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Louboutins, really?” Bohnes asks me, his voice like dark chocolate and nighttime secrets. I know those aren’t sounds, but it’s the only way to describe his voice. He terrifies me. He also excites me. I’m pretty sure we’re equal, swing for swing. That’s what I like best about him.
This is a terrible place to bury a body.” “And how was I supposed to know that?” I snap, turning to leave when Bohnes drops the shovel and I pause, breathing hard as he steps up close behind me. I can feel his lips on my neck, warm and reassuring as his tongue trails down my skin … “Shit, would you stop doing that?” I choke out, but Bohnes just laughs at me. The sound is low and full of introversion, and it’s just fucking terrifying. But I like it. Because he only ever laughs when he’s getting what he wants. In this case, that just so happens to be me.
Fuckboy - noun - an asshole who’s good for sex and little else Chiefly ‘Prescott High’ slang: a semi-possessive term that denotes that said boy belongs to a girl as an exclusive paramour or consort with no expectation of a future romantic relationship
If he hadn’t stolen my parking space, dismissed me in front of my crew, and put a knife to my throat, I might actually have a crush on him. I know as well as any other girl here that there’s a certain aura of poison in the air around Prescott, a haze, if you will. It taints us all toxic and makes us do horrible things. It makes Lemon fuck old, married guys searching for a way out; it makes Nisha punch the walls in the hallway when she’s mad, leaving dents in the drywall; it makes Bastian dance for money at the gay club with a fake ID. It makes me steal cars and get crushed on by psychos.
Because, undoubtedly, both Widow and Bohnes are psychotic. Thankfully, so am I.
We have our own league here at Prescott High. It has no name. It has few rules. There are no trophies, no prize money, but there sure as shit are rewards. We play in bets and favors here at Prescott. Sex or violence, favors or stolen goods, quality intel or fake IDs, it’s all up for grabs at the racetrack.
His gaze is shallow and slick, as if perhaps there’s no soul underneath that pretty façade, just a monster hiding in human skin. “Aspen Kelly,” he says smoothly, his voice oiled and almost disturbingly perfect. Nobody should ever sound like that, like every word out of their mouth has been carefully selected, groomed, polished, examined, and then forced out like a weapon.
Bohnes slips past me, barely human, barely there, as per usual. He glides right by without saying a damn word to me or this Aspen guy or anyone else, but that slight touch of his hand on mine was either a warning or … it was an invitation.
“Lie to whoever else you want—just not me.” Bohnes works my clit as if it’s a cock, pulling the hood back with his fingers, exposing the raw nerves as I pant, my head hanging low. This is the most we’ve ever spoken and, considering his voice sounds like secrets being whispered in the dead of night, it’s a huge turn-on.
He left, and yet, the next night, I found myself waiting out here just in case. He came to me then, too, and I told him my rules. “If you’re going to fuck me, you better not be fucking anybody else. The moment you do, it’s over between us. Permanently. And if you lie to me about it, I will cut your balls off.” I’m sure that Bohnes understood me. We ride on the same wavelength, this dark twisted siren song that makes us both just a little unstable, a little bit violent. So does he like me? I don’t know. I don’t even care. I’m such a sucker for a fuckboy psycho.
Me … I make the biggest mistake of my life, looking up to see that Bohnes is staring at me. He’s smiling wide, like a colossal maniac. And everybody around him … has taken a step back.
I’ll take her—in Widow’s car. Widow. Adrian. He’s as fucked-up and weird as Bohnes. I won’t lie though: I got myself off last night thinking of his web-inked hand stroking his massive dick. The fantasy morphed into Bohnes about halfway through, pounding me against the side of the tree. I loved it, too. I loved having his cum in me while I kicked Aspen’s ass on the track. See what I mean? There’s something wrong me. I’m as much of a psycho as all the rest of ‘em.
The thing with Bohnes though, it just happened. When it did, it was mine. It was a dark, dirty, heavy, sweaty secret. It was something of mine to keep in the shadows, to hoard in the dark. Now what do I do with it? When everyone will know that my smoke breaks in the woods are much more than that. And … do I care? No. No, I don’t. Yet, when I look at my sister, I see pain there that has nothing to do with Bohnes and everything to do with the fact that I’m growing up and things are changing. Alexis has a hard time with that sort of thing. She’s only had one boyfriend, and it didn’t go well for
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I don’t like how quietly dismissive Widow is while hiding clear sexual deviance underneath. He looks like someone who wants to be snapped, who wants to be broken out of their shell.
“Nothing’s going on with Widow,” I explain, and then I’m gasping as Bohnes yanks my black dress up my hips, pushing my panties below my butt cheeks before he cups my bare heat from the front. It’s a strong grip, a possessive one. We’ve been over this more than once—I don’t want a boyfriend. I want a fuckboy, a sidepiece, some free-range cock.
He’s so pale above me, he practically glows in what little moonlight manages to break through the trees. Paired with the icy eyes and the white hair, the tattoos on his hands, arms, back, and legs, he’s truly a beautiful nightmare.
“You’re not ready, but I want to eat you, Scarlett. I want to bite you. I want to devour you.”
“Don’t talk to me like one of your lackeys,” he warns, shaking his head, white hair feathering across his forehead. His eyeliner is thick and dark tonight, almost ghoulish. He truly looks like something that, while pretty, is also possibly undead. “You can call me your fuckboy if you want—I’ll even be one for you. But I sure as shit am not going to be bossed around.”
