F*ckboy Psychos

Whoa, there. Stop right now. You don’t want to read this.

Trust me: you really, really don’t want to read this. So back away slowly, hands up, and I won’t have to kill you.

They might, though. They might be willing to warm my bed, but I wouldn’t say I trusted them. Just a bunch of psychos, really.

My three f*ckboys, my three psychos.

Alexei Grove. God, what could I possibly say about him? How the mighty have fallen. Neurotic, violent, germaphobe. He hates to be touched; he hates the people who brought his family down even more.

Next, there’s Widow. Traumatized, edgy, unpredictable. Never have I seen a man so twitchy yet so alpha. Just … don’t make the mistake I did: don’t touch his f*cking car.

Lastly, there’s Bohnes. Oh, Bohnes … He’s the shadow of Prescott High. If you have enough cash, he’ll do anything. Literally anything—even bury a body. Also, he gave me severed fingers as a present. That must account for something, right?

Then there’s me.

I’m a boss-a** b*tch: I race cars and I always win.
Rule is: if I can ride it, I can win it. What I can’t do is protect you.

So, here’s my final warning: run, don’t walk.
Better yet: ride. Ride hard, ride fast, and don’t look back.

If you see my boys in the rearview, it’s already too late.

Love, Scarlett Motherf*cking Force