is on pause. And then Widow’s arm is coming up and slamming into Aspen’s. The gun goes flying into the mud, and then both boys are on their backs in the slick of it.
First, Widow’s on top. Then Aspen. They’re spinning as fast and hard as the Stingray did when my Pantera dropped from the sky like a fallen angel. I cross my arms under my breasts, content to watch the idiocy play out from here.
Whatever happens between the two of them is not my problem. After a moment, I walk over to pick up the handgun from the ground, glad that I’m wearing my driving gloves so as not to leave any fingerprints. Who the fuck knows where this thing has been and what it’s been used for?
I hold the weapon with two hands, aiming for the large dirt mound that Widow used to jump the track. I fire off a round. Then another, another. And then I swing the gun over to point at the two men.
I won’t kill either of them. That wouldn’t go down well, with so many witnesses. But I could shoot Widow in the thigh. He’d deserve it. Shit, Aspen, too.
They pause in their fight, pushing away from one another and climbing to their feet, both of them covered in mud and blood and panting like crazy.
“You’re damn lucky, Widow,” I tell him, keeping the gun pointed between the pair of them. I could switch it to one or the other with no problem. I’ve been taught how to handle a weapon like this since I was ten. It’s necessary, growing up in the Prescott neighborhood. “We allow one—and only one—mistake at the track. If you ever disobey the rules here, you’ll face the consequences.”
“Which are?” he huffs out, spitting blood into the mud as he stares at me from gold eyes turned bronze with quiet rage. I need to watch myself with this one. As dangerous as Bohnes seems, as disturbing as Aspen is, it’s Widow that scares me the most.
A man with nothing to lose. A man whose spirit was broken a long, long time ago.
“For a stunt similar to the one you just pulled? If I were you, I’d go find Guy Mallory, ask him what happens.” I start to lower the weapon, lifting it up again at the last second and firing off the last few rounds. Once it’s empty, I offer it up to Aspen.
His ebon eyes meet mine, shimmering with fury.
“A lesser man might suggest you had this piece of white trash wait on the sidelines for this express purpose.” Aspen yanks the weapon from my hand, and I find myself insanely grateful that I emptied the magazine.
I was losing this race, no doubt about that.
It infuriates me. I can feel that wild rage inside of me—the same emotion that’s gotten me into trouble on so many occasions before—writhing, screaming, frothing like white rapids around rocks.
“A lesser man, perhaps,” I agree, forcing a smile that stretches my angry mouth in painful ways. “But not you, Aspen Kelly.” I turn to Nisha and Basti as they finally appear around the rear of my Pantera.
Much to my surprise, Lemon is with them.
My eyes widen at the sight of her, panting, her legs sunk halfway up her calves in mud.
“Lem,” I breathe as she bites her lip like she’s ashamed. She should be. She fucking better be.
“I’m sorry, Scarlett,” she says, but I ignore her, my attention moving over to Aspen. He’s smiling at me, but it’s a far worse expression than the frown he was just wearing.
“A lesser man,” he says, and I know what he’s thinking, that Lem showed up here and my friends gave Widow some sort of signal to interrupt the race. It makes sense, all things considered but for one thing: Widow has no motivation, desire, or want to show me a favor.
It’s his ass on the line, not mine.
Aspen turns and heads in the direction of the Cobra as I look back at Widow.
“If you ever touch my car again, I’ll kill you,” he says, but the sentiment just makes me laugh.
“You can go ahead and try,” I offer up, keeping that awful smile on my own face as he makes his way back to the Stingray. He starts the engine, and then off he goes, rolling through the mud past us before blasting up the drive that leads to the parking lot and back to the street.
I can hear the engine roaring for a full minute before I turn back to Lem.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I hiss at her as I feel the intensity of the crowd wane. People break away grumbling, drifting back to the bonfire or setting new rules for the next race.
Pretty sure they can all sense that I have no intention of hitting the track again tonight.
“Wrong with me?” Lemon breathes out, looking over at Nisha and Basti for support. She turns back to me, looking like she’s as righteously angry at me as I am at her. What the actual fuck? “Did I ask you to race for me, Scar? Did I ask you to blow up my phone and hunt me down? I’m eighteen now. I’m an adult. I don’t need you or anyone else telling me what to do.”
“You want to throw yourself on Aspen’s cock for cash? You go for it. But you’re worse than an overpriced whore because you know what? You’re not going to get paid. Not a single goddamn cent.”
“You’re taking it too far, Scarlett,” Basti warns me, but does he know that I almost just lost this race? That I almost let a monster fuck me because I was so desperate to find my friend? “Lem, you can’t just disappear on us and not answer your—”
“I can do whatever the hell I want,” Lem snaps back at me, and I can feel it again, the shift of the crowd. People are watching us, watching me get my ass chewed out by a five-foot-two blonde with horrible taste in men.
How can I run my crew while I let my bestie disrespect me in front of everyone like this? Not only did she make a fool out of me last night, but she’s digging both of our graves tonight.
Against my better judgement, I accepted Aspen’s conditions knowing what I was getting myself into.
“You can’t control me anymore, Scarlett.”
“If that’s the case then you have no business in my crew or at my school,” I tell her, regretting the words even as they leave my mouth. Nisha gasps, and Basti sucks in a surprise inhale of breath and then chokes on it. He’s still coughing and trying to gather himself together when Nisha puts her hand on my shoulder, and I shove it off.
“You know what? I don’t give a shit. Aspen cares about me.” She looks away, a slight, almost demure smile on her lips that turns into a smirking sneer as she lifts her head back up to look at me. “He told me he loves me last night.”
“Did he? Before or after he tried to win a race with the sole purpose of sticking his dick in me?” I quip back, raising a brow as Nisha once again tries to intervene.
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br /> “Alright you two, that’s enough. Tempers are up; we were worried. Lem, just walk away and let it go.”
We both ignore her. This has become so much more than a simple disagreement. This is fundamental.
“He told me he loved me, but he wants to put his dick in you because you’re nothing but a whore, Scarlett. Just ask Bohnes—”
Before I can talk myself out of it, I raise my hand and crack Lemon so hard across the face that she stumbles, falling to her ass in the mud as Basti rushes to her side, trying to help her up. She throws him off with a scream, finding her feet on her own as Nisha remains silent and still by my side.
“You’re a whore!” she screams at me as I cross my arms over my chest.
“You are banned from the track, the school. Shit, if I see you on the streets, you better run in the opposite direction. Don’t come back until you’re ready to get on your knees and apologize to me.”
“Fuck you!” Lem barks, panting and then pausing as the Shelby Cobra rolls up beside us. With one last triumphant look thrown my way, Lemon storms over to the car and climbs into the passenger side. “Get fucked, Scarlett.”
She slams the door before I can respond—not that I’d deign to. I’ve said what I need to say.
The last thing I see through the window before they roll away is Aspen’s disturbingly pretty smile, cocky and self-assured and impudent.
I turn to Nisha, her own face dark with anger. Both for me and Lem, most likely.
“Find me Jennifer. Now,” I say, and then I’m climbing into the Pantera and heading back to the parking lot. There’s something sticky on my steering wheel and smeared across my dash.
It only takes me a second to piece together what it is.
Widow’s cum. In my car. In my fucking car.
I slam my palms against the steering wheel and let out a scream of frustration.
I’m going to destroy him. Him and Aspen and anyone else who gets in my way.
Lemon, too, if that’s what she wants so damn badly.
On the outside, I’m angry. On the in, my heart is breaking for my friend.
F*ckboy Psychos Page 9