Bohnes is such a clever monster. I find him just outside the back gate, moving in the direction of the front door. I’m able to slip out through the small hole in the fence and come up behind him, putting the tip of my knife against the base of his spine.
He goes completely still, the sound of the freeway traffic the only noise beside his and my soft breaths.
“Explain to me why I shouldn’t stab you right here and now,” I ask calmly, pitching my voice low so that Tommy Tits and Megan Face—who are bitching loudly about the price of stolen car stereos on the other side of the fence—won’t hear us.
“Unblock me,” Bohnes says, reaching back to grab my knife. He just curls his fingers around it and pushes it away, regardless of the way it catches and makes him bleed. He turns around then to look at me, an expression of annoyance on his face. “I want my number unblocked, so that I can check on you when you don’t show where you’re supposed to. Do I really need to start calling from other numbers? That upsets me, Scarlett. I’ve never given a girl my private number before.”
“First off, I don’t owe you shit about where I am or what I’m doing. Second, you are most definitely not getting unblocked now.” A lie. I’m pleased. I’m pleased that he came here, even if it’s obsessive and wrong and screwed up. “Fuck off out of my yard before I decide to lop the head off that pretty cock of yours.”
Bohnes smiles at me, and then sighs, reaching out to take some of my loose hair in his hand. It’s so long, he has no problem bringing it to his face to smell. Like a crazy person. Like a totally fucking crazy person, and I am all the way here for it.
Anyway, we go way back. I asked him for help after the accident, and he delivered, so I don’t really get all that mad about it.
I slap his hand away.
“I thought you were home with your sister, but instead, I see the mayor’s son pull up and well, imagine my surprise when you invited him in.”
I give Bohnes a dark look.
“Be careful with him,” he warns me, as if I need it, as if I’m stupid enough to let my guard down around that man. Although … I just left him inside with my sister. Thing is, Alexis might have mental health issues, but she’s still Prescott by blood. She grew up here same as I did. She can handle herself for two fucking minutes. “Most especially with his brother.”
Bohnes reaches out, putting his hands on my hips. I let him touch me, his fingers burning hot, even through the fabric of my oversized Daria sweater. Won this at the track from some Oak Valley bitch who wouldn’t stop complaining because it ‘cost a lot, and I ordered it online, and it’s hand-painted in New York’. Blah, blah, blah.
Anyway, the white cursive—it says Hi, go to hell—and the image of Daria’s face have started to fade after several tumbles in our cheap-ass washer and dryer. I mean, even though our set is crap, we may as well be rich over here. Ain’t nobody else on this block has a washer and dryer in their house.
“I’ve never met his brother—fortunately.” I haven’t heard much goss about the other Kelly boy, but from what I have heard, he sounds like a complete and total psycho. Worse even, than his garbage brother. His garbage brother whose mouth tasted like silk and sin, who squeezed my ass and teased my pussy with his fingers while I fought like hell to claw my way out of a lust-induced haze.
Bohnes chuckles at me, and then he steals my phone from my pocket, darting out of my reach when I lunge for him. He moves across the lawn, but I know he can’t break into it; the damn thing is locked with a pin code. I don’t trust biometrics. Any asshole can grab your hand and force your fingerprint onto the screen or flash it at your face.
To get the pin, they have torture it outta you.
Or else … they have to be Kellin Bohnes.
He unlocks the phone easily, finds his number and stares at it for a moment, and then unblocks himself—but not before changing his name in my contacts to My Dark Love Bohnes.
Hilarious.
“How the hell do you know my pin?” I ask him, but then, there’s a reason everyone at Prescott High pays Bohnes to do dirty work. He knows everything. He sees everything. He will do anything for the right price.
For the thing I asked help with two years ago, I should’ve had to pay a lot more than I did. I’m starting to think the fifteen-hundred in cash he requested was just bullshit.
“Here.” He offers my phone back and, just for good measure, I make sure to swing the knife and catch him across the arm, drawing a small, thin line of blood, before I remove my phone from his hand.
“Now you have an unblocked number as well as a warning. Fuck off, Bohnes.”
