Vile Bastards, page 17
Even though my hands tremble, even though bile rises in my throat, I open it up and bring them out, clutching the panties in my fist. Though I hate myself, though I curse myself, I end up on my bed, tearing open my slacks and adding a generous amount of lube.
Furiously, wildly, teeth gritted, I jerk off with her panties yet again and relive the feeling of her licking the corner of my mouth over and over and over again.
Half-cracked? I’m split completely wide open, and there’s no salvaging any of the person I used to be.
Whether that’s a good or a bad thing is yet to be seen.
Scarlett
“You’re early,” Nisha accuses, pausing beside my car and lifting her gold sunglasses up to rest in her freshly shorn hair. She’s got these fantastic zig-zag shapes buzzed in, but I can’t appreciate the talent of her barber because I’m too busy being annoyed with my sister and mother. “You’re never early.” She pauses as Widow pulls up in front of me, backing up until there’s only a literal hairsbreadth between my car and his.
This button-pushing son of a bitch.
“Alexis and Geneva drove me out.” I stay where I am, sitting on the roof of my car with my knees up, elbows resting atop them, arms stretched out in front of me. The sound of Widow’s footsteps, heavy and confident, make me twitchy in the best possible way.
“Lord, what happened now?” Nisha asks, turning and resting her ass against the side of the Pantera. Widow sweeps his gaze over her, as if he doesn’t quite like her touching my car. Too bad for him. He’ll have to keep his caveman shit to himself around my friends. “Fuckboy.” She offers him a brief nod, as is customary for a friend’s sidepiece.
He curls his lip at her which is customary for, well, it’s just what Widow does.
“You got here before me.” He sounds baffled. Usually, I’m late and one of my girls parks in this space, moving her car when I arrive. Not today. I was actually the first one here, save Bohnes. Who knows where he is now? Haunting the halls in the name of business.
My Nightmare.
I feel safe when he’s around. Does that make me nuts? That does, doesn’t it?
“My mom thinks that because I died and came back to life, we should suddenly start spending time together. My sister agrees. Besides that, she won’t stop bugging me about Alexei. She’s goddamn obsessed with the guy. They drove me out of the house with their bitching.” I stretch my legs out and raise my arms over my head, yawning as I do my best to shake off the Monday morning fatigue. “Fuck, it’s freezing out here.”
Widow immediately strips off the Sherpa denim jacket he’s wearing over his gray hoodie. He tosses it my way, and I catch it, holding his gaze as I slip into it and that dark forest and ripe plum smell sinks into me. I lift the collar up and turn my face toward it, inhaling that scent at the expense of Widow’s sanity.
He shifts in annoyance and releases a forced exhale.
“Did that get you hard? Poor baby.” I lean back on the hood, letting the jacket gape open so that Widow can take in the sheer blouse that I’m wearing. It’s long-sleeved with a big bow around the neck, sheer black with a bright red cherry pattern over the top. My black lace bra is highly visible underneath.
He takes a step forward, reaches out, and grabs the edges of the jacket, dragging me across the hood with the squeak of leather. I’ve got on these glorious high-waisted cigarette pants with a single row of buttons down the front; they’re red leather and fierce as fuck.
“I don’t like this shirt.” He stares right into my eyes, challenging me. I love it, too. I love that he chased me into the bathroom and pulled a knife on me, stole his car back, crashed it onto the track and almost killed us both. All of those things.
“You’re fuckin’ with me, right? You love this shirt.”
Widow yanks me even closer to him, and then leans down like he might kiss me. Only, he doesn’t. He just does up the copper buttons on the front of the jacket.
“I don’t like other boys seeing what’s mine.”
Okay, now that makes me howl. I can’t help myself. I laugh and laugh, and Widow grits his teeth. He lifts me up off the car with his hands on my waist, and then takes his time lowering my feet to the pavement. To his credit, he doesn’t tremble or quiver or show any signs of distress at being able to hold me suspended in midair without breaking a sweat.
