But what about me?
Easiest way to escape the mud is to get out of the car, drop a rubber floor mat under the tires, and use that for traction. Thing is, I can’t get out during a race. Too dangerous.
Instead, I shift gears and put the barest amount of pressure on the clutch, slowly working myself forward. Slowly, but not too slowly. Going too fast will cause the tires to spin and create bigger ruts while going too slow will get me mired in the mud and stuck.
I keep an even pace, moving the steering wheel from left to right to gain the most possible traction. While I’m working my way out of a tight spot, I ignore Aspen Kelly. There’s nothing I can do about him right now; I can only worry about myself.
By the grace of some dark and forgiving goddess, I manage to get my car out of the rut, waiting for Aspen to pass me yet again, so that I can maneuver around the branch.
I have no idea how many laps ahead of me he is at this point, but I can only do my best.
Throwing caution to the wind, I crank up the speed, taking my chances at a slide to try to make up some of the distance between us. My focus narrows to a single, sharp point, and I make myself breathe deep, long, slow inhales.
There’s no doubt in my mind that I’m going to lose this thing.
What a cruel twist of fate, for me to get fucked by my own track, on a day when I should’ve been able to kick Aspen’s ass hands-down. Most important race of my life, and I’m going to lose it.
This’ll be my first loss on the Prescott track, and the biggest failure of my burgeoning career.
Aspen’s going to bend me over that car and fuck me, and that’s not what I’m most upset about. That scares me, too, because while I can’t forget my initial and semi-recurrent revulsion and hatred toward Aspen Kelly, I also can’t deny that there’s an attraction there, too, one that I didn’t want. One that I’m disturbed by. One that’s eating away at my insides like a disease.
No, I’m not upset about the idea of fucking this guy—only about the fact that I’m about to miss out on crucial intel.
“Holy fuckballs, Scarlett Force,” I murmur, gripping the wheel and forcing all of those unhelpful thoughts to the side. It’s not over till it’s over, right? Thing is, I’ve been here, done this enough times to know when the odds are stacked against me.
I’ve counted twelve laps for myself—at least fourteen or fifteen for Aspen—when I see him take the next turn far too close to the inside of the track. He does it to avoid the tree branch, but why not continue to use the outside of the track instead?
I figure he was trying to pick up speed since I already passed him once, and I’m on my way to catching up. But then, why bother? I can’t possibly pass him three more times before the end of the race. He had it in the bag.
Plausibly, there’s an excuse for what he’s doing. To anyone else—maybe everyone else—watching from above (if they’re still there, braving out the storm) it probably looks like a genuine mistake.
It looks like something else to me.
I don’t have time to analyze Aspen’s actions, so I blast past him on the outside of the track and then, when I come around again, I see that he’s not having nearly as much luck as I did escaping that trap. From the quick glimpse I get as I pass him, it seems like the rut I left, that he fell into, has gotten too deep to get out of.
As soon as I see that, I know that I can win this.
But really, did I? Am I? What the hell is he even doing?
As I said before, I only like to win when I really win, not because someone decided to pity me and throw the race. You don’t know that that’s what he’s doing, Scar. Calm down. Focus.
I finish the race, blasting past the finish line as the black-and-white checkered flag (now spattered with mud and soaked through with rainwater) is waved. I skid to a stop, letting my car drift to the side so that I can turn and face the track.
From here, I can see Aspen climbing out and laying rubber mats down, just as I said. He manages to free the Mustang from the mud, and then we both head up the drive to the parking lot.
Half the crowd has retreated to their cars, windows fogged up, some of them bouncing up and down as people take advantage of the high-octane, storm fueled evening to bang one out.
Personally, I can’t decide if I’m elated to be able to get the information I wanted … or if I’m furious with Aspen Kelly. As soon as I’ve parked my car next to Nisha’s, I’m out and storming across the muddy ground to where Aspen’s just stopped his Mustang.
