Devil Incarnate (Boys of Preston Prep #4) - Angel Lawson Page 0,59

She swallows back her comment. I know I’m pushing it with her. She could snap and rat me out at any moment, but I know she won’t. I’ve got something on her that no one else does: the shame of her wanting me.

She ignores me during class, shooting daggers in my direction the whole time. I make her do the same walking and breathing drills Micha had done yesterday, and then I send him to the vending machine beside the dining hall to fetch me a bag of chips.

The look he gives me upon his return tells me exactly what he thinks of being my gopher. “I don’t think this bag of Doritos is going to help me swim better.”

“Sure it will,” I argue, taking the chips from him. “If your coach is hungry, then maybe he’ll be in a bad enough mood to make you join your classmate with all those drills.”

He drops beside me, smartly keeping his mouth shut.

At least for a moment. Mouthy shit. “It was just one absence,” he says, watching Georgia. “You’re being too harsh.”

“Funny,” I say, cramming a chip into my mouth. “No one would question Dr. Ross for giving a detention on account of a tardy.”

“Dr. Ross is a legitimate teacher.” Micha pulls a second bag of chips from his bag—some disgusting low-fat, low-sodium, organic atrocity. “Plus, all we do is give her shit for her tardy policy. And it’s not like Georgia’s bad. If she skipped out, she had a good reason.”

That’s beside the point. “What do you know about Haynes being good or bad? She’s a Senior. You’re a Sophomore.”

He shrugs. “I know she had a hard time, up until last year. She was quiet and kept to herself and always looked sad. Then, like overnight, she became one of the most popular girls in school. And it never got to her head. She was never mean or anything.” His eyes cut to mine, narrowing. “Unlike certain other popular people.”

Ignoring that lame-ass jab, I say, “Wait. What do you mean she got popular overnight?”

He tries to keep that glare up, but eventually looks away, shrugging. “Like one day she was a part of the scenery, and the next she’s sitting at the cool table with Afton, Aubrey, and Elena, and the rest of them. You know, the cool girls.”

I munch on another chip, watching Georgia duck beneath the water for the seventh time. “Who else was sitting at this table?”

He hums, thinking. “Emory and his sister. Plus, that guy she’s dating—Reynolds. Ben Shackleford and…what’s his name? Cal?”

“Carl.”

“Yeah.” Micha nods. “That’s right, Carlton. Also the diving guy, Tyson. Caroline was always with them, too.”

I roll this around in my brain, thinking this must have been them—the Devils and their Playthings. “What about my brother?”

“Sebastian?” Micha asks, blinking. “I don’t know. Sometimes? He mostly sat with the lacrosse guys, though.”

Just then, Georgia emerges from the water, wicking the water from her eyes. “That’s ten, I’m done.”

Once class is over, and she changes, she comes back out and starts on the list. My plan is to help her—or at least supervise, but a text changes everything.

It’s from my bartender.

Big Gene and his boys are asking for you. Seems important.

That could explain the calls. Fucking Friday evening and I’m stuck here at the pool instead of seeing to my business?

I don’t think so.

Georgia has just started untangling the banners that drape over the ends of the pool when I come out of the office, bag on my shoulder, locking the door.

“No way,” she says, pausing her battle with a knotted string. “You’re not leaving, are you?”

Smiling, I reply, “Think of it as some of that team spirit you were just telling me about.” Her jaw drops. “Oh, and don’t forget to turn off the lights when you’re done.”

“You’re a dick! You know that, right?”

I grin, because I know it’s killing her that I have the upper hand. She’s the one who’s fucked up here. Not me.

For once.

11

Georgia

* * *

“Mrs. Gilbert, I don’t know…”

We’re in the Preston Prep Auxiliary Hall, which is always used for stuff like this; odd, one-off club meetings and events. Every month, Preston likes to extend a hand to the surrounding schools in hopes of us mixing in with the locals. But I am a local. Like, basically. Sure, we have three beach properties, a mountain retreat, and a condo in France, but my home address is located a mere twenty miles from Preston.

“It’s your last year,” Mrs. Gilbert says, looking out