He looks up at me and then sneers.
He takes a razorblade, uses it to scrape the white powder into a neater line, and then plugs one nostril so he can snort it up.
You wouldn’t know by looking at him that he killed a teenage girl just a few hours prior.
At least my twin acknowledges my existence. Our father doesn’t even look at me. His friends do, his disgusting, pathetic, good ol’ boy friends. He plots with them, makes deals he shouldn’t make, sells out the people of Prescott in a bid for bigger favors and more money and a chance at becoming the governor of Oregon.
I’m nothing to him, big shot that he is. As far as he’s concerned, he doesn’t have a second son. I’m an embarrassment to the family. The crazy son, the psycho one, the one who got put in any number of random mental health facilities, who was committed for a while, who served out his last year of high school at some dump in the middle of Arkansas, buried in the woods and hidden from public view.
And all because of Aspen. Because Aspen was born wrong and, even though he’s my identical twin, we couldn’t be anymore different. He spent the formative years of our life torturing me, teasing me, hitting me, spitting on me, choking me.
Whenever anything bad happened, he told our parents it was Ash who did it. Ash who killed the cat. Ash who set the rug on fire. Ash who let the horses out so that one of them could be killed by wild animals. Ash who stole the gun from dad’s desk drawer and shot our tutor in the thigh.
Ash who got that girl pregnant that one time, and then punched her in the stomach until …
Ash, Ash, Ash.
Sometimes, I forget which one of them I am. Am I Aspen Kelly? Am I Ash Kelly? What did I do wrong? Why does our father hate me so much?
I used to think it was because Aspen blamed every horrible thing he did on me. Then I got older and realized that my father simply didn’t care. He likes Aspen because he was made in his image, because he’s as cruel and twisted as he is. Even if he can’t tell us apart, when I act like Aspen, he likes me. When Aspen acts like Aspen, he likes him.
But, regardless, he hates Ash.
He hates Ash, the troublemaker, who Aspen plays very well. And he hates the true, authentic version of myself that is Ash Kelly. Basically, it’s a lose-lose situation for me most days. I’m good at pretending to be my brother, but I don’t enjoy it. I don’t enjoy his persona or his speech patterns or his cruelty.
“What the fuck are you staring at?” Aspen snarls at me, rising to his feet in his black-on-black-on-black suit. Lemon isn’t in the room celebrating with these assholes, even though she moved in last week. I wasn’t lying when I said she threw that box in the dumpster. She did. She packed up her things in the trailer she shares with her aunt, and then she dumped all of the items related to Scarlett.
Since I was following Aspen—as I often do—and watching him (all the better to be him later when necessary), I saw the whole thing. Then I took that box to Scarlett Force because, apparently, I’m insane.
Truly.
As all of my psychologists have said that I am.
Before Aspen can truly come at me the way he likes to do, I turn and make a beeline for the exit, passing through the kitchen like a shadow, a ghost, a specter. Dad’s colleagues don’t even look at me.
But I see them.
I see the short, slightly overweight man two chairs down on his left, still wearing his uniform. I see his close-cropped dark hair and perverted smile as he asks where all the hookers are. I see the man directly next to my father, the tall, broad-shouldered, good-looking Chet Archer, CEO of his own company.
I see them both.
I see all four of them.
I head upstairs as quickly as I can, pausing when I see Lemon—or Lucy Hall, or whatever—leaning against the wall near her bedroom door. She’s wearing a short, see-through negligee and batting her eyelashes at me coquettishly.
She doesn’t know there are two of us, Aspen and Ash. Nobody does. They know Aspen has a brother, but they don’t understand. They don’t know what it’s like to share half your soul with somebody who doesn’t have one.
“Are you coming to bed, baby?” she asks, and I just stare at her.
She’s part of the reason I can’t get closer to Scarlett Force. She doesn’t want to touch me thinking that I’ve had sex with her friend, that I’m using her for God only knows what.
This is why I still have high hopes for that woman.