I start to turn away when he grabs me yet again, hands on my hips, and puts his lips near me ear.
“You invited me, Scarlett, now didn’t you?”
I did, and we both know it, but that doesn’t mean I can let him walk all over me either.
“You’re just a fuckboy, Bohnes.”
“So you keep saying,” he tells me, and then he releases me with another laugh. I notice that his car—that gorgeous black ‘69 Chevelle—is parked on the curb right in front of my house.
He didn’t even try to hide the fact that he was here; he was just testing me.
“Send the Kelly boy home,” he tells me, walking backward as I throw a dark glare over my shoulder. “If you don’t, you’ll regret it.”
Bohnes turns around, climbs into his car, and peels out of the neighborhood with the smell of hot rubber and bullshit.
“Cocky asshole,” I murmur, swiping the bit of blood off my knife and onto my sweater. I head back into the house to find Alexis sitting at the table across from Aspen.
“We’re done here,” I tell him, gesturing with the knife again. “Get out of my house.”
“Aren’t you even going to say thank you for the box?” he inquires, but I’m sure he can tell by the expression on my face that I’m not.
“If someone does you a favor, you owe them a thank you,” Alexis blurts, rather unhelpfully, and then she looks around, searching for … God only knows what. “Where did your boyfriend go?”
“Again, not my boyfriend, just a fuckboy.” I’m looking right at Aspen when I say that, letting him know with my expression that he won’t even be allowed to be that much to me, not while he’s dating and screwing Lemon. Not ever since he screwed Lemon. I don’t do sloppy seconds.
“He’s your fuckboy, too?” she asks, glancing over at Aspen and likely wondering how someone like me would ever let a rich guy put his cock in me. His tongue, maybe, but not his cock.
“He’s nothing. Leave. Now.” I stab the tip of the knife into the already worn and scratched surface of the table as Aspen rises to his feet. He starts to move past me, letting his mouth linger disturbingly close to my ear.
“Walk me out?” he queries, and I tear the knife from the table, following him to the front door and onto the porch. His dark eyes find my mouth and hold there, but if he thinks I’m going to repeat what happened last week—which was for Bohnes’ benefit more so than anything else—then he’s a colossal moron. “I wasn’t lying when I said I’ve been obsessing about your mouth. Care to wrap it around my cock?”
“Care to get on your knees and pleasure me with your tongue?” I query right back, and that gives him pause, as if he’s actually thinking about it.
“Okay,” he agrees, shrugging his shoulders, and then he’s getting to his knees, and I’m moving back against the door. He looks up at me, running his tongue along his upper lip. “Let me suck you off, Scarlett. You’ll like it.”
Without another word, I turn and step inside the house, slamming the door behind me and putting my back to it. I stay where I am, gripping the knife hard, my eyes closed, and I wait for the sound of his Mustang before I turn and check out the window to make sure that he’s gone.
“Are you alright?” Alexis asks, coming up to stand beside me with a fresh bowl of popcorn in her arms. When she looks at me like that, with wide eyes and an innocent sort of facial expression, i
t’s hard to stay angry. “You look like you just saw a ghost. It isn’t Halloween yet, you know?”
“I know,” I agree, looking down at the knife as I try to come to terms with what I almost just did. That is, I almost shoved my pajama pants down my hips, grabbed a handful of Aspen’s silky black hair, and thrust my cunt into his eager face. I even fantasized about putting my knife to his throat and threatening him to make me come or else. Shit. I need to keep those sorts of impulses—the ones that seemed to come to life more fully after the accident—tamped down. “But tonight has been terrifying nonetheless.”
I make sure the doorknob is locked, the deadbolt slid into place, the chain securely hooked, and then I set the knife down on the decorative side table near the front door.
“You cool if we watch another horror movie?” I ask, and Alexis nods. If she sees the blood tainting a bit of the white text on my sweatshirt, she doesn’t remark on it, and I don’t wipe it off or change shirts. Not even when I head to bed a few hours later.
Told ya I was just as much a psycho as the next Prescott asshole.
