F*ckboy Psychos

by Stunich, C. M.

He laughs, the sound a dark and twisted thing. I grit my teeth and squeeze my gloved hands into fists.

  “You the germaphobe who took my girl out tonight?” he responds, surprising me.

  “Scarlett never mentioned having a boyfriend,” I retort, feeling irrationally annoyed by the prospect. Surely, she wouldn’t have kissed me if she were otherwise engaged.

  Bohnes laughs, the sound dry and jaded.

  “Nah, I guess not. I’m still just her fuckboy.” He flicks the cigarette into the mud, and I shudder yet again. “So, what can I help you with, Alexei Grove?”

  He turns toward me on the roof of his car, knees pulled up, arms wrapped around them.

  “I need a place to stay tonight where I won’t be found. Somewhere sanitary, somewhere I can shower.” I stare at him, and he frowns heavily, lifting up a single shoulder in a shrug.

  “Alright. I’ll find you a place to stay. But it’s gonna cost you. What are you offering? I run on a tiered payment system. The more you have, the more you pay. So, rich boy, what are you gonna give me?”

  I curl my lips in a small sneer.

  “I have five hundred dollars cash. Does that work?”

  Bohnes raises a dark brow, and then laughs at me, unfolding his legs and stretching them out in front of him. He drops down off the side of the car and turns to look at me, studying me with his head tilted one way and then the other.

  “Mm. Not even close. Think bigger.”

  I look back at the Miura, and I feel the blood drain from my face. Papa bought me that car for my sixteenth birthday, but at the moment, it’s all that I have. My credit and debit cards have been useless for some time, and I have no idea what my father’s death is going to mean overall for our finances or my inheritance.

  I look back at Bohnes, but he’s already seen the direction of my thoughts. He offers up a poisonous smile.

  “I’ll take your car and find you a place to stay, rich boy. Is that what you’re offering?”

  “I’d expect a lot more in exchange.” I look away for a moment, struggling through the pain, the adrenaline, the grime that coats my shoes and my skin, that’s spattered across my slacks. “But we could start with a place to stay for tonight. I may have other needs.”

  Bohnes shrugs and looks me over quizzically, like he isn’t quite sure what to make of me.

  “Alright. I’ll take it—provided you have the title. You got the title, Grove?”

  I purse my lips. I don’t. Shit.

  Bohnes sighs heavily and then looks down at my watch. It’s a Rolex, worth about fifteen thousand. I take it off and offer it over to him. He examines it for several minutes, and I sigh.

  “It’s worth more than fifteen grand. Certainly that’s enough for a single night’s stay?”

  “But is it really just going to be a single night?” Bohnes queries, smiling tightly and tucking the watch away inside his oversized black hoodie. “Whatever. I’ll get you a few nights with this. I’m assuming someone’s trying to kill ya? Is it mob related?” He holds up a hand, palm out. “Never mind. Don’t answer that. It doesn’t matter.”

  He turns around and yanks open the driver’s side door on his Chevelle, glancing back at me over one shoulder.

  “Follow me and try to keep up.”

  He climbs in and I return to my own vehicle, hoping like hell that I haven’t made a serious mistake in seeking out a man with colorless eyes and a sharp-edged smile.

  Scarlett

  “You better fucking give that to me, or I swear, I will stab you.” I’m holding a knife on Bastian. Granted, it’s a butter knife and not at all sinister, but I’m serious. He knows it, too. “We only have one good cereal bowl, and I want it.”

  “It’s mine,” Basti protests, holding the precious bowl against his chest. “You get the mixing bowl or the pasta bowl.” He points at the big-ass red plastic bowl and the shallow porcelain one beside it, neither of which work well for cereal. Poor as we are, we used to have a decent supply of dishes, ones that my grandma got at the thrift store for like twenty-five cents apiece. Thing is, when Alexis gets mad, she breaks things. After the accident, she fixated on the dishes. Even plastic ones aren’t safe. Watched her snap one in half just last month.

  So … there’s only one good cereal bowl and Basti is being a selfish prick about it.

