Devil Incarnate (Boys of Preston Prep #4) - Angel Lawson Page 0,48

libido was too hyper-focused on the way he moved. It got so bad that I couldn’t even focus in the class that followed it. After dropping Art History, my GPA rose an entire point.

Now it’s almost a welcome distraction from seeing Heston at the club a couple hours ago.

A knock on the classroom door interrupts both Mr. Francis and my own disturbing fantasies. A younger student with braces and glasses stands in the entry, a note in her hand.

“From the Headmaster’s office,” she says, handing the note to Mr. Francis. He opens it and glances up, eyes meeting mine.

“Miss Haynes.” He holds up the note. The whispers and giggles start immediately. Speculations about why I’ve been called to the headmaster, no doubt. No one wants to get disciplined, including me. Especially if I haven’t done anything wrong. “You may want to gather your things.”

I stand and take the note from his fingers. “Thanks.”

The girl who brought the note scurries down the hall in front of me. “Hey,” I call out. She turns, looking anxiously back. I wiggle the note. “Do you know what this is about?”

She nudges her glasses up her slender nose. “Uh, they just put the notes in the cubbies and the office volunteers deliver them.” Shrugging, she adds, “They don’t give us details, sorry.”

Sighing, I reply, “Okay, thanks.”

Collins’ office is down a side hall, adjacent to the in-school suspension room. I take a deep breath and knock on the door.

“Come in.”

Opening the door, I cautiously step inside. The last thing I need is to get in trouble for something stupid, especially this early in the year. Especially so close to my debut. Especially alongside the rumors that are probably already flying around after Heston’s little stunt at the club a couple hours ago. My mother is going to have an absolute conniption.

Collins isn’t on the other side of the desk, though. Heston Wilcox is sitting casually in the leather chair, his long, slender fingers tapping an even rhythm on the arm. My heart flips anxiously in my chest.

“Shut the door.”

Frozen, I wonder, “What are you doing here?”

His cold eyes land on my hand. “Did I stutter? Shut the door.”

I consider leaving, but what if Collins knows he’s here? What if I really am in trouble? Heston is faculty now, which means he probably has the authority to punish me. Pushing aside the indignation that rages within at such an unjust thought, I close the door.

The resounding click makes my stomach churn.

Heston leans back in the chair, gazing down his nose at me. “I get the interoffice memos now that I’m an official ‘staff’ member. Collins is at a conference until five.”

Some of the tension drains from my shoulders as I realize what’s really happening here. “So you thought you’d hijack his office to harass me?”

“Harass?” His mouth tilts into a sardonic grin. “’Harass’, ‘assault’, ‘non-consensual’. You really go for the top-shelf buzzwords when it comes to me, don’t you?”

I cross my arms. “If the shoes fits…”

“So,” he says, picking up a paperweight and tossing it from hand to hand. “You’re fucking McAllister’s old man.”

“No, I’m not.”

“It makes sense,” he goes on, not listening. “He’s basically King Fuckboy of the forty-somethings. Sure, he’s old—plus, your friend’s dad, which is kind of gross—but the guy’s got experience. I’d expect that from you. And what forty-something fuckboy wouldn’t want to pull some busty, young tail?”

“Hello!” I wave my arms. “I’m not fucking Warren.”

Ignoring me, he leans forward, face mockingly pensive. “But you’ve only been eighteen for….what, two months? Three? And that lunch certainly looked cozier than a random one-off hook-up might suggest, which means—”

“That we’re not fucking?”

“—that he either fucked you when you were underage, or Warren McAllister is one of those pedo creeps who keeps a countdown clock of some nubile teen’s eighteenth birthday.” He pulls a grimace. “That’s pretty cringe.”

I roll my eyes, letting the silence sink in before asking, “Are you done?”

He slowly stands, chair rolling back behind him. Circling the desk, he approaches me, and I get this flash of what a predator looks like right before it pounces. Unfortunately, I don’t parse the thought in time to lunge away before he reaches out. One palm lands flat on the door beside my head, while the fingers of the other dip beneath the waistband of my skirt, yanking it down one hip.

“Look at it,” he demands, eyes hard.

I flinch away—not out of fear, but out of necessity. Vandy was right before. Being close to Heston is