Devil Incarnate (Boys of Preston Prep #4) - Angel Lawson Page 0,151

up into a tight, pursed scowl. “That’s it. We’re leaving.”

“No,” I growl, yanking my elbow from her grasp and spilling juice down my glove in the process.

“Georgia!” she hisses.

“It’s enough that they treat me like a piece of meat,” I tell her, feeling those tears start to finally well up. “I don’t need you doing it, too.”

“Then maybe you should stop acting like one,” she snaps.

I stare at her for a long moment—this woman I’ve tried so hard to please all day—and suddenly I wonder why. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to dance with Fergie or Devon or whatever other rich boy she thinks would make a ‘suitable’ future partner. I don’t want to see her looking at me like that, all resentful and scandalized.

The only thing I’ve felt all night is awful.

Even after all the therapy and counseling sessions and medication, my mother still doesn’t understand that this isn’t something I have control over. Sure, I’ve made some terrible choices, but what’s the alternative? More drugs? More therapy?

As much as I hate it, this is who I am.

The tiara takes some of my hair with it when I rip it off, shoving it at her. “If I ever have a daughter, I’m never forcing her to wear that. She’ll never be paraded around one of these stupid balls like a glorified hooker, and she’ll certainly never be shamed for making decisions about her own body.”

My mom takes a deep breath. “Georgia—”

“You’re not mad that I’ve had sex with guys, mother.” I rip off my gloves, shoving them in the purse I snatch from the back of my chair. “You’re just mad that your family legacy didn’t get anything out of it.”

I’m shaking as I storm out of the ballroom, and it’s a good thing no one chases me. This rock in my throat is so eager to escape that my chest keeps hitching with the restraint of holding it in. I swallow thickly around it, willing it to wait. I won’t let these people see me broken and ashamed. I’d rather jump in front of traffic.

I wait until I’m in the lobby to pull out my phone, and it hurts to see the last text there, knowing how radiant I’d felt when I read his words. Beautiful. Perfect. Now I feel alone and discarded, and I’m not sure how much longer I can hold it in.

G: Come get me

G: Please

G: Please

G: Please

I don’t wait for a response. Regardless of how badly my ankle aches, I’ll walk my ass back to campus, I don’t even care. The first thing I do when I step outside into the crisp night air is bend down to pluck off my shoes, but then I find I can’t stand up.

I crouch there and almost lose it. The wounded, raw thing roiling around in my chest claws up my throat, unrelenting to break free. It takes a while, but I wrestle it back, even if it’s only temporary.

When I stand, I see him.

He’s across the street, parked under a streetlamp, wearing a leather jacket and worn jeans. The thing in my chest squirms at the sight of him, resting nonchalantly against the door of his car, watching me with those heavy eyes. He holds my gaze when I cross the distance, crushing my purse into my stomach as I approach him. Heston is so good at being still—nothing like Sebastian at all. He’s perfectly unreadable when he wants to be, and that’s exactly what he is when I stop in front of him. Something about the way the light from the streetlamp hits his face has hollowed out his eyes, making them blots of shadow.

“Where’s your date?”

“I don’t know.” Shrugging, I add, “I don’t care.”

He looks toward the entrance and the light brushes new bruises onto his eyes. “What happened?”

“Why are you here?” is what I say, folding my arms around my middle. “I thought you didn’t belong here anymore.”

He looks at me for a long moment. When he pulls a hand from his pocket, reaching up to brush a warm knuckle beneath my chin, the first tear finally falls, making a hot, wet track down my cheek.

Roughly, he whispers, “Neither do you.”

When we get back to Preston, I follow him to his apartment without asking. I stare at the lines of his back as he walks, the way his shoulders move beneath his jacket, the glint of the moonlight catching the silhouette of his fair hair. Heston moves silently, almost