F*ckboy Psychos

by Stunich, C. M.

  My grandma nods, watching as I slip into my bedroom and close the door. She knows I’m headed to Lemon’s engagement party tonight. What she doesn’t know is that Lemon didn’t even invite me to said party, that I had to race for that shit, and that I’m going with some hot Russian guy who looks like he might be a part of the mob.

  I set the boxes down on my bed, putting my hands on my hips and letting out a long sigh. Bohnes was at school today, teasing me in passing about the party tonight, but even though I considered pulling him aside and telling him about yesterday, I decided against it.

  I’ll give Widow one week to race him and make it right.

  Otherwise, I have to tell Bohnes. Rule of the track. It’s sacred.

  And, speaking of Widow, he went about his library duties today without complaint. That, and he brought a brand-new hardcover of Holly Black’s book along with the sequels which we definitely didn’t have, and he silently set the stack on the counter in front of Agnes without a word.

  We didn’t talk today for most of the period, but I caught him watching me more than once. He didn’t touch me either which sort of sucked. I didn’t wear anything special to school with the sole intent of trying to keep my hands to myself.

  I don’t want to break Bohnes’ rule again—especially not in a worse way than I already did. But at the end of the period? What did Widow do?

  “You’ll be mine soon enough, Scarlett Force,” he whispered, sliding past me and trailing his fingers down my arm in a way that made me wetter than even his wild grinding did yesterday.

  “I’m in big trouble,” I murmur, opening the box and finding a golden invitation with Lemon’s real name embossed alongside Aspen’s.

  “You are cordially invited to celebrate the engagement of Lucy Bree Hall and Aspen Dashiell Kelly—”

  I don’t bother to finish reading it, chucking it aside with a hiss of disgust. Beneath the invitation, there’s a small note written in meticulous and beautiful handwriting. It’s slightly slanted and there are numerous flourishes that make me think that whoever wrote it is a bit of a drama queen.

  Or king, as such.

  Because clearly, this is from Alexei.

  “You may use this invitation to have your car valeted without incident. I will see you on the front steps approximately twenty minutes before seven. Please wear the provided dress, wrap, and shoes. While I understand that my customary three-foot buffer will not suffice as we are intended to be dates to tonight’s event, I will ask that you maintain at least a six-inch cushion of space between our bodies.

  Much appreciated, Alexei Grove.”

  I scoff and roll my eyes, chucking the note aside and then pulling out the dress. It’s expensive, I’ll give him that, but dude. I wrinkle my nose.

  The gown is gold and highly embellished with a conservative neckline, long sleeves, and a slit that goes to the hip. That last part, at least, adds some sexiness to what’s otherwise kind of a dowdy dress. Huh.

  “The hell is this?” I murmur, laying it aside and opening the next box. There’s a real fur stole—in white—and a clutch that matches the dress. The shoes are nice, but the heels are low and far too safe. I wouldn’t wear any of this. I mean, I’m aware that the guy doesn’t know me, but couldn’t he tell that I’m the sort who likes to live fast and dangerous?

  This is like, senator’s wife shit. Or retired movie star. Opera singer.

  Not Scarlett Motherfucking Force.

  Hmm.

  My eyes shift over to my closet. I have maybe twenty to thirty grand in either stolen or track-won merch in there. I’ve got designer dresses and shoes that are worth enough to impress those rich dick-faces in Oak River Heights.

  I decide to keep what Alexei sent me—gifts are freely given, right?—with plans to pawn it all later. For now, I dig through my closet until I find an acceptable outfit, something that shows off my personality—and my legs.

  Aspen might not want anything to do with me, but he sure as shit isn’t getting away without taking a long, hard look at what he’s missing.

  I pull up to the art gallery with my windows down and my system up, the bass cranked as I blast some old-school Rihanna. Well, okay, so KMZI 66.6 is blasting old-school Rihanna, and I’m just along for the ride.

  Same difference.

  I screech to a stop behind some flashy new sportscar and try not to think about Widow or how much sexier his ‘69 Stingray is over this hunk o’ crap that’s idling in front of me.

