Devil Incarnate (Boys of Preston Prep #4) - Angel Lawson Page 0,47

in the face.

Before I can, a steady hand lands on my shoulder. “Easy now, son,” Warren McAllister says to me, voice low. “You don’t want this blowing up.”

I follow his gaze to the approaching guards, mere feet away. Looking back to my father, I bite out, “I need to know about the Preston Devils.”

My father’s lip curls. “That’s why you came here? To ask about some asinine high school secret society? What about them?”

“Rumor has it they’re back in action,” I explain.

“Then they’re even more asinine than they used to be,” he says, returning to his salmon. “Being their downfall, however indirectly, was the only useful thing you ever did.”

One of the security guards approaches us, jerking his chin toward the gate. “Time to leave, Heston.”

I refuse, “I’m not done here, yet.”

But Warren’s tugging my elbow, whispering, “Leave it, son.”

I rip my arm from his grip, whirling at him. “I’m not your fucking son!” Turning to my father, I thrust a finger in his face. “I’m yours. And you can’t take my fucking name away.”

Sidestepping the security guard, I march through the veranda, dodging scandalized looks and badly veiled, whispered insults. Fucking sheep. I pass Warren’s table, where Georgia seems to be gathering up her things, shooting me a dark glare as she stands.

“Happy now?” I growl, not stopping to hear her response.

I storm out the same way I came in, passing the old couple and out the side patio gate. I press my back against the building, waiting for security to pass in their decked out golf cart. Once they’re gone, I step out of the flower beds and onto the sidewalk. I shove a fist into my stomach and try to breathe through the churning, fiery ache. Liesel used to say I probably had an ulcer, but it’s never been anything like this before. Bad enough that my face screws up in pain.

“He just needs time.”

I jerk my head in the voice's direction. McAllister leans against the wall, a cigarette between his fingers. I narrow my eyes, straightening. “What did you say?”

“Your father. He needs time. I know I needed it when Reyn fucked up.” He takes a drag on the cigarette and then exhales. “It’s painful watching your kid ruin their lives—because you know deep down that you’re part of the blame.”

I snort. “You really don’t know my father at all. He doesn’t blame himself for shit.”

He shrugs. “Give him time. And a little space.” He looks me up and down. “And get your shit together, Heston. Prove that you’re not the fuck-up he thinks you are.”

Smiling bitterly, I shake my head. “That’s where you’re wrong, Warren. I am the fuck-up he thinks I am. And so what, you know? This is me.” I hold my arms out. “This is what I am.”

“You’re a Devil. Devils are never perfect. Hell, we’ve all got our troubles. But we’re also strong. Powerful. Smart. Just because you’ve forgotten that doesn’t mean it’s not who you are. Your father,” he says, glancing back over to the patio, “isn’t a Devil. Not anymore. He wouldn’t get it.”

“But you do?”

He doesn’t answer, turning and stubbing the cigarette on the side of the building, before tossing it in a nearby trash can. I can’t help but watch him go, wondering what it would be like to have a father who actually listened, who understood that I’m my own person—that I’m not him.

I laugh darkly at the idea. Even though my father has banished me, one thing is certain. He still owns me, and there’s no way to change that.

9

Georgia

* * *

The only thing stopping my thoughts from spiraling me into a black hole of self-hatred is that I’m in World History listening to Mr. Francis animatedly discuss the French Revolution. Mr. Francis is in his thirties, handsome, and has really nice hands. He moves them a lot and I can’t help but watch them, thinking about how they’d be good at different things. The piano, maybe? Art? Other, more personal, actions? A gold wedding ring glints on his finger and I push that thought away. I often wonder how hard it would be to seduce a teacher, even though I’d never have the guts to do it—especially considering what happened between me and Reyn’s dad.

But the fantasies—intrusive, captivating, awful things—are difficult to stop. Sophomore year, I went out of my way to be transferred out of Mr. Kent’s Art Appreciation class. I couldn’t pay attention to a single thing, because my freak of a