Chapter 20 #3
My mouth splits into a grin that reminds me of Bohnes.
“Come at me on my wedding day, Jonas,” I whisper, clutching onto the edges of the mirror with my nails.
I had Treasure add some fancy extras to my acrylics.
Real rubies and diamonds, worth a shitload of money.
If Mayor Kelly makes me chip a nail before I get there, he’ll be sorry.
I will stab that motherfucker’s eye out. “Double dog dare you, bitch.”
“Don’t tempt the devil,” Ash says, slapping me on the ass with his sheathed sword. I wonder what it would feel like if he spanked my naked cheeks with the flat of that blade? Hot, probably. Edgy, I’ll bet.
Ash, already dressed in his black tux, tosses the sword to the side and reaches for the balaclava, dragging the stretchy fabric over his head. The shape the knit makes over his full mouth is criminal.
I flick my gaze to Bohnes. He’s facing away from me, turning to look at me over his shoulder with those distinct bright blue eyes of his. As I watch, he reaches up and presses a black and red colored contact into his open eye. Just like that. No mirror. No flinching.
The contacts were chosen to complement the red lace of my veil and the black fascinator hat that it’s sewn to.
Small blood-red irises with a black pupil and black sclera.
Tokyo Ghoul cosplay contacts or something.
There’s a great costume store on Main Street called the Hellhole. They came from there.
This is our ode to Prescott.
Bohnes applies the second contact and then blinks wild red and black eyes at me, face and hair obscured by the fabric of the ski mask. He turns around in his tux, situating the wooden demon mask over his face.
I’m stomach-punched by the sight of them standing in a line inside my bedroom.
Four huge men in black tuxedos wearing masks. The demon with the horns. The sly black fox. The pale fanged one. The grotesque tiger. All their eyes are the same exotic demon shade.
This entire day is a performance. Fine by me. Flashing my peacock tail in front of aristocracy is easier than trying to do it in Prescott. The girls there are a much harsher crowd. I had to not only beat ass every day, but I had to serve face while doing it. This ain’t nothin’.
“You guys look really good,” I manage to spit out, stumbling over the words. That’s the least of what I could say to them right now. “I’m so spoiled, holy shit.”
“At least you’re aware,” says the bitchiest of the four—obviously Widow. “And you’re welcome.” He folds his arms, somehow obstinate even now. Incredible.
Alexei tosses me a pair of latex gloves. Rather than go for lace, I’m playing matching games with monsters today. I snap a pair on as he nods approvingly at me from behind the fanged mask.
I make myself look at the four souls I’m going to drag into the underworld with me. If any men were fit to marry a vengeful spirit, it’d be the ones inside this room.
“You’re all wearing the same masks from the other night.” I clock the four columns of shadow in front of me, each with a grotesque wooden expression.
“Well, who but you would ever know that?” Bohnes teases, tapping the tip of his mask’s horn before sweeping in the direction of the door. He opens it on Basti and Nisha, causing the former to scream.
Not in fear, but in delight.
“This is like Paris fashion week or something,” he murmurs, covering his mouth.
Bastian is wearing a brand-new red suit, a slightly more masculine cut than the one Nisha is wearing.
She’s a little girlier than usual today, wearing a skirt and a hat with a little red veil.
Dressing up for Hype? Nah. Dressing up for me.
I smile as Nisha gives me a look, doing her best to hold back a laugh.
For once, she doesn’t chastise me. This is why I like her. She’s always honest, even on the rare occasion of praise.
“You look amazing. All of the aesthetics, Queen.” Nisha snaps her freshly done nails. “On point.”
“Deadass?” I ask, putting a latex glove over my lips. I cannot wait to put that veil on, a voluminous sea of red lace dragging thirty feet down the aisle.
“Deadass.” Nisha grins, waiting for me before starting down the hallway. Basti is just ahead of us, talking excitedly. Behind me…I can’t help but look over my shoulder as we walk.
Single file, like soldiers, that’s how my fuckboys stalk down the hallway.
I look straight ahead, trying not to sweat all over my wedding dress. Shit, is it hot in here or am I just a ho?
“Those aren’t the pocket squares we picked out,” Nisha says with a small frown, a little pinch between her brows. “But I like ‘em. They look even better.”
“Thanks,” I say, keeping the rest of the story to myself for now.
I’ll tell her later, pinky swear.
Gram is waiting in the foyer when we come down, turning to see a nightmarish display of red and black, like the stripes on a freak show’s tent.
