F*ckboy Psychos

by Stunich, C. M.

Knowing Force the way I do, I don’t think she’d do that unless there was an emergency of some kind. Hmm. Is the emergency her dinner meeting with Alexei Grove? Or something else?

  I decide to follow her at a safe distance, knowing that she’ll be on the lookout for just such a thing. The only reason I’m able to keep up with her at all is because I know Prescott so well. I know Prescott, and I know Scarlett.

  She drives slow, so as not to catch the attention of any cops—not that there are any around here at the moment. Mayor Kelly and his best buddy, Chief Bolin, have made sure to clear them all out. I have some ideas on why that might be, none of which are important at the moment.

  Instead, I keep my focus on tailing Scarlett without being caught. It’s not easy; she’s as good as they come. Luckily, I’m second best, and I know the area and all her tricks. Otherwise, she’d have lost me some time ago.

  When she heads for Camp Creek Road, and the McKenzie Highway beyond it, I know that something bad must’ve happened today. Why else would she come out here and skip her meeting with Mr. Grove?

  I had him tucked away, nice and safe at one of my warehouses last night.

  I have plans for him, but I need to take it slow. He’s jumpy as fuck, twice as arrogant as that, and upset about something. What it is I can only guess, but seeing as he came to me, it must be bad.

  Scarlett takes a dirt access road that leads to an abandoned house at the edge of an old cemetery where Prescott kids like to throw parties. I was even considering throwing this year’s Halloween party here. Might still do it.

  “What are we doing here, my dark and twisted love?” I murmur, parking a ways away from the cemetery and walking the mile or so to where Scarlett’s parked her pretty red De Tomaso Pantera.

  She’s standing in the glow of the headlights with a shovel.

  Mm.

  Uh-oh.

  My baby’s gone and got herself into trouble, now hasn’t she?

  My first feeling is that of annoyance. Why didn’t she call me? Why is she dealing with this on her own? And then I remember that she isn’t my woman—in her mind at least—just yet. I’m still a fuckboy, and she doesn’t trust me fully.

  But we’ll get there.

  I lean my shoulder against a tree and watch in amusement as she takes off a pair of designer heels, strips her shirt, and, dressed in a bikini top and jeans, goes about trying to dig a hole. How long, exactly, she’ll attempt this before she realizes how damn hard it actually is to dig a proper grave, I’m not sure.

  I do admire her for her tenacity, even as I wish she would call me and ask for help.

  Sophomore year, when that horrible rich boy crashed into her family’s minivan and killed her brother and her two cousins, I was there for her. I was there for her when Prescott High needed to be watched for dissenters, when her newly minted queen bee crown was up for grabs. I was there when she finally broke and took justice into her own hands.

  I was there to bury the bodies afterward.

  That man, and his parents, were nothing but pond scum. I’d have buried them for free, but I had to charge her something, didn’t I?

  Maybe tonight I won’t charge her anything at all? But only if she calls me. Only then.

  It takes about an hour for her to make the decision but, at the very least, I get to watch her pretty skin become dappled with sweat, watch her shove her arm across her forehead and let her head fall back in exhaustion, watch her scream in frustration and kick the body with her bare foot.

  “You fucker!” she yells at him. “You ruined my night, you piece of shit.”

  I grin wildly, and, because I just can’t help myself when it comes to Scarlett Force, I shove my sweatpants down and free my cock. Spitting into my palm, I grasp the throbbing member in tight fingers and yank on it, gritting my teeth as I watch her pace in front of her car, passing in and out of the headlights as she does.

  Light and dark, light and dark.

  A groan threatens to escape me, but I hold it back, biting my own tongue until it bleeds, twisting my hand in a violent corkscrew motion that almost hurts but which gets me off like nothing else. I love pain. I love pain even more when it’s Scarlett who’s inflicting it on me. I love her nails in my skin making me bleed, her teeth sinking into my lower lip, her pussy clamping down so hard it feels like my cock might just snap right off.

  As Scarlett finally raises the phone to her ear, making the call to me that I just know is costing her a heavy dose of pride, I let myself come, defiling the old tree that watches over the ancient cemetery.

