F*ckboy Psychos

by Stunich, C. M.

  I lean back into my pillows and close my eyes, panting as I struggle to get control of myself. Who the fuck am I turning into?

  Not my uncle. I will never be my uncle. Scarlett is a red-blooded woman with full curves, far past puberty, with flawless skin and crow-black hair that falls right down to that plump, round ass of hers …

  And yet I can’t shake it. I can’t shake that trauma or the memory of digging around beneath my kitchen sink, looking for something I could use to poison him. I can’t forget the way he chugged that first cup of coffee and then smirked at me as if destroying my spirit was a game to be savored and enjoyed.

  Nor will I ever forget the way he vomited and stumbled, the way his hand went out to catch the kitchen counter or the way he fell to the floor and spasmed while I stood by and watched without sympathy.

  The court asked me why I did it, but I said nothing. It’s nobody’s business but my own, and I’ve paid their price. Not that I deserved to, not that I should’ve spent a single minute behind bars for killing a predator like that.

  But life isn’t fair, that’s for damn sure. It’s not fucking fair that I got stuck with my aunt and uncle or that I ended up in juvie for committing a well-intentioned act or that I’m being forced to attend school with a woman like Scarlett Force.

  There are plenty of other girls at that school who would lift their skirts and beg me to fuck them, let me experiment on them, see what I like, see if I even enjoy sticking my dick in another person or if I’m too fucked-up in the head to ever truly like it.

  Surely, there are girls there who are far less trouble than that one.

  I tell myself I’m going to delete the video come morning, but that’s not true at all, is it? I’ve told myself that numerous times already, and it’s nothing but a lie.

  Just a dirty, goddamn, motherfucking lie.

  Scarlett

  The old speakeasy is in the basement of a fanciful looking relic just outside the downtown area. Pretty sure the house is an historic property, so I’m surprised to see the yellow tape across the door and the signs signaling the new owner’s intent to demolish the entire structure.

  I look around at the large front porch, the intricate gingerbread trim and fanciful paint colors, even the stained glass that’s still intact in the front door. Who gave the okay for this to be bulldozed? Looking at it now, I’m certain that it’d be on the National Register of Historic Places.

  Regardless, I guess, it isn’t my problem.

  I open the door and duck under the yellow tape, Nisha and Bastian following along behind me. As soon as I parked on the lawn in front of the old house, I could hear the music, joyous trumpets and smooth saxophones, rat-a-tat drums and the bright notes of a piano.

  Very on theme.

  Bohnes knows how to throw a party. He’s famous for them, his little pop-up shindigs. If you don’t hear it from word of mouth, you’d never know where to go. Anyone who posts anything that relates to date, time, or locale in regard to one of Bohnes’ parties is promptly dealt with and never invited again.

  We make our way across relatively shiny wood floors as my frown deepens and I pause next to an intricate fireplace with pale blue tiles and a marble mantle. Somebody is going to cart all of this off to the dump? That doesn’t seem right.

  My mind strays back to that reporter chick, Emma Jean, and I feel my belly roil with the sour note of suspicion. I can smell corruption from a mile away. I’m from south Prescott, aren’t I?

  “What’s wrong?” Nisha asks, pausing beside me and staring down at the fireplace before lifting her gaze back to my face. She, too, is familiar with Archer Realty Investments. They’ve been asking after her mom’s rental for a while, but the landlord has thus far refused to sell. The apartment building that Basti lives in has already been sold to Archer Realty, but other than the highest legally allowed rent hike they could achieve in a single month, nothing else has changed.

  “You mean besides Lemon?” Basti asks, crossing his arms over the pale marmalade color of his shirt and offering me a dark glare, one that makes him look almost as scary as … well, okay, not that scary, but about a fourth or fifth as freakish as Bohnes when he grins like an undead creature.

  “Lemon’s going to have to learn that her mistakes have consequences,” I say, following a line of red duct tape on the floor that leads to the basement door. It’s already open, propped by a bunch of old liquor bottles filled with dirt.

  Clever.