“If I come to bed, you’ll know it,” I say, and Lemon giggles as I slip into my own room and slam the door. At least she’ll be ready for when Aspen stumbles up the stairs for those glorious two minutes of rutting her into the mattress before he comes and then passes out—that is, if he doesn’t get the maid to help him out first.
I make sure my door is locked a half-dozen times over—it’s the only way to keep Aspen out, and even then, only if he’s drunk or stoned—and then move over to slump onto my bed, putting my head into my hands.
It’d be so much easier if I could just tell Scarlett Force the truth.
Can I? Should I?
It’d put her life at risk. When Aspen thinks I want something or that I like someone, he goes for it with a rapaciousness that’s always shocked me. No matter how many times I see it. He’s mindless, like a shark scenting blood in the water. There are no thoughts there, just bottomless hunger and a senseless need to destroy.
On a more selfish note, I like that Scarlett can tell us apart. She never almost kissed Aspen—I know, because I was watching. She never let him touch her or flirt with her. His repulsiveness was enough so that, even in the market when we connected on a visceral level, when we almost kissed, she threw washing powder in my face.
I smile grimly.
No, I can’t tell her. Not yet. But if she wins the race, I’ll have to tell her something.
How, exactly, I’m going to go about this, I’m not sure. But I’ll figure it out.
I always do.
Scarlett
The track is buzzing on Friday. Not only is there a bonfire, but some guy has hooked up these massive ass subwoofers to his car and is blasting Lil Nas X loud enough that I can hear the lyrics in my goddamn teeth.
I can’t focus on any of it.
The usual churr and thrum of the crowd, the plangent roar of engines, the heartbeat of the music, it’s all background noise to me. I’m pacing back and forth on the driest part of the parking lot, wearing tall black wedges that keep my toes out of the muck.
I’ve got on black cigarette pants with a set of silver buttons that run vertically up either side of my pelvis, and a 1950s black and white polka dot blouse with a big ass bow around the neck. Paired with the big white cat eye sunglasses I had on earlier in the day (that are now perched atop my head), I look straight out of some black-and-white film about pioneering female drivers throughout history or some shit.
“Stop pacing like that,” Nisha groans, sitting on the hood of her ‘64 Lotus Elan and rubbing at her temples with both hands. “You’re making me nervous.”
“Why did you agree to race that d-bag anyway?” Basti demands, sulking as he goes over his pre-race checklist on the Devil. I had him come over last night to look over everything, but I’m paranoid. And this is important. It’s vital. Not just because I put my body on the line—again—but because in all my years of running my crew, I’ve never lost a girl like this.
Never.
I pause, hands on my hips, and glance over the packed bleachers on my right. Every single one of my girls is here tonight and then some. Shit, it looks like the entirety of Prescott High has shown up for this.
They might not know why this race against Aspen is so important, but they can feel the energy from me, from my crew, and so they’ve all gathered like moths to flame, willing to get their wings burned for a single taste.
“Because we need information. We need access to that car.” I look at Basti, but he’s frowning hard, dressed in a baseball cap, a t-shirt with torn sleeves, and holey jeans—h
is usual work attire. He glares back at me, but he knows I’m right.
“You’re sure you were looking Aspen Kelly in the face right as it happened?” he queries, and I narrow my eyes on him.
“He was standing right in front of me, Bastian. Literally. If he hadn’t been, you’re damn right that I would’ve pegged this on him. But I can’t do that. It won’t bring Evelyn any justice. He can’t have shot her when he was in the fucking grocery store arguing with me.”
I pause as Basti lifts his head up to look over my shoulder, turning in time to see Widow pulling into the parking lot in his ‘Vette. He parks right next to me, which is unsurprising, and then climbs out in his ratty old brown boots, glaring daggers at me from eyes the color of pirate’s treasure, two tarnished gold coins in a ruggedly handsome face.
He stares at me before lifting up the edge of his lips in a sneer.
