Devil Incarnate (Boys of Preston Prep #4) - Angel Lawson Page 0,133

anyway.”

Shaking my head, I click on the file again.

A timer pops up; 29 days, 23 hours, 45 minutes, 16 seconds.

Gene puts his glass down. “And what’s this?” But he already knows. I can see it in the way his mouth flattens into an unhappy line.

“Encryption,” I explain, taking a long draw from my bottle. “In a month, it’ll unlock automatically.”

He slides me a displeased look. “Bit unnecessary, don’t you think?”

Sniffing, I close the laptop. “Like I’d really believe for a second you’d hold on to this for a month. You were wrong before when you said our arrangement has misguided me into thinking you’re a patient man. You’re not. None of us are.”

There’s a long moment of silence where I’m pretty sure Gene is inwardly fuming. The guy’s been doing this for a long time, though. “So in one month, this thing unlocks.” His poker face is impeccable.

“Yes.” So is mine.

He smiles without actually looking happy about it. He knows I got him. “Ten grand, with the understanding that you’re to keep digging. And if you don’t?” With a nod at the laptop, he concludes. “I’m sending this to mommy and daddy.”

I’m the first to hold out my hand to shake on it.

That’s how I know I’ve won.

The money is fucking beautiful.

I sit in my office, counting it. Underworld can pull in five grand on a Saturday night, but knowing that every dollar of this is mine just makes it sparkle a little brighter. There’s a smell to it, that soft scent of paper and possibility that I haven’t been able to enjoy in a long fucking time.

It’s eight in the evening and I’m a little buzzed—on both the beers and the fat stack of money. This could buy me two months of my Escalade. Or, the voice in my head says, you can double it.

Yeah, right.

I can fucking triple it.

I haven’t been to a fight or street race since Sebastian left, but I still have contacts. Guys who’d be glad to let me in on a bet. People who’d be happy to inform me of the players and their odds. Sure, it’s a little less certain without having control of my own ringer, but fuck it. Chance is chance.

I’m halfway to calling Carlton before a cloud of doubt smacks me right in the chest.

What the fuck are you doing?

I have ten grand in my pocket, guaranteed money, which could be lost instantly—just like that. There was a time when I’d have been completely convinced this was the smart move. An investment. A business deal. Now, with my luck being so shitty and not having access to more?

I just don’t fucking know.

What I do know is that the thought of tripling this money is making my chest feel all fluttery and eager in a way it hasn’t in a long damn time, and goddamn. I like it. If I feel this good about ten grand, I can only imagine what holding thirty grand is going to feel like. That’s security. That’s an adrenaline rush. That’s a real fucking win.

It’s embarrassing how long I sit there frozen, hand on the receiver, paralyzed by two opposing forces. One wants that thirty grand like fucking burning. The other remembers just how shitty it feels to have nothing.

The only reason I reach into my wallet and pull out the business card—cell number scribbled on the back—is because I just need a second opinion. I have no one else to ask. Everyone who might come to mind would just hang up on me. There’s only one person who’s made it perfectly clear they’re willing to listen to what I have to say.

Warren answers on the second ring. “Yes?”

I’m taken aback by the quick response, stuttering out a quick, “Uh, hey.”

There’s a brief pause before Warren asks, “Who’s this?” It’s not unkind, spoken in that weird, too-optimistic way he has.

Momentarily, I consider hanging up. I don’t. “It’s Heston. Heston Wilcox.”

If he’s surprised to be getting a call from me, he does a damn good job of hiding it. “What can I do for you, Heston?”

“I had this…” I’m still getting used to being on the phone with a person who doesn’t want to instantly hang up on me, so it takes me a second to collect my thoughts. “I have this opportunity.”

“What kind of opportunity?” he asks.

“I came into some money,” I answer, rolling my eyes at myself. What can I possibly get out of talking to this tool? “I have it in hand, but I’m