  “Give me the bowl, Bastian,” I say, affecting that ‘Queen of the Crimson Crew’ voice that strikes fear into the hearts of every Prescott student but for maybe Bohnes and Widow. I drop the knife by my side and hold out my other hand as Nisha sighs heavily, shaking her head and sipping her coffee from one of Gram’s favorite mugs. It’s white with a cross on the front. Gram is big on Jesus. Not so much my thing.

  “Scarlett,” Patricia whispers from behind me, her voice aghast. “Bastian is a guest. Let him have the bowl. I’ll pick some up after work today.” With a sigh, she moves past me to prepare herself a cup of coffee. I hate that she still has to work in her seventies. I’m going to fix that. It’s one of my reasons for living.

  “Here,” I say, giving Basti a dark glare as he smiles smugly; I grab the metal travel cup for my grandma. “I prepared your coffee.”

  “Thank you, Scarlett,” Grandma says, offering me up a soft smile and reaching a wrinkled hand up to cup the side of my face. “You’re a blessing, you know that?”

  Just trying to make up for your shitty daughter, I think to myself, forcing a smile.

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s nothing.” She pats my cheek and gives me a sharp look.

  “I won’t so long as you promise not to torment your guests while I’m gone.”

  She offers Bastian a head pat on her way past; Nisha gets a shoulder squeeze.

  If Lemon were here …

  “Whatever happened to Lucy?” Patricia asks, and I swear, the three of us give a collective cringe. Lucy. Lemon’s behavior at the party last night was, while not unexpected, supremely disappointing. As far as Aspen? I can’t even get started on Aspen.

  Part of me feels like … no, not feels like … knows that he’s lying to me.

  Lying to me about something big.

  I bite my thumbnail, and Nisha’s nostrils flare. She turns around to smile at my grandma.

  “She’s just excited about her engagement to some rich shmuck, thinks she’s got the rest of us in Prescott beat.”

  My grandma lets out a weary sigh and nods her head slightly, eyes far away, like she’s thinking about a different time, a different place. Old people do that a lot, I’ve noticed. Agnes does it, Mildred. If I’m lucky enough to make it to their age—doubtful—I’m sure I’ll be doing it, too.

  “A lot of people over the years have thought similar things,” Patricia offers up, and then she’s on her way out the door. The three of us stay quiet until we hear her car start up outside. My aunt and mother both have left the house already this morning. The former picked up an extra shift to, and I quote, prove to my boss that I deserve this promotion. The latter has taken Alexis out for a mother-daughter date that will likely end up with the two of them screaming at each other.

  Alexis will accuse my mom of taking her twenty-one money (a lump sum given to members of the Yurok tribe at that age) and my mom will deny it even though she did take the money. For bills, is what she said at the time, but … ehhhhh.

  I snatch the plastic mixing bowl, giving Basti an ugly sneer as I watch him eat from the prized cereal bowl. He flips me off, and I return the favor, making sure to use my right hand so I can flash the upside-down cross that’s inked there.

  “You’re a fucking chode,” I grumble out, and he snorts.

  “I assure you, honey, that I am anything but a chode.” He grabs his junk and I scowl even harder, pointing at Nisha with the spoon that I traded out the butter knife for.

  “Remind me again why we let a man into our crew? Every time I forget that Basti was born with an unfortunate extra appendage, he reminds me by acting like …”

  “A guy?” Basti queries. As soon as I fi
nish pouring the milk, I flick some of it at him, and he chuckles. “Sorry, I’ll try to be less of a guy if it’ll please you, Queen.”

  “It would, thank you very much,” I state, pouring cereal into the giant bowl as Nisha looks on in disgust. She says it makes her nauseous to eat in the morning; she only drinks coffee. Specifically, she drinks her coffee scalding hot, way too strong, and with a heaping spoonful of sugar. “Hot, cheap, and sweet—just like Lemon.” That’s what Nisha used to say. While two of those things are still true, the latter seems to have been left by the wayside.

  “So you say, but you sure have been hanging out with plenty of other guys lately,” Basti continues absently, and I stop with a spoonful of cereal halfway to my mouth as Nisha kicks him underneath the table.

  “She just had a hard night, you insensitive prick,” she growls, and I smile. Carefully, I put my spoon down in my bowl, place my elbows on the table, and clasp my hands together.

