F*ckboy Psychos

by Stunich, C. M.

  What … what the hell just happened?

  My head lifts up, searching for headlights in the darkness. Nisha isn’t here yet, but I can’t let her see this. I can’t. It was an accident … mostly. But that doesn’t change the fact that Mayor Kelly’s son is dead, and that I killed him. Who’s going to believe me that he attacked me first, that he tried to rape me? The mayor will bury me with fancy lawyers and money.

  My family will never get out of Prescott or, even worse, they’ll be pushed out by the new development and left homeless.

  I can’t let anyone see what I’ve done.

  No face, no case, right?

  I shove up to my feet, yanking my skirt back on and zipping it up before I decide to tackle the body. Getting a dead person in a trunk is difficult, even with the help of another person. Emma Jean and I just barely managed to heft that goon into the Pantera earlier.

  With a growl, I strip off my heels and chuck them aside.

  It’s my entire life on the line right now; I won’t lose my future to some perverted rich boy.

  Even as I’m putting my arms under Aspen’s still-warm body and dragging him toward Bohnes’ car, I can’t seem to banish the memories of him, wild and beautiful in the rain. How did we get from that to this?

  With adrenaline blasting through my veins, I lift the body up with a scream of frustration and then fall forward, letting the weight of him tip forward into the trunk. Next thing I do is lift his legs up, folding them so that he fits.

  I gather the bloody shirt, tossing it atop his body. The gun and knife follow along, and then I use up the last of my disposal wipes to get as much blood off of me as possible. I even use the pencil skirt to wipe myself down, changing into the jeans and t-shirt that I had on earlier.

  For a minute, I just stand there, staring down at the body.

  “Fuck you, Aspen,” I breathe, and then I start to shut the trunk.

  It comes to an abrupt halt, and my entire body goes ice-cold. My gaze snaps up and then …

  I can’t even believe what I’m seeing.

  My mind refuses to accept it as I blink through the pain and shock, staring into a pair of wild, broken eyes. The face is pale and aristocratic, the lips plump and inviting, the upper even more so than the bottom.

  “H-how?” I breathe, but I think I almost knew. At the end there, especially. Because of the cut on his hand, and the cologne, the accent, all of those things. More than all that, the eyes. I knew because of the eyes.

  The man lifts the trunk slightly, peering down at the comatose form of … whoever it is in there. He turns back to me, but he doesn’t seem angry or upset. At least, not in the way someone might expect upon seeing their dead twin.

  “You asshole!” I scream, and then I’m punching at Aspen’s … Ash’s … whoever’s chest. “You fucking monster!” I beat on him, and he lets me, until I’m sagging against him, and he’s grabbing me by the upper arms.

  Ash … Aspen.

  Twins.

  Identical twins.

  Oh my God. Oh my fucking God. I thought, maybe, but … this is movie shit.

  He crushes his mouth to mine, and he tastes as good as he smells, like an English garden in the pouring rain.

  “I’m sorry, Scarlett,” he murmurs, that hint of a British accent in his voice again. “Gomennasai. I’m so damn sorry. I never imagined that he’d find out, that he’d come here.”

  I jerk away from him, turning and pacing a small circle before I spin back. Tears are running down my face, but I can’t even explain what I’m actually crying about here. There are too many conflicting emotions hitting me all at once.

  I killed two people today.

  Two.

  And both of them are related back to Mayor Kelly.

  Shit, Mayor Kelly’s other son … is standing right in front of me.

  I stare at him, tall and beautiful in a black suit jacket and slacks, a pair of shiny dress shoes on his feet.

  “Which one are you?” I whisper, and he smiles at me. Unlike how I felt when the other twin smiled at me, this one makes me feel a little dizzy, even under such shitty circumstances. “I mean, I know you’re the one that I slept with, but … are you Aspen or Ash?”

  I don’t even have to ask which one of these assholes shot Evelyn—the dead one in the trunk did it, clearly. The dead one in the trunk threw Lemon around. The dead one in the trunk was the one mocking me at the party … and the live one confronted me outside the women’s restroom.

  I know that for certain.

  Now that I know for sure, it seems so clear.

  “Most days, I don’t even remember,” he says to me, looking down at his dead brother with what I think is … relief? “Most days, there is no Ash Kelly. It’s just Aspen. I’m Aspen; he’s Aspen.” He sighs heavily as I stand there panting, my hands squeezed so tightly into fists that they hurt; my knuckles ache.

