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I’m Scarlett Force. I consider myself to be in love with a lot of boys. Four, to be exact. Four of them, even if I can’t keep them all. Even if they might kill one another to keep me to themselves.
Bohnes’ Chevy Chevelle SS. Widow’s Corvette Stingray. Alexei’s Lamborghini Miura. All from 1969.
Boyfriend - noun - some dude who’s managed to convince his girl he’s worth more than just his dick Chiefly ‘Prescott High’ slang: a possessive term that denotes that said boy belongs to a girl with his whole body, heart, and soul; a clear and daring upgrade from fuckboy; used sparingly, if at all
Fuckboy psychos must be given short leashes, preferably made of chain or leather. Because they will chew and twist and squirm; they will go feral, if allowed even one extra inch of leeway.
“Marry you the way I want to marry you. I’m a patient man, Scarlett. You rile me up, so maybe you don’t believe it, but it’s true. I waited behind bars for five years.”
“I’ll do anything for Scarlett,” Widow says, playing with his baseball bat. He turns the end of it in the mud with a single hand. “Die for her …” He looks up. “Kill for her. I will bleed, bury, dig, scrape, drive, and suffer even your presence.”
Ash hops the hood—to show off, I guess—and then climbs into the passenger seat. Before I even really register what’s happening, Widow and his baseball bat are in the back seat. Right. Southside Avengers assemble, I guess.
“What-ifs and could haves are a closed track,” I whisper. “A road that leads to nowhere. Abso-fucking-lutely nowhere. Life is supposed to be, well, not to sound cliché or anything, but an open highway. Open road. Endless ribbons of possibility. A road trip.”
Scarlett is my person. The only possible person for me. The only option. She need but ask, and I’ll tame for her.
Because Scarlett Force, well, she’s honey and these boys … they’re flies.
“I understand it, and I’m willing to be patient. Like I said, normal is overrated. Normal is complacency. Let’s not be complacent, Scarlett Force. Let’s be conscientious, fervent, and extraordinary.” I reach out and grab her arm, yanking her across the length of the leather bench seat until her thigh and mine are pressed together, and then I take her head in both hands and turn it so that she’s facing me. “Let me be your monster.”
Apparently, my idea of romantic gestures includes severing fingers, burying bodies, and hefting corpses. Definitely better than roses and chocolate. Told ya I was a psycho, too.
“Severed fingers, buried bodies, assassination offers. How could I not like you, Kellin Bohnes? You do romance Prescott style, nice and bloody.
“Sure, we’re dating. We’re an item. A discounted, Dollar Store meets Hot Topic meets American Psycho item on a very low shelf.”
“When we die,” Bohnes whispers against my ear, rubbing his thick, velvety shaft against my slick folds, “let’s be buried in the same grave.”
This isn’t a story about a heroine and her Prince Charming; it’s about a villainess and her villains. It’s about the bad guys getting a win against the other bad guys. Because, like, fuck heroes. Nobody has time for that shit.
He sounds pissed off and jealous as fuck. I’m obsessed with it. I want to drink that feeling. I want to inject it into my veins.
Five more times that night, I take that lubricant and bring myself to disgust. Again and again, thinking of Scarlett Force. Dreaming of her. Knowing all the while that I’m right: she’s a heartbreaker. A filthy, fucking heartbreaker.
Nah, bitch, the only things that feed my hungry soul are danger, cars, and dick.
“Meaning, I will crush any boundary, cross any line, break any rule that keeps me from you, Scarlett.”
I will shed both Ash’s skin and Aspen’s; I will allow myself to be reborn as an unholy terror, a stalking nightmare, a devious villain. In order to compete with these other fuckboys, I have no choice.
Who … who are the bad guys here? It takes my brain a second to remember that there’s no such thing. No villains. No heroes. Just messy, ugly, disgusting, infallible, incongruous, hypocritical, and violent people. That’s it.
“I thought you didn’t like to be touched?” I ask, because a good quip is distracting. Because flirtation is distracting. Widow is distracting. He smirks at me. “You’re the cure, Scarlett Force. Make no mistake: as soon as I get the chance to fuck you, I’m diving in headfirst.”
Widow🥵
“You’re really fucking me up, Scarlett Force,” he admits, and then he scowls again, like he’s pissed or something. “I don’t even understand how this happened. You stole my car. You insulted me. You fuck other guys in front of me and demand to have your way in every goddamn thing. You make me bury bodies and kill the mayor’s goons, and then you smile and laugh and flirt and bare your tits and bend over …”
Thing is, I’m not prey. If he’s a predator, so am I; if he’s a monster so am I. If he’s a psycho, well, you get my point.
“More than anything, I just want to be inside of you,” he chokes out, and then he runs a hand down his face. He’s not telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Before I can call him out on it, he corrects himself. “I want to hold you down on a mattress and rut into you until you scream, over and over again. I want you to come so many times that you’re falling apart, that you can’t think about anyone else but me. I want to find you in the middle of the school day, yank you into an empty classroom and screw you over a desk. I want—”
WIDOW😳😮💨🥵
“You see?” she murmurs, putting her hands on either side of my face. “You’re not a monster, Widow. Not in the ways you’re afraid of.” Scarlett lifts her head up just enough to put her mouth near my ear. “So if you want to come undone with me, do it. Shed your skin. Let the beast out.”
There’s nothing on earth or in hell below that could keep me away from Scarlett Force.
It’s crawling inside of me, that contamination, slithering down my throat and consuming me. Its name? Scarlett Force. If I’m so afraid of that, so afraid of being tainted and rotten, why then do I seem to open my metaphorical mouth all the wider?