Our eyes meet, his narrowed to slits, his breath panting out between gritted teeth. He’s normally calm—almost disturbingly so. I’ve seen him pick up a Prescott kid by the neck and toss him across a table in the cafeteria without so much as a blink. No smile, no frown, zero expression of any kind. This is something different, this primal rage that he’s displaying.
“Say my name,” he whispers, his voice slithering into my skull, digging needles into my psyche and making me wonder how crazy I must really be to have accepted this guy as not only my first, but also as something more than that. An experiment. My initial foray into sexuality. Of all the men I might’ve chosen, why this one? He feels like a terrible mistake. That makes me like him more,
“Were you watching us again?” I demand, but Bohnes is already chuckling beside me. “Nah.” He lifts his head up and his expression completely snaps, like every ounce of sex-sated pleasure and dark mirth is wiped away, and he’s one scary motherfucker. There’s a coldness to his expression that I’ve never seen before.
“If I win, you stop fucking her for the rest of the school year,” Widow says, shrugging his huge shoulders as my eyes go wide. Bohnes goes so still that I actually wonder if I won’t have to grab my Glock and put him down. Instead, he throws his head back with wild laughter, raking his fingers through his white hair and grabbing a handful of it. He yanks on it for a moment, his ice-blue eyes sliding over to mine. His pupils are dilated, his lips swollen from kissing me. I’ve absolutely wrecked him; there’s so much blood staining his shirt that I’m almost ashamed of myself.
I glance over at him, catching sight of his pale eyes, alight with triumph and violence, glowing from the light of the bonfire. He turns toward me, and the smile he offers looks more like a corpse’s grimace.
I shove the driver’s side door open and climb out, pausing to examine the damage to my car. There’s a bit of curb rash on the rims, and some scratches on the finish, but nothing that I can’t buff out. That motherfucker. Every cell inside of me screams that I should go hunt Kellin Bohnes down and kill him. At the same time, those same cells are begging me to find Scarlett Force, bend her over, take her from behind.
“Nice car,” one of them says, but I’m not here to play games or posture with men twice my age. Instead, I move around to the trunk of my car and open it, selecting a wooden baseball bat from inside. In my experience, wood is better because it acts as a sort of litmus test for how hard you’re beating somebody. Metal can make mistakes more easily, and I’m not about to kill some thugs and go to jail—for real this time.
“Next time I tell you to leave me the fuck alone, listen.” I spit on them as I walk by, hefting the bat up to my shoulder—but not before wiping the blood off of it with my shirt—and then pounding my way up the steps.
Basti asks, crossing his arms over the pale marmalade color of his shirt and offering me a dark glare, one that makes him look almost as scary as … well, okay, not that scary, but about a fourth or fifth as freakish as Bohnes when he grins like an undead creature.
“You touched what’s mine,” he says to the boy in a way that both excites and concerns me. I should never have let him race Widow tonight. “I shouldn’t have had to tell you not to. Put your hand on the table.”
I’m convinced that he was just trying to scare the kid, that he wasn’t aiming for his hand in any way, shape, or form. It’d still be a decent punishment as such. But no. Two of the guy’s fingers sort of fall to one side, and then there’s blood. A whole hell of a lot of blood.
“What is this?” I breathe out as I look down at the fingers, wondering what it is, exactly, that Bohnes wants me to do with them. “It’s a gift,” he says, as if that were obvious. Blood drips from between his fingers to the floor. Oh sweet dark goddess, what am I doing with this man? Kellin Bohnes was arguably the worst choice of all the Prescott trash that I could’ve selected as a fuckboy. There are dozens of hot young dudes who know their cars, who have ink and muscles and metal, pain in their hearts, darkness in their eyes. If what I wanted was tortured, fucked-up, and broken, I had the pick
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I’ve never had a guy give me a pervert’s severed fingers before. It’s my new benchmark for total romance. “I’m too nice because I gave a guy back his fingers?” I query, not even bothering to hide my surprise. “Really?” “That’s why you need me to protect you,” he continues, rising to his full height and looking down at me. “You’re too kindhearted.” He chuckles, the sound deep and dark and velvety, and then he’s slipping past me and swiping his crimson fingers on the front of his already bloodied white shirt.
“Someone who isn’t Widow,” he corrects, and then he lets his head fall back with happy laughter. It’s a disturbing sight, the moonlight turning his white hair pewter, the blood smeared on his jaw and staining his t-shirt. “Anyone who isn’t Widow—for now.”
“I’m happy to be your fuckboy until you admit that you want me,” he says, moving through the shadows like he was born to them. He was, I think.
“Somehow, I don’t believe you for shit,” I tell him, and he laughs again. The sound is decidedly unhinged.
With a growl, Bohnes reaches out and wrenches my dress up to cover my tits. That’s when I really start to get worried. He’s possessive as hell, and he shouldn’t be. I explained this whole situation to him. Besides, the only time we’ve ever spent together is while we’re fucking or arranging business deals. It’s not like we hang out. It’s not as if we talk. We’re virtual strangers.
he says, looking over at Bohnes yet again, like he isn’t sure if the man is about to kill him or not. It’s a valid concern. I can feel the quiet simmer of Bohnes’ instability behind me. It’s comforting, in an odd sort of way. “While
But my questions about Alexei? My conversation with Aspen? It’s triggering every jealous, possessive, psychotic impulse that Bohnes has.