  Mm.

  Excellent.

  Cock still in hand but rapidly growing flaccid, I lift my own phone to my ear.

  “Yes, darling?” I purr, and I can see her scowling, even from here.

  “I need you,” she says and then, because I’m certain she’s just realized the words that came out of her mouth, she adjusts her phrasing. “I need your help.”

  With great reluctance, I yank my pants up to cover my dick.

  “Oh?” I ask mildly, pretending to be surprised. “With what?”

  “Just … meet me at the party house off of McKenzie Highway. Can you do that for me?”

  Can I? Oh, if she only knew. If she only understood how I feel about her. She’s the one and only person I ever listen to, that I can be completely honest with. I’ve chosen her, and I’ll kill anybody who gets in my way.

  “I can do that,” I agree with a sharp smile, examining the cum dripping down the side of the tree. “Give me … forty minutes or less.”

  I hang up, watching as she takes the shovel in hand and attacks the ground with it, unwilling to give up even after asking for my help. My sharp smile softens sightly as I cock my head, enjoying watching her while she’s unaware of my presence. I could do this for hours. Have, on more than one occasion.

  Scarlett … she’s so sweet, even if she doesn’t know it.

  I thought I had her with Widow, but Ash Kelly … he was a wildcard I couldn’t have expected.

  Who knew that Aspen had an identical—and much less psychotic—twin?

  What a shame.

  I watch Scarlett as the time ticks by, enjoying the sight of her in that bikini top so much that my cock gets hard again, and it takes every ounce of my self-control to push back the urge. My hand cups my crotch and I give it a tight squeeze, exhaling sharply to clear the darkness clouding my brain.

  I’d love nothing more than to storm over to her and yank her into me, lay her down on the moist dirt and fuck her beside one of the old, crumbling headstones.

  Would she let me, even with a body lying nearby?

  “Who did you kill, sweetheart?” I murmur, rubbing at my face and letting out a low chuckle.

  With a shake of my head, I walk back down to the Chevelle, start the engine, and drive the last mile to park behind her.

  “Shit,” she growls, examining what appears to be the remains of a fresh manicure. “Thanks a lot, dickhead.” Scarlett kicks the body with her bare foot as I creep up behind her, using the shadows and the sounds of her own voice and movements to camouflage my approach.

  “Did you really get half-naked to dig a grave?” I ask in a rough purr, enjoying the way Scarlett shivers, her sweaty skin rippling in reaction to my words. She likes me, even if she doesn’t care to admit it.

  “You call this half-naked?” she quips, and I cannot even begin to say how pleased I am by her lack of fear and surprise. She didn’t jump or scream, didn’t cower away from me. It’s one of the reasons I like her so much. Bravery and boldness are beyond attractive to me. A little bit of crazy goes a long way, too. “A bikini top and no shoes?”

  Touché.

  “Louboutins, really?” I ask, smiling through the shadows as I examine the full, round curves of her breasts, the tuck of her waist, the flare of her hips. Oh, I could write poetry about this woman, sketch it in blood, carve it into flesh.

  “What do you take me for? Some vagrant pickpocket? I’m a professional, Bohnes.”


  My smile stretches a little wider, gets a little more poisonous. The way Scarlett shifts, rubbing her thighs together, tells me that she’d just love it if I were to throw her over the hood of her car and fuck her nice and hard.

  Too bad there’s a corpse to worry about. Whose corpse it is, I’d love to know. But I’m not going to ask—not yet anyway. I move over to stand beside her, staring down at the comatose form on the ground. It’s wrapped in a tarp, duct-taped nicely but for one small corner where liquid oozes. She learned a few things from me, it seems.

  I’m impressed.

  Music drifts from the idling vehicle as I consider how best to go about this. I certainly am not going to bury this man—whoever he is—here. No, this is too much of a hotspot for Prescott students. It’s a party spot, a fuck spot, a place to smoke weed or experiment with drugs. We’re just lucky nobody’s stumbled on us just yet.

  If they had, well, it would’ve been a bad day for them, certainly.

