Devil Incarnate (Boys of Preston Prep #4) - Angel Lawson Page 0,5

another hard pull. Just my rotten luck. “Problem is, I’m not a great swimmer.”

She smiles placidly. “It’s an intro class.”

Nervously, I elaborate, “I don’t think you understand, Mrs. Gilbert. It’s not that I’m bad at swimming. It’s that I can’t. Like, at all.”

“You’ll be fine,” she insists, waving this off. “Coach James is a great instructor. And just think, you’ll finally learn how to swim!” She says this like it’s some amazing prize.

“Whatever,” I mutter. Taking that semester off has been nothing but a pain in my ass ever since. It follows me around like a nasty rash. It was freshman year, for fuck’s sake.

“Now that we have all that settled,” she says, closing my academic folder, “tell me how things are going.”

She gives me another ‘look’ and now we’ve entered the mental health checkup part of the meeting. I adjust the silver bracelets on my arm, trying to hide the rubber band. I’ve been using it since seventh grade. All my counselors say it isn’t a healthy coping mechanism, but personally, I think they’re wrong. A summer spent on my parent’s yacht, sailing the Caribbean, without a single lay is proof of that.

It’s not that I’m going cold turkey on sex or anything. I’m just setting boundaries. Limits. Reasonable goals. Four times per year—every three months. It’s totally fine. Quality is better than quantity, anyway. It’s like that dieting thing—intermittent fasting?—except with dick.

Intermittent dick fasting.

It’s not so bad. Sure, sex is all I can think about seventy percent of the time and my skin stopped feeling right about ten weeks ago, but truthfully, I’ve done great without dick. Totally great. Really, it’s been a huge reprieve. With all the time I’ve saved hunting for nice abs, I’ve even picked up some hobbies along the way. Calligraphy. Knitting. Beadwork. An ever-growing, finely curated database of all my favorite internet porn.

I pull my rubber band again.

Snap!

If I don’t get laid soon, I might fucking die.

“I’m good,” I say instead. “I spent the summer with my family. No social media, no drama, no problems whatsoever.” It’d been a nice vacation from reality. Specifically, the reality of Heston Wilcox’s court case.

“That’s nice to hear. And your medication? Everything going okay with that?”

I loathe people knowing my business. I know it’s part of the deal with them allowing me back in after I took the semester off, but still. I swallow back the irritation. “No changes with my meds. My shrink says they’re working.”

Mrs. Gilbert frowns at the word ‘shrink’ and scribbles some notes on her pad. Jesus.

“Now, I know a lot of your friends graduated last spring. Are you worried about anything, socially?”

Am I sad most of the Devils have graduated? Obviously. The Devils are my only real friends. I already know things this year are going to be a little harder—a little colder—without all of them beside me. “It stinks, but I still have friends here. Vandy Hall and Caroline Richmond?” Her eyebrows raise and I know she wants more. “I’m excited about my senior year. I’m ready to fill out those college applications and experience all the good things, like homecoming, prom, whatever comes in between.”

I told my mother I’m done with having a roommate. Six in four years is enough. She agreed, so I secured one of the suites. Naturally, my twin brother, George, threw a fit about it and demanded one of his own. It’s a drop in the hat for them financially, and the least they can do considering the hell I’m going to have to go through this year. My mother is beyond excited about all the senior traditions, and I know I have little choice but to take part in them. The suite is a fair tradeoff, but also painfully ironic.

Figures the year I’d start valuing quality over quantity is the same year I score my very own sex pad.

Snap!

Mrs. Gilbert looks suspiciously at the sound. “I just want to make sure you know that I’m here for whatever you need as you prepare for graduation.” She drones on about credits, references, and early admission applications. “Or even just to talk, Georgia. You can always come to me. I want this to be an exceptional year for you.”

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Gilbert.” I smile tightly. “I plan on it being my best.”

She assures me she’ll send me my updated schedule, and I walk out of her office and cross the campus. Already, the awareness of this being my last year here makes everything feel a little bittersweet.