I’m wearing virginal white, but it’s broken up by the polka dots on my platform heels and buttons, the red underskirt and the indecent entourage.
I shed blood on Bohnes’ dick and earned my stripes. Ain’t ashamed of that.
Patricia’s face is hard to describe, a look of simultaneous horror and awe.
“You know how South American tree frogs are all bright and crazy looking?” I say, as dozens of my girls appear from various hallways, dressed to the nines.
A sea of bright colors and stage makeup, the rest of the models for our Prescott fashion week.
Give these bitches some money and hot damn, we make a beautiful crew.
“We’re not trying to blend in. We’re advertising toxins. ”
Grandma and I stare at each other as equals. For the first time, she looks at me like an adult. More than that, like I’m the one in charge of the family. Like I know what I’m doing.
“You’ll be riding with Nisha,” I explain and Gram nods. We’re going to split the crew up while we drive, send half the girls with Gram, Nisha, and Bastian. The rest will be with me and the boys. “Before I go though…”
I close the distance between us, my polka dot heels loud on the floor. When I reach out my hands for hers, Patricia hesitates and my breath catches. She takes them and gives me a squeeze, like I’m five years old again.
“You’re happy with all this?” Gram asks, making me wonder if Emma Jean has been talking to her, explaining things. I told our sweet little Suburbs that she could.
“Desperately happy.” I lean down, pressing a sweet-scented kiss to either of her cheeks. I smile as I stand back up. “We’ll see you at the church then, okay?”
“Don’t worry about me,” Patricia grumbles, waving her hand dismissively. She doesn’t have to say anything else. I hear her every unspoken word. ‘Don’t you die on me, Scarlett. Take care of yourself, sweetheart.’
“Load up.” I lift a hand to signal the girls, sending them flowing out the doors to the cars that’ve already been arranged outside.
There’s a line of them curving around the circular drive and leading down the road.
There won’t be any traffic jams, just a nice smooth flow of vintage racing cars built out of stolen parts and desperate dreams.
The Devil is at the front, just as I asked for.
“In a motorcade, the most valuable person should ride in the middle,” Widow mutters, like he’s frustrated.
“So I should use my girls as shields? How about my husbands?” I give the Tiger Mask idiot a look.
“Stop talking. You’re in disguise for a reason.
” I reach out for his chin and he grabs my wrist with a latex glove, so fucking strong that grip.
“Ah, I see. So you don’t like your chin chucked either. Interesting.”
“I only fuck one person,” he retorts, grabbing my chin instead. I like the feel of latex against my skin, so I let him do it. Seriously, hot as shit.
“We can race for the front spot,” Bohnes says blithely, sweeping past like a shadow.
“Oh no, a race? Whatever will I do?” I push Widow away and start walking backwards across the driveway.
On my right, there’s a fountain and a mansion.
On my left, there’s the garden and the woods.
Everything is wet and mossy and heavy. That’s how winter feels in the Pacific Northwest, like the world is a sponge.
I spin back around.
Alexei is walking a circle around his vehicle for the day: a 1965 Lambo 350 GT in black. Ash has selected a white ‘82 Lamborghini Countach LP400S. Just two of the beauties found within our extensive collection. Hog heaven, baby.
“Matching Lambos? Sure you don’t want to suck Alexei’s dick again?” I murmur to Ash as I sweep by. That fox mask is insane. It feels like he’s going to grab my arm and drag me to some messed-up alternate reality, one where everyone is a fox demon with too many tricks. “My little kitsune-tsuki.”
It means possessed by a fox yokai, apparently. The very term he screamed at Jonas.
“Anything you want from me, Scarlett.” Ash looks up at the sky briefly, like he’s praying. “No limits. Consensual non-consent. Anything.” He opens the door to the Countach and climbs in, leaving me stunned.
What. The. Fuck.
I leap into the driver’s side of the Devil and slam the door.
On the passenger seat, there’s a note from Alexei.
“Dearest Wife, a wedding ceremony in social circles like ours is more often than not intended to intimidate others instead of what it should be: a public promise. I would happily marry you dressed in rags in the middle of the woods. In some ways, we all might be happier there. All my love, Alexei Grove-Borisov-Force.”
On the top corner of the beautiful note card, there’s a scrap of torn paper taped to it. Ditto, Bohnes. That’s what’s written on that one. I tuck both items into my garter for luck today.
Not that we’ll need it.
Don’t need luck when you’ve got fuckin’ skills for days.