Devil Incarnate (Boys of Preston Prep #4) - Angel Lawson Page 0,73

you’ve gotta admit, I always take care of my own shit. I don’t need other people to do it for me like some little bitch.”

She tilts her head to stare at me. “Fuck you, Heston.”

I shoot her a look. “On whose terms?”

She takes in another wet sniffle, swinging her damp eyes away. “We can do it like that, I guess.” Quietly, she mutters, “It’s better the other way, though.”

I scoff. “For you, maybe.” Although it will be a shame not to see those tits bouncing. I reach down to adjust myself, feeling her eyes track the motion, forehead creased.

“Really?” she says, eying the bulge in my pants. Her voice might drip of judgment, but there’s a dark eagerness in her expression.

I give it a squeeze. “Girls are hot when they cry.”

The eagerness disappears instantly. “Oh, my god!” Most of it, anyway. She still gives my boner a second—a third—glance. “You’re a legitimate psycho, you realize.”

Shrugging, I say, “Happens to all guys. Comforting a crying girl is a straight shot to boner-ville.”

She barks a disbelieving laugh. “That was you comforting me? ‘Be the best slut you can be’? Seriously?”

“Yeah, a little too touchy-feely for me, too.”

Despite her horror, she’s still chewing on that lip pensively. Her voice drops. “Do you, like, want to?”

“I’m a guy, I always want to.” Still, I look around. Georgia might be too horny to consider these things, but I’m sure as fuck not. “Even a gambling addict wouldn’t play these odds, Little Red. Maybe later, when I’m not in danger of getting caught nailing a student beside the dumpsters.”

She looks disappointed, but nods in agreement.

* * *

Monday is bullshit, from the second I wake up to Headmaster Collins banging on my door.

“What have you found?” he asks, that comb-over of his immaculate.

I have to rub the sleep from my eyes before I can glare at him. “Aside from a new and interesting dislike of you? Almost nothing.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Almost?”

“Jesus Christ,” I groan, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Is this really something we need to talk about at seven in the morning?”

His jaw sets, eyes narrowing. “We’ll talk about it when I want to talk about it, Heston. Or have you forgotten the whole reason you’re here?”

“Fine,” I bite out, folding my arms over my chest. “Benjamin Shackleford and Carlton Wade.”

Collins frowns. “What about them?”

“They were Devils.”

It’s a useless piece of information, and from the look on his face, he knows it. “They both graduated last year. How is this supposed to help me?”

“Look,” I start, teeth grinding, “I’ve been here a week. I’m not sure what you were expecting, but I’m not just going to stumble into a secret society over a single weekend.”

It’s a lie, of course. I have the key and I know what doors it opens. But I haven’t looked at that memory card yet. My laptop is sitting on top of my nightstand. At home. The one I’m banned from even entering. Knowing my father, they’ve probably already wiped and donated it. I need to pilfer one from the computer lab, I just haven’t had the time.

I’m not handing over information until I know what that information is.

“Figure it out,” he snaps, leaving in a huff.

The day doesn’t get any better from there. I manage to snag some lap time between classes, but when I emerge from the pool and make my way to the office, I realize my clothes have vanished.

Shirt, pants, shoes, even my fucking socks.

I spend the next three hours stomping around the natatorium, interrogating anyone I see. Two middle-schoolers start crying loudly—fucking annoyingly, I might add—when I threaten to write them up. I storm away in hopes of finding someone with thicker skin, but they’re all like that. Dumb, sniveling little shits. I have to sprint to my apartment for spare clothes and rush back to make my next intro class, but I don’t have extra shoes, so I’m forced to wear my shower slippers for the rest of the afternoon. I skip dinner, not in the mood to listen to a room full of teenagers give their opinions on my choice of footwear, which makes this annoying fucking situation with my stomach even worse.

But the worst part about it is that it’s Monday—my goddamn Monday—and I’m stuck in this stupid independent study class with Georgia and Micha until eight. I rub at my temples as Micha argues about doing drills.

“It’s not really teaching,” he’s saying, mouth a tight line. “I don’t see why we