Devil Incarnate (Boys of Preston Prep #4) - Angel Lawson Page 0,136

and looking really put out about it, he asks, “Any chance those slumber parties get erotic?”

“Nope.” But as he’s lifting his sweater over his head, shirt riding up to reveal the toned expanse of his abs, I add, “Although I have made out with Elena.”

He rips the sweater off, eyebrows hiking up. “No shit?”

I wave a hand dismissively. “It was a drunken bonfire dare. We made Tyson kiss Ben, too.”

He pulls a face. “Scratch that last one and give me details on the first.”

Raising my nose in the air, I say, “I don’t think I will,” and reach over to start the episode.

Secretly, I’ve been binging Lakevale from the first episode for the last ten days. It’s already on its fourth season, so I still have a way to go before I’m totally caught up, but I’ve developed a sick sort of affection for it. It’s not a good show by any metric—Heston is crazy for thinking otherwise—but I must admit that it’s confusingly addictive.

I don’t tell Heston this.

Instead, when the theme plays, I dig into my food, pretending like I’m not watching him from my periphery. He looks exceedingly better than he had yesterday. His eyes still have that tired, hard cast about them, but without all the tumultuous energy to accompany it, he looks less like he’s on the edge and more like he’s just climbed down from it.

Still, when the show starts, he eases back, knees spreading in that way guys always do when they’re comfortable. He splits his attention between the screen and his carton of food, shoveling it into his mouth in a way that’s entirely without shame or insecurity. I get the sense that I’ve just done something really effective here.

He catches me looking during the first ad break, fork halfway to his mouth. “What?”

“Nothing,” I say, gaze lurching away.

This episode is particularly stupid, but embarrassingly, I watch with almost as much intensity as Heston. When Vivian Slandarson uses her position as head cheerleader to infiltrate Lakevale’s counterfeit money ring, he makes a soft sound, head shaking. “Classic Vivian. She never learns.”

The characters’ cheer uniforms are a truly unholy union of black and neon green, which I make it a point to mock every episode. Micha usually throws something at me for having the ‘audacity’, but Heston is even worse.

“Don’t be stupid,” he sneers, gesturing to the screen. “The black represents the persistent state of Lakevale being decayed and rotten to its very core. But the green represents growth and life. It perfectly encapsulates the struggle for power between the main characters and the Lakevale elite. It’s an ode to the endless cycle of rebirth.”

I gawk at him. “You take this way too seriously.”

He shrugs, but doesn’t argue.

The more I think about it, the more it makes sense. Not Lakevale—that will never make sense—but Heston’s weirdly intense affection for it. If I squint, it’s almost like Preston and the Devils. The struggle between the old and the new. It must be strange for Heston, being caught somewhere in the middle, too old to be a Devil and too young to be our foil. The more I roll it around in my thoughts, the sadder it is. Maybe he doesn’t love Lakevale so much because it’s a ‘contemporary masterpiece’. Maybe it just reminds him of better times. His golden years. Times where he was bigger and better, the star athlete, a king of the school.

Maybe he misses it.

He finishes his food right before the episode ends, leaning forward to place the empty cartons on the table. I don’t miss his relieved sigh when he sits back, sighing, “Fuck, that feels better.” When I look over, his hand is resting on his stomach and all the tension around his eyes has disappeared.

Jesus, maybe Afton and my hippie counselor were right.

When the credits roll, it makes the room feel darker, nothing but the soft glow of a lamp illuminating the room. The air feels suddenly charged, and I know without turning that he’s watching me. There’s always a strange weight that comes from being under his scrutiny, like a phantom hand resting on the back of my neck.

There’s nothing phantom about the hand that finds my chin, turning me to face him. I blink at him, those blue eyes so close and intense. The kiss is completely foreign, soft and chaste and full of something that I don’t really understand but also can’t get enough of. It’s me who deepens it, but he meets me like he’s