“You agreed to race that rich idiot again?” he asks, but I can’t explain things to him without giving too much way. So I shrug loosely, sliding my hands into my pockets as I look him over. How is it fair for a Prescott guy to be this tall, this muscular, this edgy and dark and alluring?
I think about his hand slapping my ass, the bright sting of it, the drag of his finger down my swollen folds. As if he can sense the direction of my thoughts, he turns away, climbing onto the hood of his car to sit and light up a cigarette.
Based on his location, he should be able to see everything from there and keep an eye on his Stingray at the same time. Smart move. Although, if he knew what I was going through right now, he wouldn’t dare think I gave a shit about stealing his ride at the moment.
I have more important things to worry about.
Still, I can’t shake that look on his face. He seems almost … disappointed?
“I have my reasons, you know,” I tell him, not sure why I’m even bothering to explain. I can sense Nisha and Basti exchanging a look behind my back. When I turn around, they’re both staring at me the way I stare at Lemon.
Like she’s an idiot.
“Don’t even start with me tonight,” I grind out, when Widow doesn’t answer.
I’ve already got Aspen and me on the roster for tonight. Checking my phone, I see that we have about fifteen minutes before we’re supposed to start. So where the fuck is he? Is he even going to show up? Why did I think he would?
Because he wants you. You’re the bait, Scar. He won’t be able to resist.
One thing I know about rich guys like that, they hate to be told no.
The very idea that something in this world might not belong to them is anathema.
He’ll show up.
I wait with my arms crossed under my breasts, watching the driveway as one classic beauty after another rolls into the lot. The line of classic cars is occasionally broken up by junkers and borrowed minivans, pickup trucks hiked up too high, and sedans with differently colored doors or hoods from previous accidents.
Yep, all of Prescott, not just track regulars.
Bohnes rolls in amongst the commotion, parking in his usual spot—just as nobody but Widow dares park in my space out front of the school, the same goes here for Bohnes—and then making his way straight to me.
“You still haven’t told me how it went the other night,” I whisper as he pauses beside me, looking over at Widow on the hood of his ‘Vette, smoking a cigarette and staring at nothing. Bohnes smiles, and as usual, it conveys so many differing emotions that don’t usually accompany that sort of expression. I mean, there’s joy in there, certainly, but also triumph and the intensity of an animal on the hunt.
“Taken care of.” That’s the response I get before Bohnes turns back to me, looking me over with a whistle. “Need a pregame warm-up tonight, Miss Force?”
“No time for it,” I say, even though my body aches, and I’d love a moment to just fuck and forget the world exists. Sex is a great drug. At least, with Bohnes it is. With Bohnes, it’s all-consuming, mind-shattering. There is no room to think about or care for anything else except heat and friction and climax.
I rub at my face as he frowns, a darkness settling over his features that makes me feel edgy. I cannot even believe that this motherfucker asked me out on a date in exchange for burying a body.
It’s very … Prescott.
I drop my hands by my sides just as the silver and black Mustang rolls into the lot and all eyes turn to watch as it trundles over muddy potholes and comes to a stop just in front of me. The headlights flick off, and out climbs Aspen Kelly, dressed in a white sweater and dark jeans, more of those classic high-top sneakers on his feet—green ones this time.
He stares at me for a minute before offering up another tight, strange smile.
“You ready, Scarlett Force?” he asks, and I nod, gesturing for the grand marshal of the night—a guy named James Scott—to head our way and offer up the clipboard for Aspen’s perusal.
My body versus classified information.
Doesn’t have to say what that information is on the sheet. Classified means we agreed on it, and words are currency here. If Aspen reneges on this shit, I’ll destroy him and everyone else in his family, just to make sure I get the culprit.
Nobody touches me or my crew and walks. I can’t allow that. Not even if I’m planning on skipping this town and taking my skills behind the wheel somewhere else after graduation.
Prescott pride, it’s a thing.
I’ve fought day in and day out since freshman year to whip this track and that school into something presentable. Might be ‘trashy as hell’ as the Oak Valley kids say, but it’s ours, and we have a thieves’ honor that runs deeper than a lot of the surface level bullshit that I see in other neighborhoods.