  Without bothering to turn off the engine, I climb out, putting one black Dolce & Gabbana heel on the street before the rest of my long legs and curvy body follows behind. I’ve got on a short black dress reminiscent of the one I wore to Bohnes’ party, my tattooed right arm on full display. I even punched up my makeup tonight, coloring my full lips with a red stain titled Scarlet Nightmare.

  Cute, right?

  I make my way around the rear of the car, using two fingers to chuck the shiny gold invitation at the wide-eyed valet. He looks like he’s stuck halfway between asking me out and asking me to leave. He catches the invitation, looks down at it, and then back up at me.

  “This car’s worth over a hundred grand, don’t look at me like that.” I scoff at him and then look him over, like he’s the one with the problem. Which, you know, he is.

  I saunter past him, pausing to look over as a … “Oh my God.”

  It’s a Bugatti. It’s a black and red Bugatti Chiron Super Sport.

  I cream my panties right away, watching in open-mouthed awe as none other than Alexei Grove climbs out of the driver’s side, wrinkling his nose as one of the other valets sprints forward to take the car from him.

  He shudders when the man climbs in the driver’s seat, turning to look at me over the roof of his four-million-dollar ride.

  “You were driving a modern Lambo when you have not only a Miura, but a brand-new Bugatti?!” I choke out as Alexei’s green eyes widen ever so slightly and he looks me over like he’s absolutely horrified. He very quickly comes over to me, but he doesn’t get too close. Actually, it’s sort of an awkward distance to hold a conversation with someone.

  I step forward and his lip curls.

  “What happened to the shoes and dress that I sent you?” he hisses, and I shrug, sliding my hands down the skintight black dress and making sure that it hasn’t climbed too far up my muscular thighs.

  “Didn’t suit my personality, so I improvised. This dress is a Rick Owens, dickhead. It’s worth a lot, don’t worry. I won’t embarrass you in front of your rich friends.”

  Alexei—despite his horrified facial expression—is a dream in a two-piece navy suit with a matching tie and a gold pocket square that likely was meant to pick up on the tones of the dress he sent me. His gloves are made of a supple white leather that he’s already picking at, pulling at the fingers with anxious frustration.

  “Anyway, care to explain why you’d ever drive anything but the Bugatti? It has over fifteen hundred horsepower and can clock in at two-hundred and seventy-three miles an hour. Alexei.” I take a step toward him, and he recoils, looking me over with the most bizarre expression that I have ever seen on a man’s face.

  “Six inches, minimum,” he breathes, his right hand dropping to his pocket. I wonder if he’s got that weird-ass sewing kit tucked away in there or something? Does he want to stab me with it, or does he want to fuck me? I can’t tell. “And what? What else could you possibly want now?”

  I roll my eyes at him and wave my hand dismissively.

  “Let me drive your car, please. Just once.”

  He sneers at me.

  “I can barely handle the idea of the valet touching it—with gloves on. You want to sit on my seat with that …” He gestures at my hemline as if it’s personally offended him. “That scrap of a dress. It probably doesn’t even cover your—”

  Here he stops and exhales, reaching up to run one of those white gloved hands over the thick waves of his blond hair. Alexei Grove looks like a prince, I won’
t lie. The suit is expensive, but, as much as I hate rich people and the way they waste money, I can’t deny the way it frames his wide shoulders and tapers in sharply to emphasize his narrow waist and hips. His trousers hug his muscular legs and highlight the double-monk strap leather loafers on his feet. His cufflinks are money, his shirt crisp and white, tie wrinkle free.

  And that arrogant expression on his aristocratic face? Well, you can’t buy that level of self-confidence. He tucks a single hand into the pocket of his slacks and just stares at me.

  “Cover my what, Alexei? My …” I move a little closer to him, and his nostrils flare, his green eyes dropping down to take in the A-line cut of my neckline. It hugs my left shoulder, cuts across the full, ripe mounds of my breasts, and tucks underneath my armpit on the right side, leaving alllll of that pretty ink open and available for the viewing pleasure of the pricks at this party. “Pussy?” I start, and he shudders, turning his head away from me. “My … cunt? Or do you like softer terminology? Vulva, mound—”

  He reaches up with his right hand, as if he’s considering putting it across my mouth, and then jerks it back, staring down at his palm as if it’s betrayed him somehow.

