Devil Incarnate (Boys of Preston Prep #4) - Angel Lawson Page 0,102

them and slides in the file he’d been looking at before shutting it with a smooth click, and opening a different drawer. A shiny silver key hangs from the lock, adorned with a dangling tassel—the kind you’d see on the end of a bookmark.

Headmaster Collins’ still maintains his files on paper.

Son of a bitch.

The last time I came in here, before I called for Georgia to join me, I’d been trying to get into his computer in an attempt to find some dirt on the Haynes’s. Improper donations, bribes, financial forms; I would have taken anything. But I’d obviously been looking in the wrong place. Collins is old-school. Fucker probably can’t even remember his own email password. I should’ve guessed.

“I’m required by the court to turn in consistent reports on your progress. Coach James says you’re doing an excellent job; getting along with students, fulfilling the curriculum, completing your tasks.” He peers over his glasses. “Dean Dewey has nothing to report. Interestingly enough.” The last part is muttered begrudgingly.

“Because there’s nothing to report,” I reply, propping my temple on my fist, so bored that it’s actively painful to play along. “I know it’s impossible to believe, but I don’t want to be here anymore than you want me here.”

I can see that the paper in front of him is from the Department of Corrections, Probation and Parole. He checks off a few boxes and then looks up. “Have you attended an addiction program?”

I hold his stare, unflinching. “I have a lot of problems, but addiction isn’t one of them.” Although lately, I can’t seem to quit Georgia’s pussy. I don’t think they have recovery programs for men who can’t stop fucking the girls who ruined their lives, though.

Collins poises his pen over the paper, shooting me a look. “Gambling counts as an addiction, and the judge made it clear you need to attend a program.” He’s right. The judge made that clear. I was just kind of hoping no one would remember.

“Whatever,” I say, looking away. “I’ll take care of it.”

He makes another note on the form before hovering his pen over the signature line. Annoyingly, he stops short of signing it. “Have you made any progress on the extra assignment I gave you?”

“You mean your weird paranoia about the Devils still being functioning?”

He glares at me. “It’s not paranoia.”

He’s right about that. The memory card is burning a hole in my pocket. I keep it with me because Collins’ paranoia isn’t exactly unfounded. If I left it sitting around in that piece of shit apartment, other people on campus would have access to it; Collins, Dewey, maintenance. I don’t know what’s on it yet, but after being forced to reveal my biggest sin to the group, I have my suspicions.

“We’re in the business of keeping secrets, not spreading them.”

All I’d have to do is hand it over and I’d get Collins off my back.

I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees. “Have you ever considered that messing with a historical secret society may not be in your best interest?”

Collins pauses, eye twitching. “Is that a threat?”

I shake my head. “It’s just reality. You may think you’re chasing after students, but what if you’re really just fucking with alumni? Isn’t the point of a secret club like this to make powerful connections and lifelong bonds?”

“It’s a nuisance,” he snaps, setting the pen down. “I assume all this stalling is because you have nothing.”

Holding his stare, I lift my hips, pulling a square piece of paper from my pocket. I toss it on the desk. “I found this.”

Collins slowly unfolds the paper. On it is a list of names. I didn’t take it from the room below the staircase. Well, not exactly. I caught a brief look at the list they’ve been building, so I plucked out a few of the lesser desirables—among them Gus and Jase Meyers—and decided to serve them up as temporary scapegoats.

Collins frowns at the list. “Where did you get this?”

I lean back in my seat, stretching out. “You asked for dirt, not my sources.”

“How do I know this is real?” He studies the names again, mouth curving thoughtfully. Oh, yeah. This should keep him busy for a while.

“That’s not my problem.” I reach over the desk and point to the signature line on my probation form. “I have a class in fifteen minutes. Are you going to sign that, or what?”

He frowns but scribbles his name at the bottom of the page. It’s fast