So yeah, I’m going to defend my girl’s honor, my school, and this track.
“I was born ready, Aspen,” I say, and maybe I imagine it, but … did he just cringe a little at the mention of his own name?
There’s nothing like that quiet moment at the start of a race, when you’re sitting behind the wheel, strapped in and ready for a ride, when the adrenaline is singing sick songs in your blood and your heart is beating so loudly that you can hear it even above the roar of the engine.
I squeeze my hands on the wheel and release a long, slow exhale, eyes focused on the track. Weather conditions dictate how a race will go here in Prescott. That’s part of the fun, part of the challenge, learning the way your car reacts on a turn when the ground is dry and dusty or when it’s six inches deep under water, when the mud is sticky like clay or slick as ice.
It starts to rain as soon as Aspen and I line up, side by side, waiting for the flash of that green flag in the bright white light from the city’s misplaced spotlights. Within seconds, that sprinkle turns into a shower, and I’m already counting my lucky stars.
I know what it’s like to race this track under summer’s fading twilight sky or in the pitch-dark when the city temporarily cut power to the lights in an attempt to get rid of us. I know how to race when the track is covered in a thick, slimy blanket of autumn leaves or when winter’s cold kiss has turned the mud to an ice-skating rink.
I’ve got this.
Monsoon rain presents unique challenges; Aspen won’t know what those are.
The flag waves by in a blur, and I slowly ease onto the clutch, letting Aspen take the lead, spraying my windshield with mud. The wipers flick to clear away the debris, but it’s raining so hard that mother nature gets the glass clean quick enough.
Not that I need to see the track to race it. I could do it blind. Have, in fact, put a blindfold on and ran the track on my own, just to see if I could do it.
I did. I can.
I let Aspen put some space between us before I pick up speed on the straights, forcing the Devil to take the turns down the middle of the track. The inside gets these deep, wet pockets that slow you down too much, and the outside turns into slick slush in the rain. Normally, the outside of the track is a safe bet, even in the rain.
Just not when i
t comes down like the sky is falling.
I catch up to Aspen fairly quickly when he makes the mistake of hugging the inside of the track, passing by him in a flurry of muddy water. He hangs back which makes me suspicious as hell, and I intentionally hit the outside of the track, anticipating the slide and turning into it to control the direction of the Pantera’s nose.
Once again, he passes me, and I can’t help but wonder if he wasn’t trying to learn my tricks by following behind me. With that thought in mind, I make sure not to outpace him, letting him keep a small lead so that I can watch and learn his habits.
We’ve got twenty laps on this track, but each one only takes about thirty seconds, so while there’s time to maneuver, there’s no time to play games.
The deal with the Prescott track is this: everything goes. A hidden chunk of old cement rises up from the mud during a storm and you hit it? Your problem. Got stuck in a new rut that wasn’t there the last time you raced? Your problem.
Any act of nature is valid, according to our rules.
So when the wind knocks a massive tree branch down, and it falls directly in front of me, it’s my problem.
I twist the wheel hard to the left, turning the car and using the natural slide of the mud to make myself spin. I end up sliding past it, ass first, facing in the wrong direction. My rear wheels get stuck in one of the rapidly filling puddles near the center of the track, and I find myself spinning my wheels in the muck as I grit my teeth in frustration.
Fuck.
This is not goddamn happening to me! Not with so much on the line. I don’t just mean myself—although that’s enough—but Evelyn. Evelyn and the blood on the cement, and the surprised look stuck to her face, and Bohnes asking me out on a date when I want nothing but sex in my life and zero romance.
Why does he have to push me like that? Why do I want to push back?
With a growl, I watch as Aspen approaches on his next lap, easing around the outside of the tree branch and then scooting past it. He doesn’t bother to pick up much speed, anticipating having to do the same thing again on the next round.
F*ckboy Psychos Page 24