  “We’ve been protecting her from her own bad choices for a while,” Nisha offers up as I start down the stairs, the jazzy offerings of a band called Cherry Poppin’ Daddies blasting into the room. “Zoot Suit Riot” is on now, and I’d be lying if I said my fellow Prescott hoodlums didn’t know how to dance.

  People are swing dancing while smoke settles lazily in the air and then finds itself snatched up by the breeze created from the wild dance movements. It reeks of pot and tobacco and hard liquor in here.

  I suspected that might be the case: whenever Bohnes hosts a party, the rich brats from across the bridge at Oak Valley Preparatory Academy try to sneak their way into our ratchet ass shit. In order to be allowed in our presence, they’re forced to pony up the good stuff.

  Blow. Weed. Hard liquor from daddy’s liquor cabinet. That sort of thing.

  Anyway, with the recent viral TikToks of swing dancers making their rounds across the internet, my fellow students look like the cast a low-budget indie film. The costumes might be cheap, but the dancing is top-notch.

  I feel a grin spread across my lips as I move into the room and people get the fuck out of the way of my crew. We’re all here tonight: Nisha and Basti and Jennifer, our resident klepto Shirley, an amateur arsonist whose real name is Tuesday, hyperactive Juana and my best driver, Evelyn. Plus, you know, the three dozen or so other girls that make up the Crimson Crew.

  There’s a checkered floor off to one side, the only spot in this place that isn’t blanketed with intricately woven hardwood floors. The original bar is still here, too, making me wonder even more what’s going on with this property.

  Part of me wonders if I shouldn’t try to do something about it, but eh. Why the fuck would I? None of this is my problem, is it?

  I mean, but it is my neighborhood, and … fuck me. I know before I even really dig into this that I’ll at least try. I’ll make an effort to see why the city of Springfield would allow a teardown of a beautiful old house like this one—complete with an historic speakeasy—and then allow rotting drug den shitholes to sit unperturbed for decades.

  I gnaw at my lower lip as I make my way over to the bar.

  Bohnes is already here, leaning against the wall behind the bar, eyes closed, a disturbing smile on his mouth. I don’t talk to him, and he doesn’t open his eyes, but somehow, I get the sense that he knows I’m here anyway.

  I lean my elbows on the counter, catching the attention of one of the girls behind the bar. She’s one of mine, actually. I only allow my own people to make my drinks. I’m too nervous about roofies or whatever else might end up in my glass.

  “Johnnie Walker Black, double, neat,” I say, tapping my fingers on the bar and then turning around with a huge grin. I’m getting expensive Scotch tonight, rather than the cheap ass fucking Pabst Blue Ribbon or White Claw shit that we usually drink out of cans.

  Score.

  My grin fades a little when I think about Lem, likely still walking back up the dirt road that leads to the closest suburban street. I’ve got two of my other girls watching her from the woods, but still. I feel like a royal asshole.

  I felt less bad for breaking that guy’s jaw, or popping an Oak Valley girl’s right breast implant with a pencil (yeah, I did do that), but hurting Lemon?

  The grin on my face disappears as quick as it came as Basti hops up onto the counter on my left side, Nisha on my right. I’m leaning back on my elbows now, watching the crowd. Jennifer is simpering around nearby, waiting for me to acknowledge her and offer some sort of praise or
something to show that I’ve forgiven her.

  I haven’t, not quite yet.

  I decide to ignore her, taking my drink from my girl with a murmured, “thanks, honey,” and enjoying the way she simpers at me next. I give her a slow wink and a smile before turning back to the dancers and downing my glass in a single swallow.

  “Jesus, Scar, are you planning to pass out tonight? Because I am not dragging your ass home.” Nisha crosses her arms to punctuate the statement.

  “I’ll get Jennifer to take me. Right, Jenn?” I glance her way, noting the glass that’s raised halfway to her mouth. The cocktail is bright blue, probably an AMF—aka an adios, motherfucker. It’s a complicated drink to mix, but we’re Prescott kids. We can turn a bottle of Everclear, a rotten peach, and some sprite into something special. Think we couldn’t mix drinks with rich kid shit?

  “Yes, Queen,” she says, setting her drink aside with a frown. I ignore her, tossing my glass back for a refill.

