Devil Incarnate (Boys of Preston Prep #4) - Angel Lawson Page 0,134

thinking I should double it.” Only, now that I’ve had the thought of tripling it, doubling it doesn’t even seem satisfying. “That’s not…stupid. Right?” I fucking hate the doubt in my voice—doubt that Warren himself had placed there. “That’s smart. It’s growing wealth.”

“Hm,” he says, and I know from the disapproving way it sounds that he disagrees. “It’s not exactly guaranteed that you’ll double it, is it?”

I know what he’s asking; whether or not this is a gamble. “I’m good at what I do,” I argue instead of answering. “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not like that.”

Warren seems to take a moment before saying, “Okay, say you doubled it. What would happen then?”

At least that’s easy to answer. “I’d be fucking set.”

“No,” he says patiently. “I want you to close your eyes and really imagine that money in your hands. Imagine holding it, knowing it’s yours. What goes through your head, son?”

Without really meaning to, I do what he asks, putting myself into a scenario of having twenty—thirty—grand. Fuck, that’d be sweet, having all that money.

You know what’d be sweeter, though?

Having forty, sixty…shit, maybe even over a hundred grand.

“It won’t be enough, will it?” Warren sighs. “It’ll never be enough. Not until you’ve gone through it all.”

The worst part isn’t even the realization that he’s right. It’s that twenty minutes ago, I’d looked at this stack of cash and felt good. Now it just looks pitiful. It’s nothing compared to a hundred grand. It feels like I’ve lost something—that ability to see ten grand and actually enjoy it. Looking at it now, all I can see is everything it isn’t.

All I can see is a loss.

“Heston?”

I clear my throat, but find myself unable to speak. It feels like something just carved out my organs and left me hollowed out, because I’m looking at all this money and I can’t feel it anymore. The optimism is gone. The sense of possibility. There’s nothing but the dark cloud of disappointment.

Warren’s voice is gentle when he asks, “Where are you, son?”

I clear my throat again, eyes fixed on the money. “I’m at work.”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

He lets me hang up first.

21

Georgia

I must be legitimately crazy.

That’s the only excuse I have for the fact I’m sitting on Heston Wilcox’s front stoop at ten thirty at night, bags circled around my feet. Twice now, I’ve stood up to leave, only to catch sight of the sparkles littering the concrete, and then dropping heavily back down. To say I’m reluctant to be here is an understatement, but I’ve been waiting for two hours, and now it seems almost as stupid to give up and leave as it does to stay and wait. What’s that thing I learned in Econ last year? Sunken cost fallacy?

So no, not crazy. Just stupid. At least it’s a pretty pleasant night. The sky is clear, and the lights from campus don’t really reach out here, so I’m able to look up and see a pretty spattering of stars, the crescent moon a soft glow rising higher above the horizon with every minute I stay here.

It isn’t until almost eleven that I hear the distant rustle of footsteps. For a moment, this doesn’t seem like such a pleasant night at all. It seems dark and isolated, ripe for an attack. Aside from that, I’m completely unprepared to explain to someone like Buster what I’m doing on this stoop at this time of night.

It’s Heston, though.

He jerks to a stop when he finally looks up, spitting a low curse. “Jesus, make some noise.” He doesn’t sound mad, though, just tired and a little defeated. Looking over his shoulder, he sweeps his gaze up the path to campus. “How long have you been here?”

“Not long,” I lie, doing my best to perk up.

He watches me, eyes narrowed. “You’re lying.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are,” he insists, tapping his temple. “You always smile with half your mouth when you lie. Fucking awful tell, never play poker.”

Rolling my eyes, I stand, lifting my bags as I do. “Fine, I’ve been here for a couple hours. Now open up so I can pee.”

He gives me a baffled look, but digs his keys from his pocket, shouldering past me to unlock the door. I groan at what I see inside. The glitter. Jesus Christ. It’s all over the floor in here—and half covering an ancient armchair.

Heston throws his keys on an end table, the motion careless and unconcerned. “I don’t have a vacuum.”

I make a mental note to