Scarlett
Sunday is spent securing new panties from a variety of upscale stores in the Oak Park neighborhood. Of all the ‘tree neighborhoods’, it’s the one with the best shopping and the least amount of security. Normally, I prefer to win whatever I need at the track, but this chore can’t wait for next weekend.
I need fresh underwear for my game with Widow. I have no intention of stopping—even if Bohnes decides to keep creeping in to watch. Let him. He needs to understand that he doesn’t, and never will, have control over me.
For Monday, I decide on a pair of white cotton panties with black polka dots. They’d be an innocent choice but for the fact that they’re a thong, and I’m wearing them under a relatively short skirt.
To his credit, Widow pretends not to notice. He doesn’t even touch me throughout the entirety of fifth period, not until he’s on his way out the door and his left hand sneaks under my skirt and squeezes my ass before he breezes by and disappears out the library doors.
I like the feel of his hand on my ass so much that the next day, I wear another thong. This time, I put it under tight-ass turquoise colored leather pants and leave just a bit of the straps showing above the waistband on either hip.
As I’d hoped, Widow takes the bait.
“Where the fuck are you going?” he snarls at me, chasing me into the darkest, most private corner of the room and slamming his hands onto the bookshelves on either side of me. His teeth are gritted, and he looks so furious, you’d think he found out that I jacked it in his Stingray.
“My job,” I reply smoothly, and then Widow grabs the books from my hands and tosses them onto the floor. “Whoa, pretty disrespectful for a reader—” I start, but then he’s spinning me around and yanking the leather pants over my ass.
I put my hands up on the bookshelves, breathing in the scent of paper and ink and that plum-apple-pine smell that clings to Widow. He huffs out a sharp breath, ruffles my hair, and then caresses my ass a moment before slapping it hard. The sting is enough to wet my panties and turn my nipples to diamond points.
But then he’s bending down and snatching the books off the floor, tossing them onto a nearby table, and then leaving. He storms right down the aisle and a moment later, I hear the library doors open and then slam shut.
“Fuck,” I grind out through gritted teeth, yanking my pants back into place. But at least I got to him. I fucking got to him, and that’s what matters. Every day breaks his ass down just a little bit more.
At some point, I expect him to challenge Bohnes for the right to sleep with me.
That’s what I want.
I don’t know why.
It’s not just because Widow is hot or mysterious, or because he has teal and purple hair, or drives a sexy as fuck ‘Vette. It isn’t just because he plays guitar and reads romance novels. It’s because he seems so friggin’ unattainable that I want him just to see if I can’t have him.
After school, I hop into the Devil, slide my shades onto my face—won these at the track, they’re Gucci—and then hit the gas, blasting my way through Prescott and slowing only when I get into the Oak Park neighborhood. Too many cops on patrol to risk getting a ticket here.
I make my way over to Market of Cost to grab a cake for my Aunt Anita. She sent out a group text to our entire family—even my Uncle Bob who moved out because of Alexis—to tell us she got promoted. Said she was taking us all out somewhere nice to celebrate.
Since I know she’s a cake connoisseur (to the point that she won’t even eat a cheap cake from the shitty Prescott supermarket, despite our low socioeconomic status), I decided to drive all the way out here just to get her one from the fancy bakery inside the store.
She loves the cakes from this place, to the point that she’s willing to forgo gifts on her actual birthday so that our family can afford to get her custom poppy seed lemon cakes from here. I won’t have time to custom order anything today, but I sure as shit can pick something fancy out of the glass case inside and have Congrats, Bitch written across the top in frosting.
I mean, if the employees won’t do it, I’ll buy a tube myself and get it done.
I pull into the parking lot and what do I see?
Aspen Kelly’s silver Mustang—rather than his Shelby Cobra—parked in the lot near the front door. I end up moving spaces so that I can park right next to him, rolling down my driver’s side window and waiting for him to notice me.