  I can still feel Bohnes watching me as I grab my next drink without looking and down that, too, setting the glass aside and heading into the middle of the crowd to look for a dance partner. Like everyone else, I’ve been consuming those twenties-themed dance videos between classes.

  When one of my girls approaches and offers up a hand, I take it, spinning her in a circle and grabbing her around the waist. I play the part of the guy as I dance with her, swinging us around and dipping her so low that her red hair brushes the floor.

  I set the girl back on her feet and Basti steps in, offering to dance with me next. I switch back to the woman’s role in the dance and shake my hips, my heels tapping left then right as I shimmy toward Basti and let him lead me into a spin.

  We’re both laughing as smoke swirls above our heads, and I let my worries go for the time being. I’ve got people to watch my back here, so I’m not worried. I can actually let my hair down tonight and have some fucking fun.

  My issues with Lemon don’t leave me, however, no matter how much I dance and sweat, switching partners frequently so that Nisha and I have a turn together, me and Evelyn, me and Juana. Shit, even me and Dale who seems markedly better after his run-in with Alexei. Serves him right anyway.

  Everything seems to be going well until a guy grabs me from behind. Not in a fun playful way with his hand on my shoulder or wrist like some of the other boys have done, but in a slimy, entitled manner, like those pricks at the club who don’t take no for an answer.

  He jerks me back against him and then immediately slides his hand over my right breast, giving the full mound a squeeze through the fabric.

  I cannot even explain the way my entire body and mind go dark.

  The world is full of predators; there’s only one defense.

  My knife—always there and strapped to my thigh during events like this—ends up in my palm, and I would’ve stabbed it directly into the crotch of the guy who just grabbed me, but someone snatches my wrist in strong fingers.

  It’s Bohnes.

  “What the fuck are you doing?!” I scream over the music, trying to wrench myself from his grasp. People scoot away from us, but in typical southside fashion, they don’t stop dancing. Why would they? If everyone in this room stopped dancing when a knife or a gun or whatever else was pulled, there’d only be Fuller High and Oak Valley Prep students at these parties.

  We’ve all been there, done that, seen it all.

  Bohnes’ expression is cold terror. He uses his other hand to wrest the knife from my grip, and I let him. Technically, at these parties, he’s in charge. We’ve established that in the past. Conversely, it means that he handles any and all issues, even if I’m here. Someone gets out of line? Not my problem when I’m at one of these shindigs.

  “You,” he says looking at me before casting a glance over his shoulder. “And you. In there”—he points with the knife in the direction of a small door behind the bar—“now.”

  Bohnes releases me and turns to look at the pervert.

  “Did I fucking stutter?” he grinds out, snatching the guy mid-protest by the nape of his neck and leading him in the direction he wants him to go. The dude’s friend looks panicked, his eyes wide like a deer as he scrambles to catch up. I recognize him, but not the other guy. Figures.

  No boy at Prescott High would ever make a mistake like that.

  I look over at Nisha and Bastian, nodding with my chin in the direction that Bohnes went. I’m not letting this go. That piece of shit molested me, so he deserves to have his ass kicked. Or killed. One of the two.

  I move into the room which turns out to be just an unfinished, empty space, like maybe it was a spot where the speakeasy received deliveries or something. Currently, it’s set up like a garage with metal shelves on three of the four walls.

  Bohnes shuts the door behind us, but I can still hear the big band music spilling into the room, shaking the walls. He moves across the room and pauses beside something that’s leaning against the far wall.

  There’s only a single lightbulb with a green metal shade hanging from the ceiling that gives off any light. I can’t quite tell what Bohnes has in his hand until he returns with a machete clutched in his inked fingers.

  He flexes them around the handle of the weapon and then points to an old worktable in the center of the room. His blue eyes are gray in the half-light, but his hair, where it falls under the umbrella of light, is as white as his name. Bohnes.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I ask, but he ignores me.

  “You touched what’s mine,” he says to the boy in a way that both excites and concerns me. I should never have let him race Widow tonight. “I shouldn’t have had to tell you not to. Put your hand on the table.”