  His eyes flick back up to mine.

  “What do I have to do to get a ride in that car? I’ll race ya for it. I mean, you can’t take the Bugatti to the track. We have a cut-off date of 1972, but I’ll race you again in your Miura or whatever other beauties you have in your garage at home.”

  “I don’t allow people to touch my cars or anything else that I own,” Alexei purrs, his voice a silken menace. I can see that I am very quickly and easily managing to fray his nerves. Not that I care. It’s not my problem—it’s his.

  “Suck your dick for it,” I say, but I’m only joking. I’m not a hooker. But I am curious to see his response to that offer.

  You’d think I puked on the guy or something.

  He just stares at me like I’ve lost my mind, and I laugh.

  “I’m kidding. You’re probably a virgin anyway, what with your … issues. I wouldn’t want to pop your dick-to-mouth cherry just for a ride in a Bugatti.” I glance over my shoulder, but both of our cars are gone now. Oh well. C’est la vie.

  I hold out an arm so that Alexei can hook his elbow with mine, and he just glares at me with flat, heavily-lidded eyes, his pink pouty mouth in a thin line.

  “Six inches,” he repeats, and I roll my eyes as he saunters past me and heads up the stairs. I follow along, keeping pace with his long strides easily enough—even in my heels. The men and women in suits who are watching the door give me strange looks, but when they see who I’m with, they turn away and focus their attention elsewhere.

  “You’re kind of a big deal, huh?” I ask, elbowing him playfully in the side.

  Alexei recoils, spinning and putting space between us like he’s planning on having a full martial arts melee right here in the foyer. His breathing is rough and hard, but if I’m not mistaken … His jacket unfortunately covers part of his crotch, but I feel like I can see a bit of an outline.

  “Remove your eyes from my cock,” he demands, and my gaze jerks up to his face on impulse. Wild laughter escapes me then. I can’t help it. Not only am I at Lemon’s engagement party—at the friggin’ Oak River Heights art gallery of all places—but she’s marrying a rich boy, who also happens to be the mayor’s son, and I fucked him on the hood of his Fastback, and now I’m here with a germaphobe …

  It’s just too much.

  “Yes, sir,” I capitulate with another chortle, offering up a two-fingered salute. “God, you’re so uptight. Are you really a virgin or am I just fantasizing about it because it’d be hot to see what you’d do if my pussy was dripping on your lap?”

  Alexei takes a step toward me, scowling heavily, his teeth white, his face a painting meant to be hung in some great hall somewhere, and he gets so close to me that I know he’s breaking his own six-inch rule here.

  “You are vulgar and disturbed, Miss Force. I don’t want your pussy or anything else touching me. Keep your distance and let’s just get through tonight without incident, shall we?” He jerks back from me and shivers, as if he just realized how close we actually were, and then he takes off and, with another sigh, I follow after him.

  My heels are loud on the marble floors, but most of the women are wearing them, too, and I’m the only one who’s making a ruckus. Must be because I walk with power, huh?

  People turn to look at me in droves, and Alexei makes this choking sound under his breath which, actually, I think has more to do with them than with me. The way he looks around the room, like he’s absolutely disgusted by every single human being in it, gives me hope.

  A waiter walks by carrying a tray of champagne flutes, and I snatch two right off of it, holding one out to Alexei.

  “Drink?” I query, but he just looks at me with this sense of utter disbelief.

  “If I didn’t want your wet pussy wrapped around my cock, why on earth would I drink from a glass that has God only knows how much bacteria on its rim? It’s been sitting out in the open air, paraded around the room. It’s filthy and disgusting.”

  I shrug and down first one glass and then the next.

  I have a feeling that I’m going to need as much champagne as I can get. Plus, it’s free, so … score. Am I right? Bet it’s expensive shit, too, arbitrarily inflated thousand dollar bottles of what is, essentially, yeast diarrhea.

  “Care to introduce me to any of your colleagues?” I query dryly, wondering what to do with the empty flutes. Another waiter sweeps up as if summoned to collect them, and Alexei lifts the edge of his lip.