  “Basti,” I start, but he’s suddenly so invested in his cereal that he doesn’t seem to hear me. Bullshit. I unfold my hands, sit back, and then slam a fist onto the worn wooden surface, making him jump. “What are you talking about? My date with Alexei Grove? Bohnes being my fuckboy? Or … something else?”

  Basti pokes at his cereal with his spoon and mumbles something in Spanish under his breath.

  “Dude, come on!” I shout, sitting back in my seat and kicking him under the table. He finally looks up at me and sighs heavily.

  “All I’m saying is that your little rendezvouses with Widow in the library haven’t gone unnoticed.”

  I just stare at him.

  “What do you mean my ‘little rendezvouses’?” I ask, my voice dark and commanding. Bastian shudders, but Nisha isn’t afraid of me in the least. She sets her mug down with a heavy thump.

  “Girl, everybody knows you been goin’ in there and flashin’ your damn panties at the boy. You, Widow, and those old ladies you like so much aren’t the only people who use the library, you know.” She gives me a look, one that I know I should heed, but that I probably won’t anyway. “Widow was at the track last night looking for you.”

  “Was he now?” I query back, absurdly pleased by the idea but acting as nonchalant as I possibly can. “Why? What did he want?”

  “He was also looking for Bohnes,” Nisha begins, tapping her chipped nails on the table’s surface. “Aspen, too.” My body flushes hot, and I find myself licking my lower lip as my best friends both stare at me like they’d just love to wrap their hands around my boy crazy neck and strangle me. “Want to explain why he might be looking for the horrible men you’re obsessed with?”

  “I am not obsessed,” I say, but then my mind immediately shifts to Aspen and the taste of his mouth in the rain, the sharp kiss of obsession on his lips … I pick up my spoon again, casually shrugging one shoulder. “Widow has a crush on me. He came up to me in the library last week and declared his intentions.”

  “Which are?” Basti asks, eyes shining. “Oh, I like him for you. Much better than Bohnes or … Aspen.” That last name is spat out like a wad of phlegm. “Rich boys are gross, Scar. Widow is the perfect tortured, damaged soul.” He sighs and pokes at his own cereal. “I’d love a guy like that, just … a little less dominant. Someone who wouldn’t mind getting on all fours for—”

  “You’re acting like a guy again,” I warn him as Nisha purses her lips at the two of us.

  “Am I the only one who isn’t completely mesmerized by dick?” she asks, looking up at the ceiling for strength. “Lord help me with these fools.”

  “As a lesbian, that’s sort of the definition,” I say, and she gives me a look.

  “Don’t go falling into that ol’ Prescott trap, the one where a girl finds a broken boy and tries to fix him. Don’t you dare.”

  “If anything, Bohnes is there to fix all of my problems,” I explain, and Nisha just puts her head in her hand and sighs in frustration.

  “I give up. What are you gonna do then? Have Widow and Bohnes both as your fuckboys?”

  I shrug again.

  “I was considering it,” I admit, and Nisha grabs her coffee, lifting it to her mouth and draining the rest of it in a single swig.

  “We gettin’ our nails done today or what?” she asks, offering me up another suspicious look. “Or will that interfere with your plans to have lunch with Alexei Grove? You know that his father has connections to the mob in New York, right?”

  Another shrug from me, and Nisha’s lips are pursed so tight they practically disappear into her face.

  “That what you want? Aspen, the mayor’s son and Lemon’s fiancé as a fuckboy? Alexei, a mobster’s kid? You’d be better off with ol’ poor and broken Bohnes, or Widow’s uncle-killing-ass. You know he poisoned him, don’t you? Put some sort of drain cleaner in his coffee.”

  I pause. Hadn’t heard that part of the story yet.

  “He was probably molested,” I offer up softly, thinking back on Widow’s off-the-handle reactions to sex. “I’m sure he killed the bastard for a reason.”

  “You’re as bad as Lemon, you know that?” Nisha says, scoffing as she stands up. “Get up. Let’s go to the salon.”

  Basti and I rush to finish our cereal—deal is, last one to put a dish in the sink has to wash them all—and then scramble up, hip bumping each other out of the way as we fight for the right to not handwash anything. Nisha walks right past us, sets her mug in the sink, and then gives us both a scathing look.

  “Hurry up. I gotta go grocery shopping for my mom later.”

