Devil Incarnate (Boys of Preston Prep #4) - Angel Lawson Page 0,119

all see it, but when Dewey reaches for it, I yank it back and hurl it as hard as I can across the parking lot. It lands with a skittering clang three rows over. “If you want that key, go fucking get it.”

“Mr. Wilcox!” Dewey admonishes, but I’m not a student anymore. I flip him off and walk away, head swarming with fury. It’s the worst kind of anger—so goddamn futile and useless. Since there’s no hope of actually talking to my old man, there’s nowhere to put it.

Doesn’t mean I don’t try, though.

I call my mom next. It rings and rings, but I don’t even get voicemail. The call just drops. Liesel, the head of housekeeping, actually does get a voicemail from me. “You tell my prick of a father to call me. Now!” There’s one more person I can call, but I’m saving that shit for rock bottom.

My stomach is a raging mess by now, in a way that I know food isn’t going to fix. I’ve got five minutes until my first class starts, so I book it back to my apartment, teeth gnashing harder with every step.

When I get there, I pat my pockets.

No keys.

“Goddamn it,” I growl, remembering that I’d chucked them in the parking lot. “Motherfucking cock-sucking piece of fucking—” Bracing my hands on the jamb, I jerk my foot back and kick the door. Then I do it again. I keep doing it, right up until there’s an ache in my ankle to join the tornado of anguish happening in my belly. “Fuck you!” I scream at the door, whipping around to sit on the stoop.

This is stupid.

This is some goddamn Hamilton Bates level of tantrum. I take a deep breath, knuckles digging into my temples, and try to compose myself. I just want my medicine out of the bathroom, but it’s going to involve calling maintenance, and probably an alert to Collins who has probably already been alerted to the fact my Escalade has been professionally stolen.

Since I can’t leave campus, my only hope is that, at some point, I left a bottle in the office.

So that’s where I go next.

I don’t know if it’s my slight limp, my expression, or just a general aura of ‘fuck off’, but people give me a wider berth than usual, skirting around the pool deck as I storm past. I’ve only just opened the door to the office when the phone on the desk rings. I stand there and stare at it for a suspended moment. That phone has never rung before. If I were smart, I’d just ignore it.

“Hello.” I’m an idiot.

“Heston, this is Ms. Hampton over in the front office.”

“Okay.”

“Coach James called out sick, so you’ll be covering his classes for the day.”

I take another deep breath. “Is there anyone else who can take it today? I’m actually not feeling that great. I was hoping to find someone to cover my classes.”

“There’s no one else,” she says, completely unsympathetic. “Headmaster Collins said I should mention the agreement.”

“The agreement,” I bite out, fist shaking with how tightly I’m holding the phone. I have so many fucking agreements going that I can’t keep track of them anymore. Georgia, the court, Collins, Gene. “Fine.” I hang up the phone before she can respond, going quickly to my locker.

Finally.

Fucking finally, something’s going right for me.

There’s a bottle of Mylanta stuffed between a mildewy towel and a broken pair of goggles. It’s only got one dose swirling in the bottom, but I throw it back like it’s an elixir, hoping like hell it’ll be enough to get me through until…

Until.

Until fucking what? Until my dad gives my car back? Until the school day ends and I can take a cab? Beg a ride off someone like a hobo? Pathetic.

Listlessly, I grab my whistle and head out on the deck, staring blankly at the mass of students. I take a deep breath and blow the whistle in a long, loud, screech. Twenty-five kids look up at me with wide-eyed expressions. Yeah, they know they’re fucked. “Everyone in the pool! Four sets of fifties, one of each stroke.” The class groans in unison, but I just march on by, throwing them glares. “No resting, no talking, and no whining.”

No one argues, not even that little pussy, Jase Meyers, whose dive is shitty and formless. I lean back on the lifeguard stand and fist the whistle, white-knuckled, in my hand.

If my day is going to be miserable, then so is theirs.

Micha