“I knew I wasn’t gonna like it when you started dating. All into that cutesy shit. Try to keep the flirting to a minimum when I’m around, Queen. I can’t stomach it.” Nisha sighs heavily, pausing as Bastian moves up to stand beside us. He lets out a pleased whistle, and Widow stiffens up, turning that scary amber gaze of his on my friend.
“Daaaaamn. The two of you are fucking fire together. See?” He turns to Nisha with his arms crossed, brows raised. “This is why I put my money on Scarlett ending up with Widow in the end.” He turns back to Widow with a challenge in his brown eyes. “Provided you can learn to please her best friends. Hos over bros and all that.”
“You’re a bro, aren’t you?” Widow asks dryly, raking his gaze up Bastian’s leanly muscled form. With the baseball cap on, the armless flannel shirt, and the holey blue jeans, Basti does look super bro-ish today.
“We went over this already on Scarlett’s birthday: I’m a ho in all the ways that matter,” Bastian returns, and then he acts as if Widow doesn’t exist, turning to look at me in the denim jacket. “Um. Did you lose your fashion sense over the weekend?”
“Have you ever had a fashion sense?” I return, and he grins at me. I know that no matter how weird Bastian looks, how random his outfits seem, they’re carefully planned and plotted in advance. He has a pretty decent following on IG. Wouldn’t be surprised if he was setting underground trends all on his own.
I move around Widow, but his eyes track and follow me. I feel like I’m being hunted. Come and find me some time, I think, moving away from him and drawing girls to me like moths to flame. Burn, baby, burn.
“They’re blaming the South Prescott Gardens fire on that lady who loves homeless people,” Jennifer Atwell says, smacking her gum so loudly that I feel my eye twitching. But I like her intel, so I ignore it, glancing in her direction. “Valeria Navarro. She’s been saying it’s a case of misguided justice and all that. Some folks are saying she roused some of the tent city dudes to come and burn it down to further her agenda.”
Huh.
Interesting take. I suppose it makes about as much sense as anything. Why would they ever assume a bunch of high schoolers would care about an ugly skyrise? They really have no idea the level of interest most Prescott kids have in their community.
“Officially?” I ask, and Jennifer pauses, going as still as a deer in the headlights. She’s terrified of me, and I haven’t been particularly nice to her, so it makes sense. I almost feel bad about it. Except she was too busy fucking her man to notice Widow lurking around the lumberyard. “I mean, has Valeria Navarro been officially charged with anything?” That woman, she’s the chairwoman for the nonprofit group Housing Dignity for Lane County. I bet she’s a real pain in Mayor Kelly’s ass.
I worry about her safety, to be honest.
Jennifer swallows her gum before answering, reaching up to tuck some brown hair behind her ear.
“Not officially, no. It’s just what everyone thinks.”
I pause for a second to mull that over, nod, and then turn away. Widow catches up with me as I head down the hallway, scattering students as we go. Next time we meet up with Emma Jean (Emma Lee), I’ll drop Valeria’s name and Jennifer’s rumor, just to see what she says.
I have yet to tell anyone outside my inner circle that the city’s current plans include selling the piece of public property that the racetrack sits on to Archer Realty so that they can turn it into a ‘gentlemen’s racing club’.
Technically, it’s still a campground and a park. Doesn’t that seem fucked? How can the city just sell public land to a private developer so that said developer can rake in cash at the expense of the community? What do we get in exchange for that deal?
An unlubricated wooden dildo full of splinters right up the ass, that’s what.
I part from Widow at the door to my classroom, but there’s something in his gaze that tells me our interaction from this morning isn’t over. Just to prove my point, I wear his jacket for the entirety of the day—Bohnes gnashes his teeth at the sight of it but says nothing—and then take it off just before I enter the library.
I toss the jacket over my shoulder as I waltz in, hips swaying in cocky exaggeration.
“Oh, Scarlett,” Agnes says, laughing as she points at her own shirt. It’s a regular t-shirt, if a bit oversized, with a large cherry print on the front. “Look at us, we match.”
“So we do, again!” I reply with a laugh, pointing at my see-through blouse with the black lace bra underneath. “Last time, it was the cardigan. This time, it’s cherries. We’re practically twins.”
