Devil Incarnate (Boys of Preston Prep #4) - Angel Lawson Page 0,79

It’s not until one leg dips and I crane my neck that I realize I’m in the much, much deeper section of the pool. I make eye contact with Heston and yelp, sinking like a stone.

It isn’t like before, where I let the calm and silence engulf me, too fascinated by the weightlessness of oblivion to bother being afraid of it. This time, I fight, kicking my legs and whipping my arms frantically through the water. A moment later, powerful arms wrap around my body and drag me back to the surface.

“You okay?” he asks once we’re close to the side of the pool. Our faces are inches apart and his breath is warm, strangely cinnamon-y, like he chewed gum at some point. His lips are red and look so soft that I’m briefly mesmerized by them. I’m only broken out of it when his fingers push the hair off my cheek, grazing my chin.

“I’m—” Lost. Horny. Hot. I swallow. “I’m fine.” And then, “That was five minutes, right?”

It was not even remotely five minutes.

Heston’s mouth curls into a slow, devious smirk. “Sure was.”

“How does this sound,” Vandy says, holding up a sheet of paper. “After surviving a harrowing accident and struggling with a pain killer addiction, I’ve become stronger and more capable.”

Caroline taps her pen against her lips in consideration.

I stare at the two of them like they’ve lost their damn minds. “You can’t put that,” I say. “You can’t. Especially not the drug stuff! The Deb committee will lose their shit.”

“But it’s the truth,” V says, unapologetic. “It shows my resilience and strength.”

“To normal people? Sure. But to sixty-year-old society women, it shows that you’re a weak and flawed hooligan with loose morals, not proper debutante material.” I sink into the booth. We’re in the back corner of The Nerd working on our bios, and even though I’m thrumming with impatience to get back to campus and meet up with Heston, I’m trying my best to achieve that whole ‘focus’ thing. “My mom has been preparing me for this my entire life. Trust me, they want to hear about how perfect you are and what a great wife you’ll make. That’s all they want to know.”

“It’s not 1958, Georgia,” Caroline says, dipping a couple fries into her milkshake. “We’re progressive women.”

I hold up the brochure we all received at the first meeting. It’s half schedule and half manifesto, filled with various criteria for ‘coming out’. “We have to wear white dresses, pearls, and white elbow-length gloves. White gloves. And look at this! There’s literally a footnote in here that suggests ‘the donning of a hoop skirt would be acceptable’. A fucking hoop skirt? Come on. There is nothing progressive about it. They want chaste little Stepford virgins, not individuals. Personalities need not apply.”

Vandy slumps, frowning. “Then what do I write about?”

“Cover the accident. Leave out the part about the stolen car. Talk about your struggles, but focus on your successes. You know, like the newspaper and your grades and stuff.” I toss the brochure on the table. “Definitely do not mention being a Plaything.”

They nod at the last one. That we can all agree on.

“What about you? What are you writing about?” Caroline asks.

I shrug because my bio was written ages ago. “My service work. My dedication to Preston. My time studying abroad.”

Vandy’s eyebrow shoots up. “Uh, Georgia? You never actually studied abroad.”

“Yeah, well, no one knows that. I mean, except for the Devils, and since they’re a secret society, it shouldn’t be a problem.” Lowering my voice to a discreet whisper, I add, “It’s not like I can announce that I had a mental break because a sex video of me went viral.”

“It’s just so dumb that we can’t be ourselves, you know?” V smiles cunningly. “Imagine the three of us just going up on the stage and laying it all out there. God that would be glorious.”

I hum, but not really in agreement. I’ve had my dirty laundry out there before, and it’s not fun. It’s exhausting. I feel like all my energy is spent running from my truth—running from what I really want, who I am, and what I feel—but being able to put on a white dress and pretend like I’m someone worth having in society is the only plus about this whole thing. It’s fake. Blessedly fake.

We work for another hour, but on-campus curfew is approaching, and I don’t want to risk being late.

Okay, that’s a lie.

I can’t risk missing out on Heston’s