  “Nauseating,” he says with a shake of his head and a deep sigh. He holds out a hand, as if to indicate the stark white walls and the ‘art’ that’s hung on them. Some new artist is being promoted, but it’s hard to appreciate the big white canvases with the spatters of random color that look like the finger paintings I used to bring home to my grandma from preschool. “Shall we?”

  Alexei carefully avoids the crowds, making sure to leave that three-foot space buffer between himself and the other partygoers whenever possible. Nice to know that I’m not the only person he’s grossed out by. Nor is it just poor Prescott trash he’s hating on.

  It’s everybody.

  He’s an equal opportunity germaphobe, and I appreciate that.

  I’m not sure where, exactly, we’re going until I see a couple cloistered in a corner and surrounded by a thick press of schmoozing assholes.

  Even with her hair dyed a softer, more expensive shade of blond, her makeup done by expert artists, her dress money … I would recognize Lucy Hall anywhere. We grew up together. We suffered together.

  My throat gets tight, and I squeeze my hands into fists as I look out across the sea of shiny people in even shinier dresses and tuxes with slacks that are pressed so neatly the creases look painfully sharp.

  “That’s your friend, is it not?” Alexei queries, gesturing in the happy couples’ direction.

  Aspen turns around, giving a genteel laugh at something one of the partygoers says. As soon as I catch sight of his face, a shudder of revulsion ripples over me. May as well be Alexei, what with the disgusted scowl on my face.

  How could I have … why would I fuck someone like that …

  Looking at him now, there’s none of that dark magic I felt when I was standing in the rain with him last week. That broken, pained boy with the mouth that tasted like fire, who held me tight and fucked me like he was committing every curve to memory.

  What the hell?

  “You dislike him as well?” Alexei asks, glancing in Aspen’s direction and wearing a similar expression of disgust. “He’s putrescent, certainly. And your friend? He’s using her, no doubt about that.”

  “But what for?” I ask, glancing over and appreciating this boy’s candidness. He doesn’t have to tell me anything, especially considering the fact that he doesn’t seem to like me much. He must just hate Aspen a whole hell of a l
ot more.

  “I can only guess,” Alexei continues, turning back to look at Aspen and making this … this pout with his lower lip that makes me curious what it might be like to suck on it. He keeps his gaze on the couple as he answers. “Good PR, more than likely.” He turns to me again. “Mayor Kelly is making a bid for governor and beyond. But with the stain on his record—that is, the mysterious disappearance of his mayoral running opponent—he needs to do something big. Haven’t you noticed? He’s ‘cleaning up’ your neighborhood. It’s one of his campaign promises, after all.”

  The entire thing makes me sick, and I end up with my palm flat on my belly, my eyes narrowing as I watch Aspen flash his Fendi watch around. Those signature diamond cufflinks he wears on a semi-frequent basis catch the lights as he gestures in conversation.

  My mind flat-out refuses to accept that I ever fucked that guy.

  No way.

  Not a chance in hell.

  “So … Lemon is a charity case?” I query, trying to puzzle it out. Alexei shrugs loosely, tucking both gloved hands into his pockets.

  “Why not? It assuages public guilt as he bulldozes your neighborhood to the ground and hands multi-million-dollar contracts to out-of-state developers. It shows that he doesn’t hate the poor, even if it might seem that way. See, he’s willing to take a piece of poor white Prescott trash into his own home.”

  “Whoa,” I say, blinking rapidly through the rush of anger streaming from Alexei’s pretty mouth. “Aren’t you, like, a part of this crowd?”

  He narrows his eyes and then looks down, doing this sexy corner of the mouth lick thing that has me squirming and checking to make sure my dress is still covering my ass. As the incomparable Lizzo once sang, If you thought that I was ratchet with my ass hanging out …

  Do either of us care? Nope.

  “My father is a builder, yes. And seeing as he’s from Russia and then, subsequently, New York, he would count as out-of-state, certainly. But he isn’t the same as Archer Realty or Mayor Kelly. He’s …” Alexei trails off and then pauses, turning to look at something and then cursing in what I guess is Russian.