He stares at it with gritted teeth, a muscle ticking in his jaw.
“You can’t possibly expect me to touch that filthy thing.”
I look down at the clipboard in my hand. Not once in my time at this track have I ever had a person refuse to touch and sign the clipboard. Not even the Oak Valley snots refuse. Some of them whine or complain or make disparaging comments (that quickly go silent with a well-placed slap, throat punch, or handful of mud to the face). But outright refusal?
“I’ll hold it. You have a pen of your own you could use?” I ask, and Alexei grimaces, shivering all over. I’m afraid for a second there that I’m going to lose him, but he must really need that money back—maybe his parents weren’t so happy with their spoiled brat losing his allowance—because he slips off the thimble, snags a pen from his dash, and reaches out the window.
His hand is trembling as he scrawls his name and then chucks the pen at me. I happen to catch it, examining the sleek shiny instrument and figuring it’s probably worth some good money. Fun fact about rich people: they love wasting money on extravagant pens that they barely use. This could be worth hundreds or even thousands.
I pass it over to Nisha.
“Get this appraised and if it’s worth anything, sell it,” I murmur as Alexei strips off his gloves and tosses those out the window next. He very quickly wrestles a new pair out of a bag on the passenger side floor mat and yanks them on. Without my even having to ask, Nisha also collects the gloves. They appear to be suede and probably worth some coin, too. “Alright, let’s get this shit going. Nisha, can you give him a quick rundown of the rules?”
“Sure thing, Queen,” she says as I take off, tossing the clipboard back at Tuesday while Bohnes trails along after me.
I don’t turn to look at him, pausing beside my car as he places a palm on either side of me, balancing himself against the roof as he leans close and nips at my ear.
“You aren’t going to that party for the Kelly brothers, now are you?”
“I’m going to talk to Lemon and see if I can’t at least get a visual on Ash.”
“Oh, I’m sure he’ll be there,” Bohnes muses, as if he could possibly know that. “I’m willing to work with you on that, you know? I told you I’d kill him for free. In the meantime, I’m trying to work out a solid plan for our date night.” He bites my ear again, and I shiver, bracing my own hand on the roof between both of his. “I was thinking I’ll use the money I just won to take you somewhere nice, someplace with white linens on the tables. Then, we’ll retire to a penthouse suite in some fancy Oak Park hotel, and I’ll fuck you nice and dirty on their expensive sheets. You can shred my back with your nails and make me bleed all over the luxe bedding.”
“You’re fucking weird, you know that?” I whisper, but it doesn’t sound half-bad. One of my favorite things in the world is traipsing around fancy places and making the people there uncomfortable because they feel like I shouldn’t be allowed in them. It’s hilarious.
“Make me proud. Don’t lose to some snooty-ass germaphobe who thinks he’s too good to touch our pens.” Bohnes slaps my ass, and I curl my lip at him as he retreats, leaving me alone beside the Pantera.
God, this relationship with him is going to drain me dry, ain’t it?
I hop into the Devil and turn up KMZI 66.6. The station’s newest host is purring through the speakers. She’s got this porn star voice that, despite my unfortunate degree of straightness, still almost manages to make me wet. Anyway, she goes by the alias Milicent Patrick, the name of the woman responsible for the monster magic in the original “Creature from the Black Lagoon” who was denied credit for decades. Apparently, her dickhead boss fired her to save face, so he wouldn’t have to admit that a woman did all the work.
Anyway, Milicent catches my attention straight-off.
“Anyone else notice the distinct lack of police presence in Prescott? Where are all the random traffic stops, the illegal raids so the cops can smoke all our good weed? If you ask me or anyone else who’s lived in Prescott long enough, there’s a conspiracy goin’ on. Less cops mean less arrests.
It’s like, go ahead Mayor Kelly, tell your constituents in the more affluent parts of Springfield that you’re cleaning up crime on this side of the tracks. You ain’t done shit but act like there’s nothing goin’ on over here. How is that right?
My two cents: don’t go out after dark unless you’ve got a good crew. Not that the police were ever truly on our side, but there’s been a lot more gang activity on these streets recently. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say someone was eggin’ ‘em on.”
