Marry Freaks (Scarlett Force #5)

Prologue

Scarlett

Five hooligans dressed in masks and carrying weapons emerge from a sea of shiny vintage cars.

They’re parked in a row, filling the slanted spaces with history, class, and color.

Virginal white. Blood red. Metallic purple.

Hearse black. The ones on either end are new, courtesy of my well-stocked garage.

The parking lot is full of upscale luxury cars equipped with drivers who weren’t invited.

The wedding of Scarlett Motherfucking Force is the event of the century, you know?

Not just anybody can get in. My only RSVPing bitches are my crew, adding their own stamps of color to the dreary fog-drenched church with its black spires and its heavy stained-glass.

Pink fifties Caddies. Old beaters. A white Lotus Elan. An ancient green Bronco. An onlooker might be forgiven for thinking we’re running a car show out here.

But nah. We’re just late to our own wedding.

I’m wearing a white dress that’s splattered in blood, to match the red of my car.

The color that I hate so goddamn much. I step one bare foot out on the pavement, climbing to my feet and moving around to the passenger side of my ‘72 Pantera.

My groom is also bloody and half-dead, unable to stand on his own.

He accepts the hand of his best friend for help in getting to his feet.

The church bells ring as I glance over my shoulder in the direction of the bell tower.

A sound of celebration? Or a death knell?

Definitely both.

It’s like, this wedding is the reverse of a funeral. Instead of hitting the church first and then going to the graveyard after, we started with mass murder in the cemetery and came here second.

My arm slips around the waist of the half-dead boy. We’ll walk in the front, bride and groom oozing red down the aisle. Even gore-spattered, we look fabulous. Like we aren’t street rats. Like we have money.

The other men with me are dressed in identical black tuxes, swooping in to walk behind us in a cloud of righteous violence.

Black balaclavas with wooden demon masks situated over the top, hiding their identities.

Red and black contact lenses that blend them into a smear of violence instead of four very worthy individuals.

Matching scraps of my dirty red lace panties in place of pocket squares adds a dash of perversion and panache to the event.

Each of them is armed to the teeth with bats and chains, swords and poison and guns. I’ve got weapons of my own tucked under the lace of my garter belt.

I am getting sick and fucked tired of folks trying to murder me.

As for these fuckboys? Holy hell, may the devil have mercy on the soul of the damned who just tried to take what’s mine.

The heavy wood doors at the front of the church swing open, bringing with them a cloud of hot girls in slutty dresses, cheap perfume, and pizzazz that can’t be bought.

This is Prescott aura, baby, and there isn’t a rich fuck, politician, or priest inside that church that will ever be able to embody the true heart of our neighborhood.

My crew sweeps in around me, slipping high heels on my feet and situating a black fascinator hat on the top of my head.

Thirty feet of bloodred lace is attached to the back of it, trailing behind me like a train.

I might be soaking wet and covered in blood—goon blood, my lover’s blood, my own blood—but it doesn’t matter.

My girls keep the fabric from brushing the ground, my official bitches-in-waiting.

Up above us, the Gothic majesty of the church spirals into the rain-heavy clouds of Heaven.

Through its ponderous wooden doors is the walkway to Hell.

The people inside this building (minus the Crimson Crew, obvs) will kill us as easily as they might nourish us. Crush us down with as little conscience as they might hold us up. Shower us in gifts with as much gusto as they’d take everything we have.

Arriving here today—even if fashionably late and mostly dead—was imperative.

My best friends step forward, a pair where there should be a trio. But I’m done cryin’ over spilt lemonade, if you know what I mean. I’d smile at Bastian and Nisha, but I can’t because I am fucking pissed.

Somebody tried to kill one of my fuckboys today.

I am very, very protective of my fuckboys.

They might still succeed in killing him. He’s bleeding all over the fucking place. Knowing this idiot, he’d cajole us into attending the wedding even knowing he wasn’t going to make it after.

Whether that bleeding fuckboy lives or dies doesn’t change a thing for the demons beyond the church doors: if we don’t show up for this ceremony, we’re all dead. Me. My boys. My crew. My family.

So, I’m here. I’m getting hitched in front of the criminal underground, not just in the eyes of the law.

This has more of an impact. Just the law. THE underground. No comparison.

Basti and Nisha exchange a look before the former turns back to me, sighs, and reaches out for the red lace of my veil. He flips a small portion forward to hide my face. Won’t do shit to cover up the bruises, the cuts, the blood, or my sopping wet dress, but hey, we do what we can in a crisis.

“Hold onto me,” I command, hooking my arm with the dying boy’s, knocking our elbows together in the winter gloom.

If he was physically able to refuse me, he would.

Stubborn prick. The other three boys crowd the space on either side of us.

It’ll be a tight fit, getting me and all these guys and this insane veil down the aisle.

There are no other options.

We’re under siege and forced proximity is a thing for my family, please and thank you.

My crew opens the doors for the five of us, unveiling the blurred splotches of the crowd and the pews. I’m drowning in the red lace of my veil, but even without a clear view, I know this.

I look like a whore amongst all of this virginal white and funereal black.

Okay, now that deserves a tiny, little smile.

I nod to my mob contacts, stroll to the dais at the end of the aisle, and comfort myself, all at the same time.

He’s going to be okay. We are all going to be okay.

Sounds like I’m coping, don’t it?

My smile grows a little wider, white teeth in a bloody face.

The mayor and the CEO, they’re so fucking lucky they’re not here today.

If they had been, I’d have killed them in front of our wedding guests.