Page 109 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
“Look at that ring on her finger,” Grandma says, tsking her tongue. “I never could understand why someone would pay so much money for a rock.”
My mouth has gone completely dry, my throat tight, a sour churning in my belly.
“If I told you that I’d never stick my dick in a girl as pathetic as Lucy Hall, would you believe me?”
He sounded so real when he said that. I almost … oh fuck. What have I done?
“I am not dating Lucy Hall; I promise you that.”
No ya aren’t, are ya, friend? You’re engaged to Lucy Hall. When did that happen? Like, when the actual fuck?!
“I don’t know about this,” Grandma continues as I sit there with my mouth hanging open, and the hosts continue to discuss the charity benefit, how nice it will be to get new equipment for the soup kitchen downtown, and all I can think about is the feel of Aspen’s hard cock driving into me, the way his hands gripped my ass cheeks, the creak of the car’s shocks as we rocked it with the slide of our bodies. “I don’t like the mayor or his cocky son. Never did.” She pushes herself slowly to her feet with a tired sigh. “Didn’t vote for him either.”
She shambles out of the room in her slippers.
Me, I’m still glued to my seat, even though it’s unlikely that Lemon or Aspen will show up on the screen again. She was there. She had an engagement ring on. He was smiling at her, and the expression made me sick to my stomach.
That hot fuck doesn’t feel so hot anymore, more like something cold and shameful.
Did I say I was unaware of the emotion? For what might very well be the first time in my life, I’m ashamed. Of myself, mostly. Aspen played me like Widow plays his guitar, and I fell for it. I fell for that shit.
I’m such a goddamn idiot.
“More so than that: you cannot tell anyone. Not your friends, not your sister, not your other loves … If you can’t agree to that, then I can’t fuck you.”
Wow. Just … wow.
Meet me at the drive-in, I send out, calling Nisha and Basti out for real talk. Not crew shit. Lemon shit.
Oh, girl, I’m sorry, is what Basti sends back, and somehow, I realize that he knows I’ve got some sort of weird crush on Aspen even without me actually telling him—and that he also knows about Lemon’s engagement. How long he’s known, I have no idea.
But I’m about to find out.
“I’m going out! You want anything from Wesley’s?” I call out, rising to my feet and waiting for my grandma to pop her head back in from the kitchen.
“You’ll be gone too long for this to count as lunch. Bring dinner back.” She moves away, but not before adding, “and take some cash from my wallet, baby. As much as you need.”
I ignore that last part—I never take money from my grandma, that’s more my mother’s thing—and head back to my room to shower and change.
I didn’t shower last night because I wanted to savor the experience of having Aspen Kelly on my skin. Now? I scrub myself so hard that my flesh turns pink and starts to ache, and then I put that rag between my thighs and work myself up to a dirty, filthy orgasm while I think about Bohnes.
Because I just need to get rid of any lingering memories of Aspen. It’s too … it’s gross.
“Fuck,” I snarl as I throw the rag on the floor, finishing up with my hair—which takes forever at this length—and then storming out to stare at myself in the fogged-up mirror. I reach up with my tattooed right hand, the one with the upside-down cross inked into my middle finger. That way when I flip people off, I can be extra ornery and offensive. “Shit.”
I drop my head low, wet black hair coiled in the sink.
I need to get myself one of those horrible pie shakes from the drive-in, the ones where they take an entire slice of pie and slop it into the blender with some ice cream. I fucking want it.
Shoving away from the sink, I dress myself in a fairly conservative—for me—outfit consisting of a black patsy romper with a bright red belt. More of that stupid color I hate so much.
I slip my feet into yet another pair of slick-ass designer shoes that I won at the track, these glorious black patent leather beauties that are surprisingly easy to walk in. Big-ass sunglasses, a quick tease of blush on either cheek, and I’m down the stairs and out the door.
Takes me about twenty minutes to get over to the drive-in. It’s not very busy at this time of day. Gets way worse at night, especially on the weekends. If I had to pick two spots in this city where Prescott teens like to fuck, it’d be here while waiting for their food or at this cheesy-ass spot called Hookup Point. Well, that’s what the Fuller High kids call it anyway. Usually, us Prescott brats call it Pussy Point.