Milicent lets out a long, tired-sounding sigh.
“Anyway, here’s a favorite of mine: this is “Redline” by Escape the Fate. I’m out for the night. Sleep tight, Prescott.”
I start my car, making my way down to the track to line up alongside Alexei. I’ve been doing a lot of these one-on-one gigs lately, but I really do enjoy a full lineup. Whatever. As long as I get what I need out of this.
A small pang hits me, making my chest tight. I need to avenge my girl and take care of my crew, but I’ve got bigger dreams. I want to dig my claws into the vintage car races in Portland and start making some legitimate money with my skills.
I can’t lose sight of that.
Narrowing my life to Prescott won’t do me any good.
I’ve got eight months till graduation, but just another few weeks until my birthday. I’d drop out of Prescott, get my GED, and focus on my career but … I’d worry too much about my girls. I’ll just ride this thing out until June, snatch my diploma up (not that a Prescott High diploma is worth much—my aunt makes $12.75 an hour which is Oregon state’s minimum wage), and make sure there’s a new queen to take my place.
I don’t give a fuck what the Prescott boys do after I leave, but for the girls, I’ve got my eyes on Shirley’s cousin—a tough chick named Stacey Langford.
I glance over to the right, to where Alexei is waiting, his gloved hands on the wheel.
It’s not raining today so hopefully there won’t be any more freak accidents with tree branches or whatever the fuck. The track is still muddy as shit, but this morning, I called in a favor from one of my girl’s older brothers and had him bring his bulldozer over to flatten it out a bit.
It’s as fresh and smooth as it gets over here in fall or winter.
I won’t have much of an advantage right now; it’ll be my skills behind the wheel up against Alexei’s.
A smirk curves across my lips as I turn back to the track.
The song switches over to “Halloweenie IV: Innards” by Ashnikko, and I grin. It’s perfect, considering that the holiday is coming up on us fast. Halloween gets weird here in Prescott. I’m guessing Bohnes will be throwing one of his pop-up parties. I can’t say that I’m not looking forward to it.
If I get groped by another guy, would he cut his dick off for me?
That’d be romantic.
Not that I want or need romance. Jesus, what is wrong with me?!
The green flag flashes, and off we go. I let Alexei take the lead so I can study his driving style. If I suspected him of being careful or cautious—you know, because of his skittish nature about germs and whatever—then I was wrong.
He’s a speed demon.
He blasts down the straights and eats the curves for breakfast as I raise both brows. Wow. I didn’t expect that. Really didn’t expect him to turn into the slides as his wheels spin in the mud, using it to his advantage.
“Well okay, Rich Boy,” I say with a laugh, cranking up the music even more. I lick my lips, shifting gears and picking up speed in a way I haven’t been able to recently, not with the track the way it’s been. But today?
Oh yeah. I’m about to show off my driving skills paired with Bastian’s expertise beneath the hood. Not sayin’ I couldn’t manage without him, but my true love is speed and stunts. I like to do things that make other people blanch or curl up on themselves. I love the adrenaline, the s
peed. I’d go so far as to say that I’m addicted to it.
Bastian, as much as I love him, is only okay behind the wheel. But put a wrench in his hand and he’s a god.
I show off the modifications to the Devil by outpacing Alexei like it’s nothing.
I even blow him a kiss as I pass by—not that he’s looking my way.
I lap him, too. And then I pull a showboater move, yanking my wheel and sending the Pantera spinning in a tight circle that sprays his windshield with mud and causes him to swerve wildly for a few seconds before he regains control.
It’s almost too easy.
Not that he isn’t skilled—he is—but it seems to me that he doesn’t have a lot of experience on a fucked-up, ratchet-ass track like ours. It’s one of the things I love most, how unpredictable it is. Every day, every race is different.
I wouldn’t mind being, like, a stunt driver or something. I could do movies, right? Can you see it: Scarlett Motherfucking Force in lights.