As I pass by the bleachers—still filled with my girls—I do my best to stifle a smile at the way they cheer and shout my name. I pause briefly to look over at them, like drowned kittens with their wet hair plastered to their faces, their slutty-ass clothes stuck to them like second skins.
I blow them all a quick kiss, and they titter in a way that makes my cheeks flush. Nisha and Basti are there, too, but while the latter is just as excited, putting his fingers to his lips for a celebratory whistle, Nisha looks suspicious.
As she should be.
Bohnes is standing in the rain, one shoulder against the chain-link fence, his pale eyes watching me as I pause next to Widow’s car. He, too, has yet to move from his position, the rain be damned.
Our eyes meet, but I don’t say a word to Widow. What can I say? Does he suspect that, like me, Aspen Kelly threw the race?
Why would he anyway?
On the one hand, I’m certain that I must be imagining it. On the other … I know what I saw.
“I’m going to hop in Aspen’s car for a minute,” I whisper to Nisha as she moves close to me, and she nods, her gold makeup running down her face like the tears of King Midas. I continue on past Bohnes, whose stare burns like hot fire even in the cool downpour, and then over to the Mustang.
I wrench the passenger side door open, and Aspen lets me, watching as I slide in and slam it shut behind me.
“Drive us somewhere we can talk in private. Now. I want my payment.”
He shifts gears, easing slowly out of the lot and past numerous other cars, glancing up at his rearview to see that Nisha’s hopping in her Lotus with the intention of following us. Aspen wets his lower lip and then, as soon as we’ve rolled onto the dirt road outside the parking lot, he takes advantage of our slight head start and guns the engine, sending us flying down the small side road and onto a deserted suburban street.
I yank my seatbelt on, watching Aspen out of the corner of my eye as he does what few others have ever managed: he outdrives Nisha and finds us an empty campground to stop at, one of the ones that used to be a part of the larger park where the track now sits. It’s a bit ridiculous now, within walking distance to suburbia, but the old picnic table and the rusted-out grill are still present.
Aspen parks the Mustang inside the copse of trees, but as soon as the engine is off, I’m climbing out and into the downpour. I just can’t sit in a quiet car alone with him, not right now. I need to feel the rain on my skin, the wind in my hair, the energy of the storm.
He follows me, keeping his distance as I make my way around to the front of the Mustang, pushing stray strands of hair back from my face with both hands.
I turn around to face him, the rain coming down in thick sheets, just barely blocked by the thick foliage overhead.
Aspen is just standing there, his white fancy-pants sweater nearly see-through from the rain, his nipples dark and hard against the fabric. He notices me looking and glances down before lifting his ebon gaze back to mine.
“You let me win,” I accuse, and he says nothing, simply stalks forward to stand about a foot in front of me, his dark hair stuck to his forehead, the sides of his face, his neck. “We both know you were going to win. Why did you do that?”
Still, nothing.
“You’re a piece of shit one minute and chivalrous the next. Explain it before I find myself royally pissed-off and ready to make you bleed.”
“I can’t say for certain, but I believe it was my brother driving that car,�
�� he offers up carefully, reaching into his back pocket and removing a soggy piece of paper with several names written on it in pencil. He hands it over to me, and I take it, careful to keep it from ripping beneath my fingers; it’s that fragile.
“Your brother?” I ask, looking back up at his face. “The crazy one?”
His flat mouth quickly develops into a violent sneer, and then he’s reaching out to grab me by my upper arms.
“You can come see the Cobra for yourself if you really want, but that’d be dangerous. Better that you take my word for it. I saw it, and I can confirm that the front end is damaged, that there are gouges down both sides, as if the driver slipped into a spot that wasn’t quite wide enough to drive through.”
“Your brother …” I repeat, staring down at the paper and then taking out my phone to snap a quick picture of it. Thank God for waterproof smartphones, am I right? I look back up at Aspen’s face, a luxe composition of dark eyes and a pale pouty mouth and blemish-free skin. Half-Japanese, half-whatever-white-person-his-dad-is.
He’s gorgeous.