It takes a minute, but eventually, he glances over and sees me there, reaching over to roll his passenger side window down so that we can talk.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, glancing at my phone as it bings several times with incoming texts. My girls are working again today, but Nisha was busy with her mom, and Basti actually managed to score a lunch date with Lemon, so we’ve got our girl Evelyn leading point. She’s a humongous pain in my ass but the best driver in my crew save the three of us, so we left her in charge. She hasn’t bungled a job yet.
I glance briefly at the messages to make sure everything is going smoothly—they’ve got a target—and then look back up at Aspen.
He’s got his hands on the wheel, dark eyes watching me curiously.
“Are you stalking me, too?” I continue, my voice dry. I don’t have to explain the ‘too’ part of that sentence; he was there when Bohnes showed up in my goddamn yard unannounced.
“I come here a lot; it’s the nicest market in the county.” He shrugs loosely, as if that’s explanation enough. “Perhaps you’re the one who’s stalking me, Scarlett?”
I curl my lip at him, checking the sea of incoming texts yet again. My girls are all aflutter about something. Using my thumb, I scroll up, past dozens of emoji laden texts and OMGs, holy shits, and fuck mes that fill the screen.
It’s that goddamn Shelby Cobra again! Jennifer texts as I frown heavily, lifting my gaze back to Aspen. He’s sitting right there and yet, someone else is driving his car? You bet your sweet ass that if the Cobra were mine, no other cheeks would be sitting in that seat.
On it. That from Evelyn, who’s taking point. It’s a good mark, to be fair. We have a minimum value on cars we hit at three-hundred K and the Cobra is certainly worth more than that. Maybe it’s a different one? They’re not a common classic to see out on the road, but it’s not an impossible idea either. Our love of classic cars bleeds into the upper echelons of society around Springfield and Eugene and, even though the rich could never hope to imitate the true heart of what we do here in Prescott, they try.
So there are a lot of vintage beauties driven around here by stockbrokers and hedge fund douchebags that don’t know how to use ‘em. It’s the car that drives the man in those cases, and not the other way around.
Anyway, it wouldn’t be the first time we hit a vintage car, so I’m not worried about it.
I decide to ignore Aspen’s last comment, rolling my window back up and climbing out. He does the same, a
nd we end up walking into the store together. Seeing as I’m still wearing the tight leather pants with my thong hanging out, people gape at me even more so than usual.
Aspen notices and the edge of his mouth twists into a devious smirk.
“They probably think you’re my sidepiece,” he remarks, which makes me want to drive my nails into his eyes until they burst. I look over to see that he’s still wearing that thick bandage on his hand. He notices and offers up an explanation. “Accident with a thirty-thousand-dollar vase.”
I stop right there in the middle of the store, next to the egregious display of kitchenware featuring birds and squirrels and price tags that are hideous but not nearly as hideous as what Aspen just said.
“This is why I hate rich people,” I say, loudly enough that people whip their heads around to glare and spit. What’s hilarious is that the cocksuckers sneering at me now clock what, five-hundred-thou a year? “Not talkin’ about you, sweet cheeks,” I add, lifting my chin in the direction of a trophy wife Barbie doll tottering around with her shopping cart like some sort of fucked-up Stepford wife. I glance over at Aspen, but he seems either bemused or enraged, caught somewhere in the middle of two different emotions. “No vase should ever cost thirty grand. No vase is worth thirty grand.”
“This one was. I know that because my father took the money out of my trust fund.”
“Aww, poor little rich boy,” I say with a pathetic moue. I turn away from him and head in the direction of the bakery, my heels loud as they clack across the sterile faux wood tile floors.
Aspen follows me, even though I wish he’d just fuck right off. Or … offer to suck me off again. If he gets on his knees and asks again the way he did, I’m not sure I’d be able to resist. And that mouth, what deity allowed such a horrible boy to be born with such a pretty, little mouth?
As I peer in at the colorful assortment of cakes, I realize that I’m still wearing my shades, lifting them up and perching them in my hair as I examine the assortment of baked goods. Fucking eighty bucks for one cake. Good thing I’m still flush from that fat-ass score I won the first day I met this cocksucker beside me.
F*ckboy Psychos Page 22