I make it a mission to see if I can’t lap Alexei a few more times, laughter bubbling past my lips as I hit speeds I usually don’t risk when it’s muddy like this. But with the fresh bulldoze from this morning, it’s not … Well, okay, it’s still dangerous as fuck, but I’m having far too much fun.
As soon as I hit my twentieth lap, I spin my wheel again, letting my car spin in wild circles as Alexei comes to a stop in the small circular area behind the finish line. I see him blur past as I spin until I’m dizzy, coming to a stop as I pant and laugh, putting my forehead against the wheel.
“Godzilla” by Eminem and the late Juice WRLD is playing now which really goes to show that the station has changed hands back to Wolfman. Milicent hates Eminem, says he’s a violent misogynist. I mean, he kind of is, but I like his music anyway.
“Normal during the day but at night I turn into a monster, huh?” I grin and sit up, making my way up the small drive back to the parking lot. Before I climb out, I crank the music as loud as I can get it, rapping the words along with Eminem and managing to keep up with him more or less.
“Show off,” Basti says, offering me a hip bump that I return, slapping both my palms against his and giving them a squeeze.
Alexei drives up beside me, rolling down his window a few, careful inches. His expression is neutral, even if his skin is slightly flushed.
“I’m going to give you my number; put it in your phone.”
“Is that an order, sir?” I ask with a roll of my eyes, but I take my phone out anyway and plug in his number when he gives it.
“I will have the dress and shoes sent to whatever address you choose. Text it to me. I’ll respond in turn with the address of the event, and we will meet outside approximately twenty minutes before seven. Do not touch me at any time during the event. Is that all clear?”
He turns to look at me, clearly used to giving orders and having people follow them.
Aww, too bad. He’s never met me before, now has he?
“I will do all of those things, but only because they sound agreeable and reasonable. Be careful, Alexei. If you piss me off, I might just touch you when you least expect it.”
“If you do, I will break your arm,” he tosses out with an imperious lift of his chin, rolling up his window as adrenaline-fueled laughter breaks out of me. Alexei takes off, but if he thinks that threat will intimidate me, he’ll be sorely disappointed.
He’s an intriguing challenge, one that I should put out of my mind right the fuck now. I don’t need any more challenges in my life.
Bohnes appears beside me again, offering up one of the weed lollipops that he won in his own race. I wave it away, sliding my tongue across my teeth, my mind already shifting away from Alexei and that ripe-ass mouth of his, and how I’m going to handle Lemon and the Kelly brothers in one place in one night.
“Remember what I said the first time you thought about killing that bastard,” Bohnes begins, unwrapping the lollipop for himself. Shit, that’s a heavy dose. How the fuck is he not completely out of it right now?
I glance back at him, raising my brow in query. He laughs at me, sliding the sucker from his mouth and reaching out to trace my lower lip with it. I lick the sweet candy taste from my mouth and Bohnes shudders in pleasure.
“I said, You can’t murder a rich boy in plain sight. Remember that when you’re rubbing elbows with the elite.” Bohnes snorts and moves away, heading for his Chevelle as I let out a small laugh of my own, sliding my hand over my mouth.
“Not that you seem to give a shit what I think,” Nisha accuses, appearing on my right while Basti takes up on my left. I glance her way, but she isn’t smiling. She doesn’t find anything about this situation funny. “But I don’t think you should go to that party. You know how Lemon is. The more you try to interfere, the more she pulls in the opposite direction. Besides, if Aspen was willing to give her a pricey ring like that, and let the pair of them be seen together on TV, maybe he really cares about her?”
Now that, that is funny as hell.
I smile and Nisha narrows her eyes. When I turn the expression on Bastian, he actually takes a step back.
“Trust me: whatever plans that bastard has for Lemon, caring about her is not a part of it.” I yank the Devil’s door open and slide in.
On my way home, I can’t keep my tongue from tracing the faint taste of cherry from my lower lip or my mind from straying back to Alexei.
Never been on a date with a rich dude before.
Just hope the night doesn’t end in blood.
I mean, I’ll do my best but … not makin’ any solid promises either way.
If I get the chance to kill Ash, I may very well take it.