  “Let me handle this, Scarlett,” I whisper, leaning down and putting my mouth so near to her ear that she shivers all over again, her nipples visibly hardening beneath the black bikini top. My hands ache to cup her breasts, to pull her close, to envelop her in my shadow. I want to take care of her, but she isn’t the sort of woman who wants that. I’ll have to figure out how to be her partner instead. I’m not here for payment or sex; I’m here for her. And, even if she isn’t aware of it, she must trust me. What other man would she allow to find her alone in the dark in nothing but a bikini top and jeans? “This is my specialty, not yours.”

  “Don’t you want to know what happened?” she whispers, staring down at the body like it’s more of an inconvenience than anything else. I shake my head, following her gaze back to the black tarp cocoon lying beside a very shallow hole.

  “Get out of here,” I tell her, taking the shovel from her fingers. I uncurl them one by one, studying her expression, the way her tongue slides subconsciously across her lower lip, the way her thighs squeeze tight against a rush of heat and need.

  Oh, she feels it, too. I know she does.

  “This is a terrible place to bury a body,” I add, and she turns away from me abruptly.

  “And how was I supposed to know that?” she snaps, and I grin, tossing the shovel aside. She’s panting heavily as I step up close behind her, putting my lips to the salty-sweetness of her skin, tasting her with a long, hot drag of my tongue along the throbbing pulse of her carotid. Yum. I want to bite down so hard that she cries out, that she rubs her ass against my hard cock, that she begs me to fuck her good. “Shit, would you stop doing that?”

  Laughter escapes me; I can’t help it. It’s low and dark and thick with perversion.

  “Why don’t you take my car?” I offer, trying to be practical here. There’s blood leaking from the edge of the tarp; I imagine it’s on the inside of her trunk, too. I’ll need to clean that up. “Yours has too much blood in it; it needs a full detail. Go meet with that rich developer’s son in a clean, crime-free ride.”

  I snort and, when my breath fans against her nape, she visibly shudders and lets out a small sound of need that I don’t think she’s even aware of. She doesn’t ask me how I know about that, about Alexei Grove, son of a man with mob connections. She understands that I keep tabs on everything that happens in and around Prescott, just like she does.

  One thing I also notice? She doesn’t ask price this time.

  That’s a good start for our future relationship, the one where she’s bouncing on my cock day in and day out. Every day, every night, me and Scarlett Force … together.

  “Keys.” She holds out her palm, and I slide my keys from my pocket, knowing what a huge honor it is for Prescott kids to allow each other to drive their cars. As far as I know, she’s only ever extended the honor to Nisha, Bastian, and Lemon. Well, until recently when she let Jennifer handle a delicate situation that ended in disaster.

  I’d considered thanking Widow for interrupting that race, for saving Scarlett from Ash Kelly’s cock—because that day, it was indeed Ash on the track—but she ended up fucking him anyway. I just hope he follows through with his threats and stays the hell away from my woman.

  When I go to drop the keys in her palm, she snatches my wrist with her other hand, and I feel my cock stirring to life. What a temptation you are, Scarlett Force.

  “If you fuck up my car, I’ll kill you next.”

  I stare at her, taking in the high, strong lines of her cheekbones, the sharp bowtie shape of her upper lip, the swollen plumpness of her lower lip. And those eyes, dark and deep, endless, alluring.

  I smile.

  “I’ll return it, safe and sound. Pinky promise.” I offer up a nice, slow wink, and then lean in, hoping that she won’t pull away, that she’ll meet me halfway as she always does. Our mouths slide together and Scarlett sighs, this husky, needy purr that nearly shatters my self-control to pieces.

  She kisses me back, just as I wanted, just as I hoped for. And then she pulls away, and my heart aches as I watch her step back.

  “Bye,” I breathe. It’s the only thing I can think to say. I want her so badly right now that my body and heart are rebelling against my brain. No, Bohnes. She needs to know that she can trust you, that this is about more than sex and business. This is love, dark and sweet and tender. Eventually, she’ll see it. Eventually, she’ll see that she needn’t fear romance and intimacy.