“You’re such a sweet lamb.” Agnes pats my cheek with a pleasantly warm and dry palm before handing over a cart of newly returned books for me to shelve. “I’ll bring you some of my homemade chicken soup tomorrow; it freezes well.”
“Thank you, Agnes,” I call out, offering Mildred up a wave as she smiles at me from behind the librarian’s desk. Before I even push the cart into the shadowy aisle at the back of the library, I know that I’m still being hunted.
“You took the jacket off.” Widow appears behind me, blocking me into the aisle with all the dead lightbulbs above it. Not sure whose job it is to change them out, but it’s been gloomy in here for as long as I can remember.
I toss the jacket on top of the cart and then turn around to look at him, leaning my back against the metal handle.
“Of course I did. You think I should cover my body because you’re jealous? That’s some fucked-up cult shit right there. Check your motivations, Adrian.”
“How is it that you’re so chummy with a bunch of old women?” he asks, sounding baffled. “Sweet lamb? Do they have any idea who you are?”
“They know I do my work without complaining, that I take their reading suggestions seriously, and that I bake and cook for them on occasion. What else is there to know?” I turn around on purpose, and Widow steps close to me.
He’s been diligently throwing himself into his work recently, acting as if he doesn’t notice me brushing up against him, putting my tits in his face, or bending over right in front of him. I’m getting really fucking sick of all these stupid boys, and their stupid resistance to my womanly charms. And believe you me, I’ve got them. I am charming as fuck.
“I have something to tell you,” he says, standing so close behind me that his heat sears my skin through the sheer fabric of my top. I just want him to touch me, but he’s playing hard to get and goddamn it, but it makes him just that much more attractive. “I had a camera in my car the day you went out there and jacked off in it.”
I go still, my hand on the spine of a book, and then turn slowly back around to face him.
“I watched it over and over and over again. I fisted my dick, and I thought about you. I fantasized about fucking you in my car.”
I suck in a sharp inhale as he reaches down and grabs the fabric on the front of my shirt. Widow’s breath is a harsh, staccato beat, tremulous. Restrained. I reach up to put my hands over his and he pushes them back.
Our eyes meet.
“Why are you holding yourself back? If I wanted a bitch boy, there are dozens to choose from. You’re supposed to be—” I don’t even get to finish that sentence because Widow is wrenching the front of my shirt open and sending buttons flying. They ping off the metal shelves and bounce across the floor near my feet.
I release a surprised breath as Widow grabs the cups of my black lace bra and yanks them down, spilling my tits into his hot, calloused hands. Calloused, from working out. From wielding baseball bats. From fixing cars. A working man’s hands, and I want them all the hell over my body.
“You like that?” he asks me, stepping even closer, heat flaring in his gaze. “I can see it in your eyes: a rich boy could never really do it for you. You want someone from the wrong side of the tracks, a guy with dirty blood.”
We’re in the school library right now; this is obscene.
Also, it’s precisely why I like it.
At any moment, another student could walk back here (although it’s unlikely they’d be looking for reading material since this is the chemistry and biology section and all the books are like fifty years old). Mostly, this spot is used for drug deals (some of the books have cutouts on the inside to stash cash and goods) or it’s used for … fucking.
Widow runs his thumbs over the hard points of my nipples, kneading and squeezing the heavy mounds in his fingers as heat spirals in my core and I put most of my body weight on the metal cart behind me.
The wheels slip, and it goes rolling backward. I’d have fallen to the floor along with it if Widow hadn’t snatched me around the waist and yanked me forward, slamming our bodies together. He glances over his shoulder once, and I see it, that flicker of hesitation in his gaze.
He still doesn’t trust himself.
The trauma he endured as a child has etched itself into his heart and mind, and he doesn’t know how to let go, how to separate sex and desire from the horror he suffered. At least he’s touching me more freely now; I can appreciate progress.
But I want to see what happens when he comes undone.
“Someone like Lemon gets taken advantage of,” I whisper, and Widow goes stiff all over, his wild werewolf smell (like a fruit orchard under the full moon near the Black fucking Forest) mixes with the impossibly perfect scents of old pages and ink, of a bygone era that might soon cease to exist entirely.