Scarlett
Nothing about my sordid night with Aspen or my plans with Alexei can stop me from wearing yet another sexy new pair of panties to the library on Monday.
Widow shows up as he always does and I realize that, after talking to my librarian girls—Agnes and Mildred—he’s actually supposed to be helping me with my duties here. He has the same ‘class’ that I do. That is, a period called Administrative Assistant: Helping Hands. It’s meant to teach ‘marketable skills to students in a real-world setting’. Some long ago leftover from a grant Prescott High received once upon a time.
Like, uh, as if the schoolboard hasn’t heard of eBooks? Real-world library skills aren’t the most ‘marketable skills’ in the world. Why not teach us the Dewey Decimal system while they’re at it?
Anyway, this is Prescott High. Sometimes it’s hard to tell what year it is. Based on our textbooks, notebooks, pencils, square TVs from the last century, and the fact that our instructional videos are titles like “Reefer Madness” (from 1936, mind you), you wouldn’t be remiss in guessing it’s the early nineties.
I mean, a relatively poor school in the early nineties.
“You’ve been sitting here reading everyday while I spend my time shelving books?” I ask, pausing in front of Widow with a huge stack in my arms. He lifts his gold eyes up to my face, dropping his attention down, to the short hemline of my skirt. When he returns that look up to my eyes, he quirks a humorless half-smile.
“The librarians,” he begins, setting his book aside. Looks like an alien romance this time. What the fuck else would have a surprisingly sexy looking spiderlike dude on the front? Kinky. Ensnared by Tiffany Roberts, apparently. Widow stands up, and I’m once again reminded of not only how tall he is, but also how wide. He leans down and puts his mouth very near my ear. “They said you were in charge in here, that I should wait for your orders. Said you don’t like people to get in your way.” He turns his head, so that his breath feathers against my neck and I shudder in response. “Besides, it seemed like you were enjoying our routine. I read, you bend over, I stroke your wet panties.”
I move away from him, so that I can get a good look at his expression. Unfortunately, he seems allergic to actually showing his emotions on his stupidly handsome face. Widow reclaims his seat in the chair, picking up his novel as I
look down at the heavy stack in my arms.
Does this cocksucker think I’m too dick-drunk to clap back on his ass?
Hah.
I chuck the books into his lap, and he lets out a sharp grunt, collapsing forward as he drops his own novel on the floor. I bend low so that this time, it’s my mouth near his ear. Pretty sure I nailed his nuts good with the forty pounds of books I was carrying.
“Get up and start shelving things in the Human Health and Sexuality section. I don’t like to touch those ones. Too sticky.” I step back and turn away. I don’t expect him to explode out of his chair and wrap his arms around my waist.
Widow yanks me back against him, smelling like sugary fruit, heavy and plump in the last days of spring. There’s a woody scent there, too, something that reminds me of wet earth fresh from a new rain.
“How dare you,” he repeats, the same words from that day at the track when I found him with his dick in his hand. He then rubs his slightly stubbled face against the side of my neck. “You make me absolutely sick, Scarlett Force. I’m disgusted by you.” He slides his hands up my rib cage, as if he might actually touch my tits, and I wiggle my ass back against him, feeling the proof that his words are a lie.
“Don’t feel all that disgusted to me,” I purr, arching my back and reaching back to dig my fingers into his hair. My entire body is on fire. If Widow were to bend me over this chair in the corner, shove my skirt up, and fuck me raw, I wouldn’t complain.
He shoves away from me and when I turn, I see that his nostrils are flared, his face red with anger. He’s squeezing his hands into tight fists and gritting his teeth as he glares at me.
“Sex is a coarse, filthy act. It’s the motivator for most of the world’s worst hate crimes.” Widow reaches up to grab at his hair with both hands, and my mouth parts slightly. Uh-oh. I may have just accidentally pushed him too hard. But how the hell am I supposed to know that sex is a trigger for him when he keeps willingly seeking me out and touching me and grabbing me? He glares at me with accusatory gold eyes. “Rape, molestation, femicide, pedophilia. Sex for humans is now nothing but a vulgar perversion.”
F*ckboy Psychos Page 30