Chapter 18
Scarlett
“What do you need, Queen?” Nisha asks, answering on the first ring.
My foot hits the gas—argh, an automatic—and the SUV squeals on the slippery wet cobblestones before lurching forward and taking point in a train of cars that it should be submitting to and calling Mommy. Pussy-ass SUV.
I am very aware of my poor septuagenarian grandmother belted into the back. Also very aware that I have a bloody hostage somewhere in the rear of the vehicle, crying against a gag.
“We’re a little, uh, on the run at the moment.
” I pause there, calculating the best possible route in my head.
We need to leave no trace if we want to survive the day let alone the week.
“Tell the girls to meet us at the old elementary school. Have ‘em bring their kits. We’ve got a couple hot rides to break down.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Nisha says, sounding both salacious and annoyed. Makes sense. Free car parts are always nice. The on the run bit not so much. Or maybe she’s still got Hype in her bed and that’s the hint of desire I’m hearing in her voice? “Care to explain the situation?”
I laugh, and fuck, I sound like I should be institutionalized.
“The things I need to tell you, girl, they cannot be said over the phone.” I press the gas down, taking a corner so sharply that two of the SUV’s tires come up off the ground.
Gram is not pleased. I hear her gasp. I hear Trish scream.
Bohnes is on my ass (as always) with Alexei in the middle and Widow bringing up the rear.
“We’re gonna need a lot of seats, quick transport to a neutral area, and then I need someone to bring our cars around. ”
“Got it. I’ll call Basti, and we’ll meet you over there. Anything else?” I can hear Nisha moving around, the jingle of her keys, the murmur of a sleepy female voice. Yep. Hype. I sincerely hope my second-in-command’s pussy doesn’t get her into as much trouble as mine does me.
“Make sure the girls know they need to work fast. Double-check for trackers.
Break ‘em down and scatter.” I choose one of my more difficult routes through Prescott, through narrow alleyways and past overflowing dumpsters, into the Fuller neighborhood, and back again.
Circuitous. Avoiding known security cameras.
I’m clipping shit, scuffing the paint, marring these pretty black rims with curb rash. Ain’t nothin’ to be done about it. Gonna break these vehicles down anyway, so who gives a fuck?
“ETA?” Nisha asks, and I give another little hysterical laugh.
“Shit, I could be there in two minutes, but I really want to know if we’re being followed.
Give me fifteen.” I reach out to flick the radio on.
Doesn’t matter if I’m flying through town with a dark parade of fuckboy cars behind me, a pair of hostages, a comatose lover, a suburban journalist, and my poor Gram. High-speed chases need tunes.
“See ya.” Nisha hangs up as a song filters through the speakers.
It’s “CARDIAC” by Pebbles&TamTam. Nice.
I lift my eyes up to see my grandma watching me in the rearview mirror.
“Call your mom and aunt,” Patricia instructs, and I curse myself out inside my own head. Plumb forgot to do that. I’ll be straight with you: my mom doesn’t rank high up on my list of priorities. But Aunt Anita deserves to know her mother’s okay, that we both survived the fire.
“Yes, ma’am.” Driving one-handed at ninety miles per hour through town is…risky. I do it anyway, glancing once more in the mirror to ensure I haven’t lost any fuckboys. Nope. Still there. I’m not sure I could fuck a man who couldn’t keep up with me, to be honest.
“Oh my God, Scar!” Aunt Anita sniffles, and I can just imagine her swiping her shirtsleeve across her face. She cries a lot, so she’s not shy about using her clothes to dry her eyes. “Thank God Basti called me or I’d be panicking right now.”
Ah. See? My friends are more than worth their weight in stolen car parts.
“Can you call Geneva and let her know that Gram and I are fine? We’ll be, uh, out of town for a minute if you know what I mean.
Don’t go anywhere alone and watch your back.
” I don’t mention Alexis. Her body will be found in the burned shell of our duplex, I assume.
What more is there to say? Unless Ash had his goons dispose of the body.
Ahh, shit, I hate intrigue. I just want adrenaline races, super cars, good friends, and men with big dicks.
“Let me talk to Mom,” she says, but I can’t let her do that. Gram is smart enough not to scream or let on that anything untoward is going on. Trish, on the other hand, is going to get her face kicked in by me later if she doesn’t shut the fuck up. “What the hell is that sound?”
“Just a stray dog,” I explain with a slight smile. “And Gram and I are a bit busy at the moment. Call you later.”
I hang up.
The only sound comes from the car’s speakers and Trish’s gagged keening.