  The guy who grabbed my tit is some sleazeball who, based on his letterman jacket, is some sort of hotshot athlete from Fuller High—the middle-class school that straddles the line of normalcy, somewhere between Prescott, Four Corners, and what we call the ‘tree neighborhoods’: Oak River Heights, Oak Park, and Oak Valley.

  “Fuck that shit,” the jock snaps out, letting his frantic gaze swing over to his Prescott buddy. Bet he regrets inviting him here just about now.

  I’m still wondering what it is that Bohnes is planning on doing when the friend pushes at the pervert’s shoulder.

  “Dude you better do it,” the Prescott kid says, licking his lips nervously as his gaze darts from me to Bohnes and then back to his friend again. “He’s fucking crazy. You don’t want to know what he’ll do if you defy him now.”

  Bohnes smiles wickedly.

  “Do it now or it’s not just fingers, it’s a hand.”

  “Fingers?” the guy asks, looking at Bohnes like he’s lost his mind. I mean, he has, just not right now. It was gone some time ago, I imagine. “What do you mean fingers?”

  Bohnes turns to look at the Prescott kid, narrowing his eyes. I can barely believe this is the guy that rutted me into the forest floor just a few hours ago. My body’s still sore, and my panties are a bit of a mess from his cum, and now here he is, defending my honor.

  Not that I can’t defend my own fucking honor, but I’m curious to see what he’s actually going to do.

  “Make it happen now—or you’ll both get the same treatment.”

  The Prescott kid scrambles forward, snatching his friend’s hand and slamming it into the table. He uses his body to block the other guy against the edge of it as Bohnes adjusts the machete, lifts it up, and then sends it slamming down with enough force that his muscles ripple with the movement.

  There’s a loud thump as the blade buries itself into the wood of the worktable and for a second there, I’m convinced that he was just trying to scare the kid, that he wasn’t aiming for his hand in any way, shape, or form. It’d still be a decent punishment as such.

  But no.

  Two of the guy’s fingers sort of fall to one side, and then there’s blood. A whole hell of a lot of blood. There’s about a three second delay there before the jock starts to scream.

&n
bsp; It’s mindless, just sounds of pain as he slumps to the floor, kicking and wailing and bleeding everywhere. The Prescott kid stumbles back, staring up at Bohnes as the jock continues to shriek in perturbed agony.

  “Here,” Bohnes says, holding the machete in his left hand. With his right, he scoops up the pair of severed fingers and brings them over to me, offering them out on his palm with a smile.

  I just stare back at him, too stunned to move while Nisha goes wide-eyed and Basti murmurs something in Spanish that I can’t quite pick up.

  “What is this?” I breathe out as I look down at the fingers, wondering what it is, exactly, that Bohnes wants me to do with them.

  “It’s a gift,” he says, as if that were obvious. Blood drips from between his fingers to the floor. Oh sweet dark goddess, what am I doing with this man? Kellin Bohnes was arguably the worst choice of all the Prescott trash that I could’ve selected as a fuckboy.

  There are dozens of hot young dudes who know their cars, who have ink and muscles and metal, pain in their hearts, darkness in their eyes. If what I wanted was tortured, fucked-up, and broken, I had the pick of the litter.

  I picked Bohnes.

  I must enjoy a challenge.

  Plop, plop, plop.

  I stare down at the fingers before holding out my own palm and allowing Bohnes to drop them into my hand. He leans down, looming over me, a dark shadow that makes me shiver and shudder in remembered heat.

  “You decide if you want to give them back so he can go to the hospital and get them reattached or not. Either way, I support you.” Bohnes turns back around to look at the boy. He’s curled into a fetal position, clutching his right hand with his left and whimpering.

  I study the fingers for a moment before tossing them at the guy.

  “Get the fuck out of here and, next time you think about groping a girl—since you obviously don’t care about other people’s personal boundaries—just remember that she might have a lover who cuts peoples fingers off with a machete.”

  The guy scrambles to collect his severed digits, shoving them into his jacket pocket and zipping it up before his friend helps him to his feet, guiding him out the door and, likely, to the hospital.