I hate him.
He disgusts me.
My body burns; I feel like every drop of cool rain should sizzle and steam as it hits my skin. My blouse is fully transparent now, revealing the bright red bra underneath. Always with the red, always with the memories of the car accident and what came after.
Vengeance.
“My word is good, Aspen Kelly. And I pay my debts—regardless of how abhorrent I might find them.”
“Abhorrent?” he repeats, and then he laughs. “Do you really find me that abhorrent though, Scarlett?” He reaches up a single finger, tracing it along the wet seam of my mouth. The rain tastes different today, almost electric, as if the storm has infused every drop.
I let Aspen touch me, even though I shouldn’t. Even though I should tell him to fuck right off.
“Answer me this,” I say as he withdraws his hand. “Did you throw the race on purpose?”
Aspen pauses, looking down at the ground before lifting his head again.
“If I did, would it matter?”
That just annoys the crap out of me.
“I don’t need your charity, Aspen Kelly!” I shout, and he grits his teeth, reaching up with a single hand to grab a handful of his silky black hair so that he can yank on it. He murmurs something in Japanese that sounds angry, bitter, thick with fury. “If you were just going to tell me anyway, why not do it sooner? Why agree to race at all?”
“You need to be careful with my brother,” he says, his honesty surprising me. “If he finds out that you have this information or that you’ve been talking to me, he won’t be happy. More than likely, he’ll try to kill you.”
“I’m not afraid of your brother,” I reply easily. I’m not. “And he can’t kill me if I kill him first.”
He exhales sharply and looks away.
“What a blessing that would be,” is what I think he says, but when I open my mouth to ask him to repeat it, he returns his attention to me. “I’m telling you this so that you’ll understand: you can’t do that. If you kill him, my father will come for you.”
I purse my lips and pretend like I didn’t hear that; I don’t care what the risks are.
“What’s your brother’s name?” I ask, because I haven’t been able to get anything solid out of the rumor mill. Nobody knows much about the guy; he’s practically a ghost. There are no pictures online. No social media presence, not even family photos with the mayor. Nothing but sordid gossip churned up by bored assholes on random forums.
“My brother’s always been my father’s favorite.” Aspen’s voice cracks like the thunder in the distance and he lifts his eyes up to the sky before returning that velvet black stare to my face. “I’m the crazy son, the garbage son.” He pauses and lets out a wild laugh that reminds me, oddly enough, of Bohnes. He seems so put together—a person can be put together and still be violent and cruel—but out here like this, all wet and spilling his soul into the storm surge that’s come up on us like the hand of God? He sounds as broken as any asshole in Prescott High. “Don’t be mistaken: he’s not all there either.” Aspen taps the side of his head with a single finger. “We’re the same, me and him.”
“Somehow, I don’t believe that,” I say, working my jaw and then flicking my eyes back in the direction of the track. It’s been a while, plenty long enough for me to get the information I came for. I should go back. Nisha is likely furious with me—especially since I’m not responding to the frantic buzzing of my phone in my pocket.
Bohnes, too. Maybe Widow.
They’re probably all pissed-off by now.
I turn back to Aspen.
“Next time you see me,” he starts, his eyes heavy and half-lidded. “Act like you don’t know me. Hate me, Scarlett Force. Hate Aspen Kelly with your whole heart and soul. Stay the fuck away from me.”
I just stare at him. I can’t help that his chivalry is turning me on. I don’t understand it either. I’m confused by it.
“You know, if you hadn’t come in here shoving Lemon around, asking for my body like a trophy, I might’ve …” I trail off and then shrug. There’s no harm in being honest. It’s clear by the look on Aspen’s face that he has no intention of ever coming back here again. Hate him when I see him? I already hate him. But I’m also grateful for the intel. Now that I know it was his brother, I can make plans—likely involving Bohnes.
And fuck me, if he’s asking for a date to bury a body. What will he ask for in exchange for assassinating the mayor’s son? A wedding?
