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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
“I’ll be your man. Not your fuckboy. Oh no. One day, I’ll be your husband.”
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.
“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.
“Doshite? Doshite yatta nda, Aspen?” he murmurs in Japanese. I’ve seen some anime in my time, so I think doshite means why but other than that, I’m not sure.
“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.”
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.
“Plain fruits and vegetables only,” Bohnes amends, since he’s been doing the shopping for Alexei. “And bottled water.” “Where are you keeping him?” I ask, as if Alexei’s a hamster or something. “Hold up. He is staying with you?” Nisha points at Alexei and then Bohnes. “Why?” “Saturday shit.” It’s a lame
“My parents let me off on Main Street and drove away,” he admits, shrugging his big shoulders. “That’s the last time I was hugged, just before that; I think my mom felt guilty about it.” “They … what?” I query, blinking at him in surprise. “Your parents dumped you on the side of the road?” He shrugs again. “Not my real parents anyway. I was adopted when I was three. We were on a road trip, and they got in an argument; I remember them agreeing to a divorce. Then they both looked back at me, and that was it. They said goodbye and dropped me off.” His smile hardens over with a fresh sheet of ice,
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Pretty little male monsters, grinning and posturing in the dark.
Bohnes. Wow. I mean … My attention slides over to him, his broad back leaned up against one of the metal walls, hands tucked in his pockets. It’s as if he didn’t, you know, behead some dude in the woods. Now, I know it was all for a good cause, but like, the extra-ness of severing an assassin’s head just so he could bring it to me is … that’s psychotic, isn’t it? Bohnes is psychotic, not romantic, right? And why the fuck can’t I tell the difference?
“When I said you needed my permission.” Bohnes cracks those startingly blue eyes to stare at me. He’s a legend. I wonder if he knows that? I wonder if he knows that, in the not-so-distant future, five boys will form a gang called Havoc. That they’ll wear painted skeleton faces on Halloween, paying homage to Bohnes without ever mentioning his name. Because, in Prescott, even years later, people will know who Bohnes is. They’ll know Widow. They’ll certainly know Ash Kelly and Alexei Grove. But they won’t talk about any of it. Never, ever.
“Normal is filth. Normal is complacency. Normal is accepting that this hideous world is right, and you are wrong. I don’t accept that. Not at all.”
I’m simultaneously repelled and very, very excited. I tear the underwear with violent fingers, but it doesn’t come off, just rips and drapes off her other thigh. Good enough. My body can feel hers through the fabric between us, and I can’t wait a second longer. I can’t wait.
“Filthy,” I groan as she breathes against my neck, and my skin pebbles with goose bumps. “You’re so filthy; I want more. More. More.” I cup her ass even harder and pound into her, euphoria pooling in my belly.
Scarlett is coming apart in my arms, orgasming around me, on me, drawing me even more deeply inside of her. The euphoria I felt triples, and then my whole body is on fire; every muscle is taut and stiff, and I’m making terrible noises of my own.