  With a sigh, Basti yanks the plastic bowl from my hand, and I grin, giving him a peck on the cheek that reminds me of Alexei all over again.

  Oh, I like him.

  He’s weird, sure, but he’s gallant as fuck. So polite. Sexy, too. That blond hair, his pouty mouth, the arrogant cast to his face … Ugh. I didn’t mean to kiss him; I wasn’t thinking. I’m not about forcing myself on people, you know?

  Regardless, he didn’t say anything, didn’t push me away, didn’t even seem to mind too much.

  As I get dressed, I think about his voice on the phone last night. He did his best to hide it, but something was wrong. Something big.

  “I need your help.”

  What could a rich boy like that possibly need my help with?

  Guess I’ll find out later, won’t I?

  I dress in a black-and-white gingham jumpsuit with white heels, slipping white cat eye sunglasses onto my face to fight off the gray glare outside.

  “Off we go,” I say, gesturing in the direction on the door with my chin. Bastian, Nisha, and I climb into our cars and take off for a salon buried deep in the center of the Prescott neighborhood. In reality, the ‘salon’ is just some chick’s house that backs up to an old Mexican restaurant. Place looks sketchy as hell, but the food is off-the-charts good for cheap, so there’s always a huge line in the drive-thru.

  The cars in it have to actually back up and move out of our way so we can pull into the salon’s parking lot—but only because the majority of them are Prescott brats who recognize my ride. The owner is already waiting at the back door for us. She gestures us into a surprisingly cozy interior with proper chairs and everything.

  It might look like a house on the outside, but it presents as a proper salon on the in.

  Also, most important of all, the gossip here is top-notch.

  “Talk to me,” I say as Basti and Nisha take up the stations on either side of me. They get the salon’s best girls; I get the owner. Have no idea what her real name is, but she goes by Treasure. Kid you not: Treasure. Already, she’s grinning like crazy and taking my hands in hers, leaning forward with a conspiratorial smile.

  “Oh, Scar, I’ve got some good stuff for you today,” she starts, pausing to click her tongue at the state of my nails. She mumbles something under her breath before grabbing some nail polish remover, cotton balls, and tin foil.

  “Keep ‘em short,” I remind her. Long nails make it harder to mastur
bate, so … not interested. “Matte black on a few, black-and-white checkered pattern on some others. Throw in black flames over red on the rest.”

  “Yes, Queen,” Treasure says, wetting her lips and looking up and into my eyes. “I hope you’ve got a few hours because I’ve got some goss.”

  “Spill it,” I say, relaxing into the seat and letting Treasure take over my manicure.

  It’s gonna cost me big—I pay for both the gossip and the nails here. But it’s worth it. Oh so worth it.

  Treasure’s gossip is valuable indeed.

  Most of it pertains to Archer Realty, the Borisov Group (which apparently is the name of Alexei’s father’s company), and the motherfucking mayor.

  One of the mayor’s aides leaked this disturbing pamphlet that shows the neighborhoods of Prescott and Four Corners transformed into glass and steel skyscrapers, upscale boutiques, and rolling parks—none of which is for the residents of those neighborhoods. Oh no. Nobody who lives here now will be able to afford any of this luxury.

  Not only did Treasure tell me about this pamphlet: she told it to me for fifteen hundred bucks.

  That Aspen money is burnin’ up quick.

  Worst part of it all? The pamphlet shows the old Prescott track transformed into a gentleman’s racing club. I’m not even quite sure what that is, but it sounds equal parts sinister and horrifying.

  I tap my freshly done nails on the steering wheel, my stomach in my throat as I pull into the driveway of my house. First thing I notice is the suburban blight on my porch.

  “Miss Emma Jean Thompson,” I murmur with a sigh, parking in the garage and checking the time on my phone. I’m supposed to meet Alexei in like, an hour. What the hell does this bitch want now?

  I climb out, leaving the garage door open as I come around to the front door and cross my arms over my chest.

  “Hello Emma,” I say, and she turns sharply, moving down the steps of the stoop to come over to me.

  “Scarlett Motherfucking Force,” she says with a disturbing level of false cheer. Smart-ass. She wants something from me. I take my shades off, folding them up carefully and giving Miss Emma Jean a dark look.