I’ll need his help … and maybe somebody else’s, too.
I don’t want my girls embroiled in this shit. The mayor’s son is a big target. I won’t drag them into a mess like this, precisely because of what happened to Evelyn. As the leader of my crew, this is my problem to solve.
“If I told you that I’d never stick my dick in a girl as pathetic as Lucy Hall, would you believe me?”
I pause there. Do I believe that, after the way I saw Lemon simpering on his arm? No, I don’t. But … maybe he’s got a personality disorder or something? Because I swear to fuck that while some days, I quite legitimately considered killing him, others … he’s like this.
Likable. Sexy. Broken.
His eyes tell a thousand stories in a single stare.
My nipples are so hard that when I move forward, they brush against his chest while no other part of me save for the toes of my shoes touch him. My hand finds the back of his neck as I lick rainwater away from my lips.
“I am not dating Lucy Hall; I promise you that.”
Such pretty words, such silver-tongued lies. What does it say about me that I want to believe him? That I’d love to unlock the forbidden person that is Aspen Kelly, the human hiding behind the mask. It says I like dangerous men, that’s what it says.
It says I like to take risks, to feel adrenaline pumping through my body like a drug.
That kiss last week was … it was fire.
I can’t stop thinking about it.
I’ve tried. It’s a fruitless exercise.
“If you’d never slept with Lemon,” I start, thinking of the first day we met, how absolutely disgusted I was by him. “Then maybe we’d have hooked up.”
“Just once,” he clarifies. “We could hook up once.”
“I’d be okay with that,” I say, and then my eyes are on his mouth. My fingers tease the wet strands of hair stuck to his neck, and then he’s bending down and putting his hands on my hips, and I’m lifting up slightly to meet him.
Our mouths come together in a vibrant burst of heat, like the sun is rising right now, even in the rain. I’m not prepared for it. Although I lost my cherry to Bohnes last month, I’ve kissed plenty of guys, enough to be able to parcel out a good kiss from a mediocre one from a bad one.
Aspen is a phenomenal kisser. The way he uses that full mouth makes me wonder how practiced he really is, how much of a whore he must be. He fakes genuine emotion in a w
ay few guys can manage. I mean, they try. So many of them try because they think that’s what a girl wants to see and feel and hear: love and affection.
Those are dangerous things to want. I will not allow myself to crave them or think about them. So … Bohnes is just a fuckboy. And it’s probably a good thing that Widow and I aren’t allowed to bang it out.
It’s a blessing that I can only hook up with Aspen once.
But his mouth, it makes me think about and want strange things. He kisses me like he’s memorizing every tooth, every ridge on the roof of my mouth, the shape of my tongue. He kisses me like he needs the taste of me to survive.
This isn’t normal for a hookup.
It’s weird.
I should be scared.
Either he’s just that good of a liar or else … he’s insane. Because we don’t know each other at all, and I don’t feel anything for him other than a burning curiosity and an aching want that pools between my thighs in the form of arousal.
If he feels anything else for me, he’s as crazy as Kellin.
“You got a condom?” I ask, and he nods, briefly drawing back from me and heading over to his car. He opens the passenger side door and removes a box, heedless of the rain. It’s a brand-new box, unopened until now.
How do I feel about that? What does that mean? What the fuck am I even doing?! But being out here alone with him, knowing that he outdrove Nisha who rarely loses—except to me, of course. I’m intrigued. This feels dangerous somehow.
Can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something weird going on here. It’s quite obvious that Aspen isn’t going to tell me why it feels that way, but it’s clear he senses it, too. Why else would he tell me to avoid him from now on?
He moves back over to stand in front of me again, lifting up the matte black package in his fingers.
“You cannot tell anyone about this, Scarlett.”
“An illicit affair,” I breathe, and he narrows his eyes.
“More so than that: you cannot tell anyone. Not your friends, not your sister, not your other loves.” He pauses there, and a small breath escapes that he tries to hide but which I see anyway.
F*ckboy Psychos Page 25