Devil Incarnate (Boys of Preston Prep #4) - Angel Lawson Page 0,27

to kick. My legs are like noodles, and Jesus Christ, I am such an idiot. Two hours of ineffectual masturbation had my legs wobbly and weak even before I subjected my muscles to the water. I try to take in a long breath before my body sinks, but I only manage a small gulp before the water rises over my head, swallowing me whole.

It’s different when I’m under. Quiet. Tranquil. It’s not like it was when I was seven, falling into the deep-end and freezing up, gulping water into my lungs until my father found me. That experience had been all about fear and shock. But this?

This feels less like I’m sinking and more like I’m being cradled by a million pinpoints of silence and calm. Down here, the urges are too far away to touch me. There is no resonance, no bone-deep pulse of need, no shame, no regret, no ache for a release that won’t even sate me. There are no whispers or stares, no ridicule or judgment. I watch one of my last bubbles of air float in front of my eyes, ascending to the soft ripples above, and maybe it’s wrong, but the only thing I feel is grateful.

It makes it easy to I close my eyes. To let the silence cradle me. To stop fighting.

This.

This must be what peace feels like.

I sink downward, toes grazing the bottom of the pool, weightless and strangely relieved. I don’t even flinch at the tug of my hair, the brush of a hand on my shoulder, the arm that winds around my middle, clamping tight. I’m jettisoned upward with a surge of strength that I know can’t be coming from me. I’m not strong. I’m weak. Always, always weak.

I break the surface with an involuntary gasp of needle-sharp air that punches a wet, wracking cough from my lungs. My hair is plastered over my eyes, heavy and cold. It’s not until I have a hand secured to the cement lip of the pool that I shove it aside.

Heston, who’s got an elbow hooked over the edge, is fully dressed, dripping wet, and from the way he’s glaring at me, completely irate. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

I flinch at the boom of his voice, amplified by the echo. “I just wanted to—”

“Drown? Make me ruin a good pair of shoes?” A black shoe floats by and he reaches out to snatch it from the water, tossing it out of the pool. “Jesus, Haynes, I knew you were a little crazy, but I didn’t realize you had an actual death wish.”

“I wasn’t trying to kill myself!” I shout, feeling some of that thrum returning. “I just wanted some extra practice, and I thought I was alone!”

“How fucking stupid can you get?!” he barks. “You can’t swim! What were you expecting to happen?” He hoists himself out of the pool, revealing his soaked jeans and socks. He looks down at me, nostrils flared wide, and then offers me a hand.

I look away, teeth gnashing. “I’m fine.”

“Shut the fuck up.” He thrusts his hand closer. “Take my hand, idiot.”

After a long moment, I relent, reaching for his wet palm. He yanks me out of the water so hard my shoulder almost dislocates. I watch him wring out the hem of his shirt, clucking in annoyance at the deluge of water that falls from it.

“You didn’t give a shit when I was drowning before,” I mutter quietly. I’m speaking metaphorically, of course. Not that he would know. I don’t even intend for him to hear it at all.

But he does.

His head jerks up, eyes narrowing. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

I shake my head, suddenly feeling exhausted. “Nothing. Forget it.” I turn on my heel, storming away. This entire experience was supposed to help me, not plunge me even further into turmoil and frustration.

But I hear his footsteps following me, and just as we reach the office, he grabs my arm, spinning me around. “You know, I’m getting real sick of your whole ‘woe is me’ act. You know what your problem is, Haynes? You don’t take accountability for your own goddamn choices.”

I gape as he stalks into the little office, kicking off his other shoe, bending to yank each sock off. “I don’t take accountability? Me?” My voice rises, full of disbelief. “Are you serious right now?!”

He opens up the locker by the wall and strips off his wet shirt, tossing it on the plastic chair in the corner