  Nice to see that this fuckboy is as psycho as Bohnes, as Widow.

  Fantastic.

  “You’re Ash,” I say, making the assumption. It’s the only thing that makes sense. Ash, the lost twin, the hated twin, the hidden twin, parading around town pretending to be Aspen. Right? I mean … or maybe not? What if it was the other way around?

  But no, I don’t think so.

  “Ash …” he begins, opening the trunk fully and then reaching in. He removes the diamond cufflinks, carefully attaching them to his jacket as I watch, wide-eyed and so supremely confused that I’m fighting back the urge to vomit.

  “Aspen is dead,” I murmur, more to myself than to him.

  His eyes snap up to mine, and a shiver goes through me.

  “No,” he says, and I can see in that one word how serious he is, how important this is. Somehow, I get the idea that he isn’t going to tell anyone that I murdered his brother. Rather, he seems almost happy that the man is dead. “Ash Kelly is dead.” This twin—whatever his name is, he’s my fuckboy—offers me a dark smile. “I’m Aspen Kelly. Aspen.”

  He finishes putting the cufflinks on, slams the trunk closed, and meets my gaze dead-on.

  “Your life—and mine—depend on getting this right, Scarlett. What is my name?”

  I just blink at him, but what else can I do? I need his help. It appears to me that he’s willing to step into his dead brother’s role, further proving that I was right: he’s Ash. The guy I have a crush on that, even after all of this crap, I still have a crush on, is Ash Kelly.

  Was. Was Ash Kelly.

  “Aspen,” I repeat, swallowing back a lump of emotion. “Aspen Kelly.”

  He smiles at me again, and in it, I can see every dark, wicked part of him.

  And, fucked up as I am, I like it.

  I like him.

  “I’m glad you’re alive,” I whisper, and he takes a step closer, putting his hands on either side of my face and lifting it up so that he can press his lips to mine. I’ve never had a kiss that felt so good, so dangerous, and so dirty, all in one single, swipe of tongue.

  “Thank you, Scarlett. Thank you for doing what I never could.”

  He glances down at the trunk, and in his eyes, I see it. He has a plan, and maybe I won’t lose my entire life over this. Whatever he wants to do, I have to trust him. Even if I shouldn’t. Even if it’s stupid as fuck to consider doing something so risky.

  “Thank you,” he breathes again, and then he’s pulling me into his arms and kissing me with that wicked, awful taste of obsession on his lips.

  I was worried that Aspen was never going to let me go?

  No, I don’t think he is.

  I think that—even if he was Ash Kelly—that he’s as psycho as his damn brother, just in a different way.

  I relax into his embrace, letting him claim my mouth with his tongue, hot and dangerous and deadly.

  So, like I said.

  By the end of this book, one of my four fuckboys would be dead.

  Ash Kelly, he’s gone.

  And in his place … there’s Aspen. Just Aspen.

&
nbsp; My question to you is this: can you keep a secret?

  My life, your life—the lives of my fuckboys—they all depend on it.

  Keep your mouth shut, friend.

  In my neighborhood, snitches get stitches.

  Goodnight, and see you next time you’re in South Prescott.

  Love, Scarlett Motherfucking Force.

  To Be Continued …

  Scarlett Force Book #2

  Grey Wolf Empire, Book #1

  The Havoc Boys, Book #1

  Stebrother Inked, Standalone

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  About the Author

  C.M. Stunich is a self-admitted bibliophile with a love for exotic teas and a whole host of characters who live full time inside the strange, swirling vortex of her thoughts. Some folks might call this crazy, but Caitlin Morgan doesn't mind - especially considering she has to write biographies in the third person. Oh, and half the host of characters in her head are searing hot bad boys with dirty mouths and skillful hands (among other things). If being crazy means hanging out with them everyday, C.M. has decided to have herself committed.

  She hates tapioca pudding, loves to binge on cheesy horror movies, and is a slave to many cats. When she's not vacuuming fur off of her couch, C.M. can be found with her nose buried in a book or her eyes glued to a computer screen. She's the author of over One Hundred novels - romance, new adult, fantasy, and young adult included. Please, come and join her inside her crazy. There's a heck of a lot to do there.

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