Devil Incarnate (Boys of Preston Prep #4) - Angel Lawson Page 0,108

he surveys the natatorium. “There were supposed to be super hot guys in Speedos, really mature and competent divers, that kind of thing.” He plucks a chip from the bag, cramming it into his mouth. “Instead, it’s this.”

My gaze follows the flick of his hand to where two Freshman are pretending to hump an inflatable giraffe on the pool deck. I get a chip and munch on it. “How do you think they got that in here?” Pool toys are strictly prohibited in the natatorium, probably because teenage boys can’t be trusted to do stuff like not hump them.

“I don’t know. It’s not exactly low key.” We both tilt our heads as one guy mounts the giraffe, pretending to ride it like a horse. “How am I the freak of the school?”

“Ooh,” I say, jabbing an elbow into Micha’s side. “Look.”

Heston exits the office, walking right toward where the group of Freshmen are simulating a particularly baffling make-out session on the giraffe. I can feel Micha getting excited too, hand darting toward his mouth with another chip.

“What do you think he’s going to do?”

I hum. “Knowing him? Possibly nothing.”

Aside from the last couple classes, I haven’t really spoken to Heston since we fucked in his car on Saturday—not that we did much speaking then, either. I can feel the need ramping up, but it’s manageable. For now. It’s going to take a lot more than low-level horniness to send me his way for relief. He still hasn’t apologized for calling me a slut, although I don’t know why I’d ever expect him to. It just serves as a reminder that this thing we’re doing is so toxic that a canary could fly between us and instantly drop dead. I’ll use him when I absolutely need him, and not a second sooner.

When he looks up from his clipboard and sees the giraffe shenanigans, Micha and I are glued to our seats, watching as he casually lopes past the group. He lifts the pen from the clipboard, curls his hand into a fist around it, and then expressionlessly buries it into the giraffe’s ass.

The sound of a sad, hissing wheeze fills the room.

Micha and I burst into laughter at the crestfallen looks on their faces. The Freshman who was riding it deflates as much as the toy does, while the boy pretending to kiss it flinches back, staring wide-eyed at Heston, who doesn’t even meet the boy’s gaze. He just goes back to his clipboard, scribbling something down and stepping smoothly past the commotion.

“What’s so funny?” a voice asks, drawing my attention to the two boys to my right.

Jase and his brother Gus stride up, pausing in front of us. I’m not surprised to see Jase here. The class right before the school day ends always has him in it. Lately, Micha and I wait until after dinner to show up, but today we’re waiting for Coach James’ performance report, and he’s almost always gone by the time Heston’s class with us starts.

I make a face at the way leans in, foot propped on the bench beside me, blocking my view of anything but his crotch. “Nothing,” I tell him, shooting Micha a disgusted look.

Since Jase doesn’t seem to be put off by anything less than sledgehammer-levels of subtlety, he just shrugs it off. “I heard your roomie’s going to be out tonight. Got the place all to yourself, eh?”

It’s true. Josie’s great aunt or whoever passed away a couple days ago, so she’s flying out with her parents to a funeral out west. It’s four glorious days and nights with no one else in the suite, and until about three seconds ago, I was really looking forward to it.

Before I can dwell too long on the reality of this rapey piece of shit knowing that I’m going to be alone for the next four nights, Gus pipes in to Micha, “What are you today?” He stares down at Micha with an expression that looks more appalled than genuinely confused.

“What ‘am I’ today?” Micha asks, using his fingers to quote. Unbothered, he kicks back, picking another chip from the bag. “Busy,” he answers, expression pensive. “Kind of annoyed. Hungry. And surprised, honestly. I didn’t think you cared so much about my general state of being, Gus.”

Gus eyes him. “I don’t. I was just curious what you were identifying as,” he wrinkles his nose, “in all that shit you’re wearing.”

I bristle more than Micha seems to, back going rigid and straight. “It’s makeup,