Just a figment of a fragment of the past shoved into the metaverse as a kitschy curiosity.
I don’t want that life. I want to race real cars and read real books and fuck real boys.
Real men.
“Someone like me,” I continue, before Widow can bolt the way he always does, our gazes still locked in amorous contention. “Can handle whatever you can throw.”
Widow’s breathing picks up, to the point where I figure he’s either going to pass out or he’s going to break. And oh God, I want to see him break so goddamn badly. Break, snap, shatter, Widow. Do it. Just fucking do it.
A boy walks around the endcap of the shelf on my right, digging around in his pocket as he goes. He glances up just in time to see Widow turn to look at him over one shoulder. The boy’s eyes notice me first, bare breasts exposed, and he quickly averts his gaze to Widow.
Prescott high runs on primal blood and biology: girls mind girls while boys mind boys.
But also, this guy knows that if he gawps at my tits, I’ll kill ‘im.
Also … he seems to be acutely aware that Widow might murder him either way.
“Get out and make sure nobody else comes back here.” Widow’s voice is hard, sharp, and authoritative. I can feel it my blood, in my bones, in the way his grip tightens on my arm, and then he’s turning back around to face me.
The boy (his name is Fred Melnyk, I know fuckin’ everyone in this school) stumbles back around the corner, and I know then that we’ve got a dedicated lookout on our hands. If Fred fails, he knows what’ll happen to him. I won’t let him keep entering races and losing on purpose so that the girls will feel sorry for him and pet his hair.
He knows he’ll get a swift kick in the balls that’ll lodge his testes in his throat.
Widow turns slowly, so very slowly, to look back at me.
He blinks once, twice, and then this wave washes over him, causing his skin to ripple, his eyes to close. He shudders, and then flicks that amber gaze open. His hands end up on my shoulders, and he shoves me to my knees in front of him.
I could resist. I know how to get out of a situation like this. Also, I have my knife on me (courtesy of Officer Balls-for-Brains), so if I really wanted to, I could turn Widow into a eunuch pretty damn quick.
But that’s not what I want to do.
I want a glimpse into all of the carnal fantasies he’s entertaining, the ones that he believes make him a monster. Prove it, Widow. Fucking prove it.
One hand fists in my hair while the other tears open the button on his jeans.
Alexei claimed he had no style; Widow agreed. I don’t. The Sherpa denim jacket over the gray hoodie, the loose-fit, blue-gray soft jeans with the lace-up brown boots. Bad boy grunge chic. I want to eat him with a spoon.
“How dare you steal my goddamn car,” he growls out, and then he’s cupping the back of my head and thrusting into my mouth. I open wide, but Widow has a huge cock. All four of these fuckboys are stacked, and I almost wish one or two were a bit more on the average side, so I could have a friggin’ break.
Actually … no I don’t. Who the hell am I kidding? Anything less than a monster dick would preclude them from being fuckboys in the first place. Most especially, even if they fell into that role, they could never be promoted to boyfriend (or Nightmare, as such).
Widow holds the hair at the back of my head in a punishing grip, sliding his cock in until he bumps the back of my throat. His own head falls back, and a muted groan slips out. I’ll be shocked if he can keep the noise down. He’s vocal in bed, and I love it.
“How dare you.” Those three words, muttered, guttural, a challenge.
His fist tightens even more, and then he’s thrusting hard and deep as I rest my hands on his hips, fingers curling against his hot skin. I look up at him from under my lashes as he drops his gaze back to mine, and I see that he’s reveling in this. I’ve pissed him off and challenged him and run circles around him so many times, he’s loving the shift in power.
“My future wife,” he says, using his free hand to shove one of my hands off his hip, then the other. I grip his ass instead as he widens his stance slightly, and then uses both of his hands to hold the back of my head. He pumps into my mouth like it’s my pussy, and I struggle to swallow around the thick, heavy weight of him on my tongue. “Suck harder, Mrs. Lawless.”
