Page 48 of Psycho Boys

When his arm wraps around her waist and he nuzzles his nose along the back of her neck where my name is tattooed, a little pang of jealousy hits me, so I take another long rip off the blunt to distract myself.

"You're a part of this too, Cali baby. What are your thoughts?" he asks, smirking devilishly.

"I just want him dead, Ash. I want him to choke on his dick, but he's your father, so it's only fitting that you choose his demise." Her eyes grow dark, memories rushing back to her of whatever happened between her and his father—a story I've never had the balls to fucking ask.

Ash looks at Dom and Kill, the three of them having a silent conversation with their eyes, as if they know what each other is thinking about. Silence stretches for what feels like forever before Ash finally speaks up again, this time his tone deep and low, a flicker of anger in his eyes.

"All I need is a chain and my fucking car." He glances at me, a small smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. "And, Five, I need you to find me a secluded stretch of road; the rougher the better," he tells me, and right away I know what he's planning to do.

But all I do is nod my head, holding in the smoke from another hit. "When?" I ask through a heavy cough, smoke pouring out of my mouth.

"As soon as fucking possible." He wraps his arms tighter around Cali as she lays her head on his shoulder, getting sucked into the song Scars.

Everyone goes silent, feeling the weight of the lyrics as the song plays loudly, turning the mood in the room somber, almost depressing.

But fuck, I get it. All the shit they've been through, I fucking get it.

The talk of killing their fathers remains a looming threat, a shared mission that binds them even tighter, a dark thread woven into the vibrant tapestry of their unconventional family. But for now, under the warm glow of the neon signs and the steady beat of Papa Roach booming from the speakers, they're simply a family, flawed, fierce, and forever bound together by ink, blood, secrets, and a love that defies all odds. The future remains uncertain, but one thing is clear: they'll face it together, for they are a family forged in the fires of trauma and cemented in the unwavering strength of their love.

NINETEEN

THERAPY

TRUTH BE TOLD: KEVIN GATES

KILLIAN

I've been having such a hard time lately coming to terms with the way shit is going down. Having to kill my own father. Having to help the others kill theirs. Accepting Five into our family and into Cali's life and heart. Painting used to be my escape, my therapy, but it's been a minute since I've been able to get out and do anything.

Today I finally took the initiative and drove to my spot to admire all my graffiti and murals I've done, and it instantly made it easier to breathe.

So I started painting again.

The delicious scent of paint fills my senses—a sharp, almost stinging aroma that brings tears to my eyes and a tingle in my nose. Yet, I find it intoxicating and fucking addictive. Within the familiar confines of the tunnel that holds much of my work, I begin a new piece, momentarily ignoring the defaced "Cali" mural from a few months ago. I spray until the red can is empty, the rhythmic hiss a counterpoint to the blinding sun.

Winter has almost entirely been put behind us, taking the cold along with it. Sunlight streams into the dark space, a refreshing breeze whispering through the cracks in the concrete. I inhale deeply, then exhale, catching a whiff of burnt crack fresh in the air. The smell is nauseating, forcing me to hold my breath until it dissipates.

It's the fucking price of working in this neighborhood, I guess.

I remember my last visit here, Cali watching unseen while I was fucking some whore wishing it was her. Now I don't have to wish. I get to fuck her anytime I want.

The unsettling feeling of being watched looms again, echoing the last time. But this time, I know it's not Cali; she's with Dom, trailing Ash's father, putting the final details of his murder into place. I push the unease aside, focusing on the red petals I've painted onto the rose, resisting the urge to succumb to paranoia and look behind me.

Someone is here, but I don’t fucking care. In a few short weeks, our problems will be resolved—our fathers will be gone, taking their reign of terror and fear with them.

For now, I find solace in my form of therapy: painting.

Graffiti, in my view, is a neglected art form. The city is covered with stunning murals, yet we're relegated to bridges, tunnels, abandoned buildings—any space we can claim. But at least our work is visible to all, even if it lacks the recognition of something like a Picasso.

As I finish, the can of crimson paint lies discarded, a testament to my latest creation. The rose, a symbol of both beauty and violence, blooms starkly against the grimy concrete. I step back, surveying my work, the satisfaction a dull ache in my chest. It's not Picasso, not even fucking close, but it's mine. It's a defiant splash of color in a world drowning in grey.

The breeze picks up, carrying with it the scent of exhaust fumes and something else—something metallic, something sharp. My stomach clenches. It's the smell of blood. Not fresh, but old, clinging to the air like a persistent memory. I ignore it, focusing instead on the next can—a vibrant turquoise, perfect for the ocean I plan to paint crashing against the rose's thorns. The ocean of our escape.

The footsteps behind me are softer this time, almost silent. I don't turn. I know who it is by the scent of his cologne. Ash. He's here to check on me to make sure I'm still on track. He doesn't need to speak; the unspoken understanding hangs heavy between us, a silent pact forged in blood and betrayal. We're both playing a dangerous game, a game with impossibly high stakes. But we're winning. Soon, the game will be over. Soon, the city will be ours. And the only thing left to paint will be our future, a future washed clean of the shadows of our fathers. A future painted in vibrant, untainted colors.

"I swear, every piece gets even better," he says, standing beside me, admiring my finished piece.

"Haven't you ever heard practice makes perfect?" I ask, laughing, wiping the paint from my hands onto my jeans.

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