Chapter 18 #2
“Heya sports fans, it’s time to mix things up. On this early Sunday morning, we’re taking a trip to sample hiphop from around the world. Starting off with South Korea, we’ve got PSY and Jessi with ‘GANJI’. Enjoy.”
Alexei is on my left now, peering at the well-organized ratchet-chaos that is the Crimson Crew (plus a few of Widow’s penis-people).
He’s playing with his gloves, nostrils flared, filthy and dirty and unashamedly curious.
This is a new world for him. I’m not convinced that he hates it.
Grungy as it is, disgusting as it is, dingy and mucky and bedraggled, at least the people around us are real people.
Not vipers and backstabbers and schemers. Salt of the earth folks.
“Yo Adrian, load our packages up in the bus then help me with Gram.” I swing my thumb to indicate Trish and, in the front seat, Lemon and Frog-Aspen.
Bolin, too, in the GT500. Bohnes is too busy grinning like a maniac, using a cheap plastic car creeper to slide under the Escalade.
Bet it only takes him a few minutes to remove the catalytic converter. So hot.
“Sure thing, princess.” Widow moves away, and if his ass didn’t look so good in that worn denim, I’d take the torque wrench from Tuesday’s hand and throw it at the back of his head.
We’ll discuss this princess bit later. He was calling me that when we were on the run from Ash’s goons, too. I don’t fucking like it.
“This is…amazing,” Emma Jean whispers, oddly teary as she stands there with her suitcase in hand, one long pink sleeve stuffed into her mouth. Her honey-brown eyes glitter as she takes in the colorful scene of hot girls and bad boys, sex and grease and grand larceny and camaraderie.
I ignore her, turning to Alexei, but he’s got this resolute expression on his face that makes me second-guess all of my life decisions.
He’s my type in the way fairy-tale princes are everyone’s type.
Too perfect to be real. Too pretty to be standing out here in an old school bus graveyard tearing apart these beautiful cars and adding yet more ticks to our already very long list of classic car hell sins.
He pushes up the sleeves of his bloody hoodie, revealing strong, corded forearms and veins that make me wonder if I wouldn’t mind him callin’ me princess.
In the bedroom only, of course.
Those eyes of his, that same jade dew as Ash’s tea, slide my way.
“You’re an exhilaration, Scarlett Force. A thrill.” He stalks off and joins my girls at the Cobra, taking a floor jack from a pile of tools and getting to work. I see him hesitate slightly, a shudder passing through his suave fighter’s form as he gets on the ground and puts himself to work.
I wish I had more time to appreciate him, but Gram— Then I look and see that Widow’s already got her. Perfect. Next course of action…
I can hear Ash shouting obscenities from the trunk of the Fastback, knocking around inside as he tries to find his way out. There’s a trick to that, but he’s a rich boy, so he probably wasn’t taught at a young age how to escape a trunk in case of kidnapping. All Prescott girls know how.
I storm over to the trunk and, in a strange parallel to the night Aspen died, I open it and find Ash curled up and sneering like his brother.
He sits up and I grab him around the neck with my inked right hand, digging my nails into his throat.
He’s so surprised that he doesn’t fight back, pornographic lips parting, galaxy eyes shining.
I get down in his face, nose to nose with the bastard as girls pop their heads up like curious peacocks.
Baseball caps and bandannas and loose curls and shiny barrettes, bright lipstick and poppy eyeshadow and gold hoops.
My eyes are too-wide nightmares, fixed on Ash. Carving into Ash. He lifts a single hand and curls his fingers around my wrist.
“From now on, you are going to do what the fuck I tell you when the fuck I tell you. You aren’t even going to die unless I give you permission.
You aren’t going to play the hero. Understood, sweetheart?
If I have to make this very obvious point again, you’ll regret it.
” I squeeze his neck a little harder, and he swallows roughly, struggling to pull in a full breath.
I do not release him.
I hope Gram can’t see this.
Surrounded by yellow buses and girls who wear miniskirts in winter, Ash slowly, reluctantly nods.
And then he comes apart in my hands, sagging with a strange half-sob, half-growl.
I release him and he puts his hands up to cover his face, his breathing hyperactive and his hands trembling.
I slap those hands away and snag his chin, pulling that whore mouth of his to mine for a kiss.
A quick tongue fuck to remind him who he belongs to.
He tastes like copper and relief, like somebody who was supposed to die and has realized that they can’t, because their life no longer belongs to them.
I shove his face away violently and stand up straight, turning around to the sound of power tools and clinking metal. Tires are removed from the vehicles and thrown into the backs of the pickups. The sun shines on all of that pretty, stolen metal.
“This is Ash,” I say, swinging my tattooed finger over to point at him.
“Aspen’s twin. Aspen belonged to Lem. This one is mine.
If you need proof that I’m telling the truth, pack your shit up and leave my crew.
Otherwise, enjoy the spoils of war.” I hold that single finger up in the air and flash a great-white’s grin.
“And if the mayor’s people come a’knockin’ for information, tell them what you saw here today.
Take their money and tell them everything—including the fact that I kidnapped the bastard. ”
I reach back and grab Ash by the hair, dragging him from the back of the Shelby.
“Scarlett,” he starts, but I just throw him in the direction of the Cobra and my girls titter and whisper and giggle.
Ash flushes and stands up straight, scowling and flashing a bit of his Aspen mask.
Shirley puts a bore gauge in his hand and he stares down at it with such a strange expression that I wonder if he’ll be able to move from that spot at all.
“Want me to pick him up and chuck him in the back of the bus?” Widow asks dryly, taking his shirt off like the showboater he is and using it as a rag to swipe some of the grease from his face. Not only did he load up the bus, he started on one of the cars.
I do not stare at his nipples. I will not stare at his nipples.
Instead, I clap my hands and move away from him, joining Bohnes at the Escalade. He pauses to press an oil-and-clove scented kiss to my cheek, and I almost melt into a puddle of blood on the ground. Adorable.
“Hurry up!” I shout at them, checking the time. Fifteen minutes elapsed. We’ll leave in fifteen more. “You don’t want to find out what’ll happen if those clowns find us while we’re still here.”
“Yes, Queen!” my baddies shout, and the boys mumble their own assent.
“Hey Kellin,” I whisper, leaning into him and taking strength and comfort in his presence. He smells like gasoline and burnt sugar. “I think we’re giving birth to a crime syndicate.”
“Ah, our firstborn,” he teases, running his slutty tongue across his even sluttier teeth.
I can feel every brand he left in my skin at the track yesterday and if I weren’t running on fumes and audacity, I’d take him back to his house after this and ride him in his bed.
He passes me a hex wrench set, grease smearing between our palms.
We look at each other, and we both grin like maniacs.
Fuck yeah. There’s that adrenaline rush that I live for.
This is so much better than the pitiful P-Trip track.