  I lick my lips as she walks away, grabbing a few items from the Pantera before she heads for my Chevelle. I bend down and pick the body up, carrying it to Scarlett’s trunk and dumping it back inside as I listen to the sound of my car’s tires on the dirt.

  It isn’t easy for me either, to let her take my car like that. But it feels so supremely intimate somehow. That car, I fixed it up myself. Scarlett, she did the same with hers (with a bit of Bastian’s help). This is Prescott car culture in its most pure and perfect form.

  A man and woman, exchanging cars as they exchange hearts.

  I sigh and look up at the moon.

  How romantic.

  We traded cars like some high school students trade letterman jackets … and I’m going to bury this man—whoever he is—for free. Scarlett is nothing if not levelheaded. If she murdered this man, it was for a good reason.

  I just need to make sure that this reason, valid as it may be, doesn’t come back to bite her in the ass.

  Scarlett

  Oh, Bohnes.

  What do I do about Bohnes? Frankly, I should consider dating this guy. Like, for real. I should consider marrying him and offering up my dark soul. He’s that good. He’s that … confusing.

  He’s first and foremost on my mind, even as I’m figuring out what to do about the million texts I just received about Widow and Aspen fighting down at the track. I already contacted Alexei and adjusted our meeting. I’m glad I called him, rather than texted him, because I was going to cancel our date altogether.

  Then I heard his voice.

  The easy confidence he displayed during the entirety of the party last night was gone. There was clear pain in his words, a grating melancholy that my heart recognized long before my head did.

  He lost someone recently.

  Who or how or why, I don't know. Most especially, I don’t understand what he needs from me.

  The least I can do is meet with the guy over some food, right? Not that I expect him to eat anything. Bet the dude’s a phenomenal cook; he probably never eats out. How could he, when he wasn’t even willing to eat that fancy food at the art gallery?

  I head down the long, dirt road, teasing my fingers over the gear shift and appreciating the velvety rumble of the Chevelle. I still can’t believe that Bohnes offered me the use of his car … or that I let him have use of mine.

  That’s … like, a big deal at Prescott. We exchange cars the way Christian teens might swap purity rings. It’s a whole thing.

  I just hope that I won’t regret demanding to know his price tonight. Last time, it was
a date. What if he asks for more?

  What if … I want to give him more?

  No, Scarlett. No, no, no. He’s a fuckboy, just a fuckboy. That’s it.

  Only, the thought reeks of a lie and only an idiot lies to themselves.

  Okay, fine, I have a crush on Kellin Bohnes.

  I admit it.

  And, apparently, I trust him.

  Why else would I call him all the way out here in the dark to help bury a body? Bohnes could’ve leveraged that against me in so many ways. Still could, if I’m being honest.

  But what else was I supposed to do? Burying a body is a hell of a lot harder than I expected. I should ask Bohnes for lessons. Give a man fish, and he starves later. Teach him to fish, and he’ll never go hungry. Or something like that.

  I pause at the end of the road, heft my phone up, and call Nisha.

  “What the fuck is going on over there?” I ask, turning the speaker on and tossing the phone into the passenger seat.

  “Widow just challenged Aspen to a race,” Nisha admits, the sound of the crowd and the roar of engines a comfortingly familiar if rather loud backdrop to our conversation. “They’re last up tonight, but it seems they’re going to put their differences aside until then at the very least.”

  “Good,” I say, turning right onto the dark highway to head back into town. Or rather, to head into Eugene to meet Alexei. “Because I have plans, and I didn’t intend on heading over there until later.”

  “What sort of plans?” Nisha asks, her voice rife with suspicious. “You are aware that these boys are racing over you, right?”

  I figured as much. What I can’t figure out is why Aspen Kelly is at the track in the first place. After last night and those sick, fucked up threats against my family … I don’t understand him at all.

  “How so?” I inquire, glancing at the clock on my dash. My mom and Alexis should be home by now, so that must mean they didn’t notice anything amiss, right?

  Emma Jean and I did a damn fine job cleaning up such a macabre mess in a hurry. I sent her on her way, but not before making her take a photo with the blood and the body.