Devil Incarnate (Boys of Preston Prep #4) - Angel Lawson Page 0,20

on returning to.

I walk into my bedroom and grab a clean shirt out of my suitcase. I’ll eat my own liver before I bother unpacking here. Too permanent—too much a signal of defeat. When my lawyer offered this deal—probation and community service coaching swim at Preston—I thought he was joking. In fact, I laughed in his face. But here I am, stuffing a frozen dinner into a microwave that’s so old, it probably doesn’t even pass legal standards anymore. Someone—Headmaster Collins, Coach James, or maybe some Devil with pull, I don’t even fucking know—saw fit to take some kind of pity on me with this. Nothing about this pisses me off more than that. I’m Heston fucking Wilcox. I don’t take anyone’s pity. I don’t need anyone’s pity.

Ever.

I’ve just pulled the clean shirt over my head when there’s a knock on the door. Instead of answering it, I stand by the microwave, waiting for my dinner to finish. No one important knows I’m here. I made certain of that. When the microwave dings, I plop the dinner onto one of the three plates and take my time answering.

“Great,” I say when I finally open the door. “It’s you.”

“Heston.” Headmaster Collins is standing on the doorstep, face etched with a frown. Looking back, it’s hard to believe I ever found this guy imposing, even as a middle schooler. He’s nothing like the powerful icon of authority I used to see him as. Age hasn’t done him well. Much like Big Gene, the Headmaster is balding. Unlike Big Gene, Collins hasn’t quite accepted it. He’s still combing over that patch of scalp, hoping to hide it. “You were supposed to come to my office at the end of the day.”

“Oops.” I step back into the apartment, leaving the door open. “I must’ve forgotten.” I enter the small kitchenette and open the refrigerator, pulling out a bottle of beer. I hold it up. “You want one?”

He sighs. “This isn’t playtime, Heston. You’re not in high school anymore, you’re an adult. I’m giving you an opportunity to clear your name and reputation.”

Guess that answers that question.

I pop off the bottle cap, and it clatters on the countertop. “I’ve been wondering about that.”

“About what?”

“Exactly why you’re giving me this ‘opportunity’.” I take a long swig, letting the cool liquid soothe my throat. “I didn’t do much to deserve it. I mean, let’s face it. I barely graduated. I caused you a shit-ton of problems. The stuff with the Adamses, the Devil pranks, skipping classes, the videos...”

He gives me an impatient look. “Yes, I recall.”

“So why let me back on campus?” I know a trap when I see it. Nothing is free, especially not at Preston. After a pause, Collins shuts the door—a clear indication that whatever he has to say, he doesn’t want anyone else to hear. I give him a bland smirk. “Oh, goodie. Here come the strings.”

He casually begins, “As you’re well aware, I banned the Devils and all secret society activity from this campus.”

I snort. “Because of me.”

“Partly,” he replies. “Unfortunately, in the last year it’s become clear that a new reiteration of the club has emerged. They’ve created chaos at two school functions, embarrassing me and the rest of the administration in front of alumni and guests in the process.”

I’m not surprised. I’d heard the rumors about the Devils, and I’ve seen my brother’s tattoo. No one explicitly told me they were back, but they aren’t exactly flying under the radar. Every guy I know who’d be involved—Carlton, Ben, Emory—have all graduated. Whoever remains is a mystery to me. Propping myself against the counter, I say as much. “Not that I would rat out a Devil, but all the obvious suspects are already gone.”

He nods, adjusting the lapels of his blazer. “Which is why I need you to infiltrate the remaining members and report back to me who’s involved.”

I stare at the man, that last piece of the puzzle clicking into place. When it does, I bark a flat laugh. “Infiltrate? I’m twenty-one, Collins. I’m an assistant coach. I’m faculty. You want me to hang out with a bunch of teenage losers while they gloat about marking some girl in the stairway?”

He pulls a face when I bring up the marking. Stodgy fucker’s probably heard the rumors, but never had any confirmation.

“You’re right. All the suspected leaders have graduated. Emory Hall. Reynolds McAllister.” He levels me with a look, pointedly adding, “Your brother.” Personally, I could name at least three other