Devil Incarnate (Boys of Preston Prep #4) - Angel Lawson Page 0,177

fishing boat zipping across the clear water. Well, that, and the sound of the party on the shore. Preston’s swimming platform is a hundred and fifty yards out from the campus’ shore, but from this side of the lake, it must be a thousand, and even squinting, I can’t see it. I know it well, though. Coach James used to send us down there to race each other during varsity season. I know the stinging chill of that water. I know what the surface is like when it’s too windy. I know what it’s like when it’s still.

Two years ago, I would have strolled in like I owned the damn place. Now, I hang back and observe the scene first. It takes me three tries to count all the heads.

There are twenty of them.

Hamilton showed up—alone. I don’t see Gwen anywhere, although I know they’re still dating. Micha feels the need to update me on the Adams Family details. My former best friend looks just as moody and arrogant as ever, tipping back a longneck as he watches Xavier tell a story, animated and loud enough that I know he’s had a few, as well. Ansel is sitting between them, strumming on his ukulele, and from the hat and cardigan, I guess he’s still playing up the hipster thing. Rounding out the old guard is Emory, sitting with his arm slung around Aubrey’s shoulders, tucking her into his side against the chill.

There are all the kids Micha had told me about earlier in the year—the ones who sat at the Devil’s table. The diver, Tyson. Afton. Elena. Carlton. Ben. Reynolds has his long legs sprawled toward the fire, and Vandy has parked herself right between, lounging against his chest as they laugh at whatever Xavier just said.

There are younger people—new pledges, like Micha and Michaela, along with order pledges like Josie and Collins—that I’m surprised to see. I know their moronic initiation is still a couple weeks away, but I wasn’t expecting them pulled into all this so soon. I haven’t decided how I’m going to handle Collins selling me out like that. As pissed as I am, he was looking out for Georgia’s best interest. I can’t hate him for that.

Caroline is off to the side, head ducked down as she speaks into Georgia’s ear. I watch as her mouth slowly spreads into a grin, something gentle and carefree about the way she looks, despite having chosen a spot outside of the crowd. Regardless of the chill, Georgia looks like warmth personified, her red hair glowing in the fire's light. Her cheeks and the tip of her nose are flushed from the cold, but she looks loose and comfortable as she turns to her friend, saying something back.

The only reason I don’t turn on my heel and walk away is because Caroline stands and walks off, leaving Georgia sitting there all alone. Warren was right. She has a support system full of people ready and willing to help her. Better people than me. More qualified. I’d wager most of them actually have their shit together, and I doubt any of them have hurt her as much as I have. All of them are more deserving of her attention than me.

But none of them want her as much.

Silence falls around the fire in stages when I emerge. First the laughter dies off, and then the chatter, one by one, all of them turning to look at what’s got everyone so quiet all of a sudden.

There’s a collective groan that makes my face turn to stone.

“Who invited this asshole?” Hamilton mutters, sounding annoyed and disappointed, like I just ruined something really good.

Well, that is my superpower.

“Yo, look who showed up,” Carlton calls out, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “The prodigal son returns.”

“Hey, I’m the one still stuck in this hellhole,” I say, still discretely searching the area. Some of the pledges are lugging what I assume are pieces of the effigy down to the dock. My eyes lock with Georgia’s over the fire, but she doesn’t hold it. I casually look back at the guys. “You all made it out of here.”

The silence that follows is the epitome of discomfort. But even sober, Carlton has never been good at reading the room, and it looks like he’s well into his blunt stash, so when he nods to the cooler and offers, “Grab a cold one,” he doesn’t even notice the glares everyone shoots him.

“Nah, I’m good,” I reply, digging my fists