Devil Incarnate (Boys of Preston Prep #4) - Angel Lawson Page 0,167

pal’s very own business.” He pulls his mouth back in a wide-eyed grimace. “You're good, Wilcox, but sloppy. You thought you covered your ass with the shitty encryption job? I'm not a fool. Your fingerprints are all over this. Not mine.”

It feels like my strings have been cut, leaving me swaying and formless. For a moment, I’m completely fucking unable to find my next move, too muddled with my panic to calculate what should come next. Turning Underworld upside-down and inside-out, searching for it. That’s obvious. I have time.

Don’t I?

“Maybe it’s time for you to accept that you’re just not that good at gambling.” Gene clasps me on the shoulder, giving me a loose shake. “But so what, Wilty Cock? In a few days, that file unlocks, which means I’m going to come into some massive stacks of money and you’re going to get your club back. It’s a win.”

My eyes are drawn to his at the words, “A win.” In the back of my mind, a plan is forming.

I don’t need to win.

I just need Georgia to win.

27

Georgia

“I don’t understand,” Mr. Francis says, frowning. “You’ve been doing so well lately, Miss Haynes. Frankly, you’ve become among the top of my class. I’m surprised.”

I duck my head, trying not to meet his gaze. I already know what I look like today, all frayed and puffy-eyed and exhausted. “I meant to do it yesterday,” I say of my History paper, “but something just came up. It’s…incomplete.” I wince at the hoarseness in my voice. Usually, I’m a lot better at hiding.

But right now, I can’t.

I hear him sigh, setting down the stack of everyone else’s papers. “You need to go see Mrs. Gilbert.”

My head snaps up, eyes growing wide. “No, it’s not—I’m just not feeling well. That’s all. It’s a…” I struggle for an excuse, eventually landing on, “…girl problem.”

Not technically a lie.

Mr. Francis almost manages to hide his grimace. “Do you need to see the nurse?”

I know if I decline, he’ll get suspicious, so I take the pass he gives me without argument, ducking into the girl’s room to splash some water on my face. This won’t do—walking around like this, numb and visibly defeated. Maybe some people could get away with it, but not me. Not with my history.

Story of my life.

Looking in the mirror, I take a deep breath and pull out my makeup bag. The tears dried up sometime last night, but the evidence remains. I dab concealer onto the puffy circles beneath my eyes, rubbing it in methodically. Liner. Shadow. Mascara. A little blush for my pale cheeks. A slight tint for my lips.

I gather my hair at the top of my head and tie into a bouncing ponytail, trying a smile in the mirror. It looks stiff and disused. It’d be a passing imitation of someone who hasn’t had their heart carved out with a rusty melon baller if it weren’t for the lack of spark in my expression. My fake smile melts away, and it isn’t fair. Isn’t it enough that I’m walking? That I’ve managed to get out of bed and go through the motions? That I’ve gone four hours without thinking about—

I fumble in my bag for something—anything—but I can’t find the old pen. The sharp one. The one that’s good for jabbing. It doesn’t matter. I’m resourceful. I grab my compact and open it, holding it in my palm as I smash it against the porcelain sink. There’s a crunch, glass raining to the floor, but when I pull it back, there are multiple usable shards. I dig one out, blowing it clean before pulling up my sleeve and hastily pressing it into the tender flesh of my forearm.

My gasp is loud enough to surprise me, eyes falling closed as I sink to the floor. Holy shit. “Oh, god.”

I’m instantly hit with the realization that I’m never going back to rubber bands, pens, and pulling my hair out. This is the real deal—the immediate rush of endorphins, the swell of my chest as it fills with something. I stare at the wall as I push the jagged glass into my skin, shaking with the sudden, unavoidable presence of my heartbeat.

I’m not expecting the blood.

“No, no, no.” My chest clenches and I lurch up, snagging a handful of paper towels from the dispenser above me. It doesn’t sting when I press them to my arm in a rush to wipe it away, but I panic, worried that I’ve cut it too deep.