Devil Incarnate (Boys of Preston Prep #4) - Angel Lawson Page 0,14

underclassmen and nerds,” I complain, shoulders falling. “I mean, those Freshman boys won’t even know how to handle seeing me in a bathing suit.”

“You’ve seen the school suits, right?” Vandy asks, laughing. “They’re the antithesis of sexy.”

“Please.” I glance down at my boobs and raise an eyebrow. “It’s going to take more than cramming these things into red and black Lycra to make them off-putting to fourteen-year-old boys.”

Caroline snorts and the three of us shatter into giggles. It’s been a strange day. More than half of the Devils graduated—and all the guys—leaving the three of us alone. Whoever let them make the nominating decisions left a vast gap in membership. Dumbasses. It feels like losing half a limb—a shield, really. Even not being linked to any of them romantically, like Vandy is to Reyn, they made me feel safe. Protected. People mess with a Devil at their peril. It’s only the first day of senior year, and already I hear the whispers starting back up behind my back. No surprise, without Sebastian, Emory, Reynolds, Ben, Tyson, and Carlton sitting at our table. The vacancy is painfully noticeable. One long look from any of the guys—or even Afton—would have everyone shutting their mouths instantly. Now, I swear I can feel them all watching me. Talking in low tones. Throwing me mean smirks. Making crude gestures. Vandy’s eyes flick over my shoulder, and I follow her gaze, expecting to see just that.

It’s some guy I don’t recognize, though. He’s tall and lean, standing awkwardly over the empty half of the table. I narrow my eyes and search for the leering gaze, the confident swagger, the evidence that he’s looking to make me a conquest. Instead, he looks at us blankly until Caroline asks, “Do you need somewhere to sit?” He nods and she pushes out a chair. “Go for it. We won’t bite.”

“Speak for yourself,” I mutter, taking him in. He’s actually pretty cute. Preston doesn’t get nearly enough fresh meat. If I didn’t have that new rule about not fucking high school guys, he might even make my new shortlist.

Snap!

“Thanks,” he says, resting his tray on the table. He drops his leather backpack by his feet, muttering, “Can’t take lunchroom table politics today.”

“You’re new, right?” Vandy leans across the table, offering her hand and introducing herself. Of course, Ms. Welcome Wagon. She points to the two of us. “That’s Caroline and Georgia.”

“I’m Ozzy,” he says after a pause, lazy gaze passing over us. He looks stoned, eyes bloodshot, movements slow and badly coordinated, hair a touch too messy. Briefly, it reminds me of seeing Heston the night before.

Snap! Snap! Snap!

Clearing his throat, he adds, “Collins. Ozzy Collins.” The pained expression when he repeats his last name says it all.

Caroline’s eyebrows shoot up her forehead. “Wait, you mean like Headmaster Collins?”

“The very one,” he replies, stabbing his burrito with his fork. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance of me sliding under the radar with regard to being the Headmaster’s son, is there?”

“Probably not,” Vandy replies, grimacing sympathetically. “I didn’t even know Collins had kids. Did you just move here or something?”

He heaves a hard sigh and the three of us share a look. “Since I live with my mom, I used to go to Northridge. But everyone thought it’d be a good decision for me to come here for my senior year.”

Even I have a lot of questions about that. No one willingly changes schools senior year unless you have a damn good reason, but I stop short of asking. It’s none of my business. “Well,” I say, pushing my chair back, “I’m going to see if I can talk Coach James into giving me a break. Maybe I can write a paper?”

“On swimming?” Vandy asks, shaking her head. “Good luck with that.”

“Thanks.” I pass by the new kid, checking him out once more. “Nice to meet you.”

Snap!

“Yeah.” He squints at the burrito before setting it back down, clearly opting out of the Preston Prep dining experience. At least he’s not dumb.

Armed with the bag of low-calorie popcorn from the vending machine, I head across campus, grateful that everyone is in class or at lunch. There’s a reason I left early. Fewer people around. Fewer eyes. Fewer whispers. I should be used to it—it’s been going on for years—but with all the Devils having my back last year, I’d forgotten just how bad it felt.

Slut. Whore. Skank. Nympho.

It’s such a joke. Guys at Preston are historically the biggest sluts around, but you