Wheels on the pavement. Buildings whizzing past. Blurs of color and movement that mean nothing to me.
I make sure to use the road that goes by Prescott High.
The only cop that’s ever stationed there is Officer Pencil Dick, so no worries there.
Last thing I need to add onto my list today is cops.
Christ. And I usually love a good high-speed chase with the authorities.
Tough though on zero sleep, especially with Grandma in the car. Best we avoid that.
I’m using my most trusted no-cop route today.
“Did you…want to say anything to me?” I try gently, but Patricia has clammed up, and I know it’s going to take more than my usual puppy-dog-eyes-and-batting-lashes routine.
Trish lets out a bloodcurdling scream that’s annoying even with the gag in place.
I’m relieved when we finally screech to a stop inside the parking lot of the old elementary school.
It’s a yellow bus graveyard, creepy as sin and blissfully camera free.
Nisha is already there (whoa, she brought Hype).
Basti, too. A dozen of my girls in grease-stained overalls and crop tops.
They’ve got their tools at the ready, a couple of old pickup trucks to cart off whatever we want to steal.
They descend on us like vultures on a fresh carcass, opening the hoods and starting on the rims before I’m even out of the SUV. They can break this thing down to bones as quick as any carrion-eater.
“Which one’s our ride?” I ask Nisha as she saunters over in denim short-shorts and an oversized hoodie.
It’s officially cold as fuck out here, but she doesn’t give a shit.
Those legs of hers, damn. I’d whistle or something if I wasn’t so stressed-out.
Without a word, she turns and points at one of the buses, and I grin.
The engine is already running which means one of my ladies came over here and tuned it up real quick, hotwired it to be ready to ride. Beautiful.
“No me jodas,” Basti murmurs under his breath, adjusting his baseball cap as he circles the Shelby Cobra like a shark.
“I’m thrilled to take these babies apart, but Scar, come on?
” He gives me a pouty look as my boys begin to pour out, fuckboy fluid and sass.
“Can’t we keep one? Just one. I’ll take the Fastback. ”
“Keep it,” Bohnes hisses in my ear, appearing like smoke beside me.
“We’ll hide it for now and bring it out later for a bit of fun.
Trish will stay alive—for now. I don’t imagine Bolin will, and I’d rather take care of the mess in that trunk personally.
” He swings around me, pushing up his sleeves as he approaches the Escalade, snatches a socket wrench from one of my girls, and gets to work under the hood.
We’ll leave this pile of car corpses for the mayor to find. Stolen cars are too much of a pain in the ass. But stolen car parts? Good deal.
Then again…Bohnes has a point. Evidence of Trish in the SUV, eh. Nothing to come back and bite us. The police chief’s blood? Risky. And I really would like to keep the GT500. Grabby hands.
“Please, Scar, please,” Bastian begs, clasping his own hands together.
“Leave the Fastback!” I shout out as Widow stops beside me, tucking his hands in his pockets and letting this smile cross his lips that has my hackles up.
Basti cheers and hops over to put those idle hands to use for the devil’s work.
Speaking of the Devil, where is my goddamn car?
These boys of mine are dead if they didn’t care for it properly.
“Yes, Queen!” is shouted back as several more cars pull into the parking lot, spilling girls and…a lot of guys, too. Some of them I know, boyfriends and fuckboys of my own crew. But the others?
Ah. I turn to Widow and he looks back at me, smug and sexy with a bit of tongue at the edge of his mouth. Brows up. Testosterone burning my nostrils. He reeks of it.
“You like having a King, princess?” he asks me, and I laugh.
“I’m going to fucking kill you later,” I promise as I move away from him, but hot damn. He summoned Prescott boys for this? I’m pleased. This is going to be a group project. Always great for morale, working together and whatnot. Even Hype is rolling up the sleeves of her hot pink K-pop hoodie.
“ADHD Juana is on scene!” says Juana, leaping out of a beautiful pale pink ‘72 Bronco. She looks like Rosie the Riveter with her dark hair piled on her head and wrapped with a red and white bandanna. Blue overalls with a single strap hanging loose. American flag crop top underneath.
I smile as she strolls over, Tuesday on her heels and in heels. Six inch stilettos. Sexy. They hit Aspen’s ‘63 Shelby Cobra, pushing the hood up and giggling together over the absolute delight that is a sixties super car.
Jennifer is here. Shirley. Jillian. Farrah. Joanne. Everybody.
Somebody turns on KMZI 66.6 in time to hear Wolfy announce the next song.