Devil Incarnate (Boys of Preston Prep #4) - Angel Lawson Page 0,45

used to be legendary—the kind of playboy that teenage boys have always aspired to be. Reyn’s dad gets around, and it’s no secret. It’s a longstanding meme around here that nobody should ever leave their girlfriends or wives alone with him. He’s probably fucked the mothers of half the students in Georgia’s senior class. And here he is, eating lunch with my pet comeuppance project.

I’m not surprised to see her here. On the way in, I’d seen a large display of photos on the wall—a collection of portraits of the girls taking part in this years’ Debutante Ball. I’d escorted once before for Jasmine Walker. It was a load of pretentious bullshit, but the party was fun enough. The familiar flash of red hair among the bottle blondes immediately drew my attention. I’d know that hair anywhere. I just had it in the palm of my hand yesterday. Georgia Haynes. A debutante. I’d pay to see her walk across the stage in her virginal white dress. Oh, the irony.

Now, Georgia’s talking about something, those pink lips moving as she holds Mr. McAllister’s gaze. She’s still wearing her school uniform, ankles crossed primly, plaid skirt looking a little shorter than usual. Those tits of hers are pushing the boundaries of the Devil-branded, and very fitted, red button-down. The tip of her nose is glowing red again, eyes looking just a touch too bloodshot and glassy to play it off as anything but the vestiges of a good crying jag.

Warren nods at whatever she’s saying, expression thoughtful and sympathetic. Yeah, sure. Warren McAllister is a listener.

Gag me.

I run my fingers through my hair, jaw tightening at the realization that this game is going to be harder than I thought. This girl was convulsing on my dick less than twenty-four hours ago, but she just doesn’t stick, does she?

I’m glaring at them, wondering how the fuck I’m supposed to keep her attention, when the attendant finally returns. “Heston,” he says, giving me a blank-faced nod. “Sir, Mr. Wilcox isn’t able to see you right now. Since The Club is for members only, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” He extends a hand toward the door, like he’s happy to show me out himself.

I hold his stare, wondering, “Are you?”

“Am I what, sir?”

I smile. “Afraid.”

The attendant smiles back, and even though his expression is perfectly neutral, his response is thick with snobbery. “Not of you.” After a beat, he adds a smarmy, “Sir.”

Sir? Heston? For years, I’ve never been called anything but ‘Mister Wilcox’ in this place. Guess that’s Sebastian now.

I give him a cold, calculating look. I wasn’t expecting much, but being turned away at the entrance is a bit much, in my opinion. If there’s one thing my father’s always loathed, it’s a ‘scene’. Kind of ironic, considering the two men he’s raised.

So this is how it’s going to be. Ghosted by my family. Turned away at the door. Stripped of my own last fucking name.

Straightening my jacket, I turn on my heel, striding toward the exit, but not before I notice the three people being escorted to the best table on the veranda. It’s a nice day outside. Sunny and clear. Slightly breezy. Warm, but not hot. The kind of day that’d lure anyone out of the dark, wood paneled Oxford Room that always smells of cigar smoke and liquor.

I don’t pause, knowing exactly what I’m going to do and exactly how I’m going to do it.

The front lawn is flawlessly manicured, an immense bed of flowers and hedges blocking off the side access to the gate that leads to the veranda. I crush a row of peonies under my shoes as I stride carelessly over the flowerbed, effortlessly slipping between two hedges. The veranda is fenced off, but that gate is laughable. I reach between the wrought iron bars, easily lifting the latch and swinging it open.

The elderly couple at the nearest table watches me suspiciously, expressions disapproving. Ignoring them, I march right through the tables, paying no mind to the whispers, the rising tension. Oh, yeah, word of my shunning has gotten around more than Warren over there, hasn’t it?

My eyes are fixed on my target; my father and his two business partners.

I deftly swipe someone’s mimosa from their table on the way, ignoring their shocked protest. I take an empty chair from another, carrying it the twelve feet to my destination.

Setting it down, I drop smoothly into the seat. “Afternoon, gentlemen.”

My father’s head