Touched by the devil, p.21
Touched by the Devil, page 21
part #3 of Boys of Preston Prep Series
His.
The first blow is a hard punch to the hood. I kick out mindlessly, smashing the front side panel. Over and over, the dull thuds of my fists and boots sound in my ears, and it’s not enough. I grab a tire iron and slam it into a door. My muscles scream as I beat it into the car’s body, not out of exertion, but out of this rabid need to thrash and destroy. It’s like being hooked up to an exposed light socket, a constant feedback loop of shock and strike.
Everything.
He ruins fucking everything.
The more damage I see, the more I want to cause. I lop off a sideview mirror and keep slamming forward, raising the tire iron over my head to take out that fucking window next.
“Sebastian?”
I feel a hand on my back and I spin around, iron still held high.
Sugar’s standing there, face morphing into wide-eyed terror as she shrinks back, throwing her hands up. “Sebastian, stop! What are you doing?! Stop!”
It’s like the switch on that socket gets flipped. One second I’m boiling over with rage, and the next, I’m cringing away from it. She’s so small next to my car, up against my anger, that I suck in a shocked breath. The wave of emotion ebbs, pooling in my gut like a bitter, toxic waste.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Sugar! I could have—” If I’d hit her again? My life would be fucking over.
She’s still staring at me with those eyes. Those huge, alarmed, frightened eyes. “What the fuck is going on?”
“I—” There are no words for this. No excuse can transform this into anything resembling sense. There’s just me, with all my flaws, laid bare for her to see. I’m coated in sweat, still panting, the result of my outburst imprinted like scars upon the car, and I think yeah.
That’s it.
She’s going to run now. That stunt in Dr. Ross’s class was bad enough, but she could forgive it, because it was for Georgia. This? This is the exact kind of crazy, nonsensical, indiscriminate violence she’d accused me of. The perfect display of ‘I told you so’.
I wait for her to bolt.
Amazingly, she doesn’t. “What happened?” My knuckles burn and I flex them, wincing in pain. “Goddamn it, Bass, talk to me!”
Turning to brace my hands against the top of the car, I struggle for air. “I can’t fight him. God, I want to, so fucking bad, you have no idea. But I can’t. I can’t risk it, but I just…” I’m shaking and it’s not even just the anger. It’s that I could have hurt her. It’s that I’m wedged in this place I can’t get out of. It’s that I’m such a fucking slave to it all, unable to control this storm that’s always raging inside of me. “I hate him so fucking much.”
I choke on the words, hands balling into tight fists. It’s like I can’t fill my lungs anymore, breaths coming in shallow, barely-swallowed pants. I flinch at the sudden weight of her hand on my back, and I feel her flinch back in response
The weight returns almost instantly. “Take a deep breath.”
I inhale sharply, but it’s like razor blades in my lungs. Her arms begin winding around me, slow and careful, testing. I don’t know what to do with the warmth of her chest against my back, the press of her cheek against my shoulder.
“Breathe with me,” she says, chest expanding and contracting against me.
My body falls into the same rhythm as she guides me through a full breath. When I truly feel like I can breathe again, I shudder an exhale, hanging my head to gaze down at her arms around me.
Softly, I ask, “Can I touch you?” and I feel her stiffen.
“Sebastian,” she says, voice low and strained. “Please don’t make me say no to you right now.”
I nod, head feeling heavy on my shoulders, and push back from the car. The loss of her warmth against my back is like a physical pang. “Thank you.”
She’s shifting from foot to foot, looking cagey. “Who is this ‘he’ you keep talking about, and what does he have to do with beating the shit out of Jasmine?”
My jaw clenches. I don’t want to tell Sugar about Heston. I don’t want her to even know he exists, like just having him in her head would be enough of a violation. I sure as hell don’t want him to know she exists, but there’s a shit-ton of damage I have to clear up if I want her to keep touching me like this.
“My brother, Heston,” I explain, kicking a screwdriver toward the back of the car. “He’s forcing me to race tonight.”
She shakes her head, looking away. “I have a hard time believing you, of all people, could be forced into doing anything. So how does that work, exactly?”
I make a long, winding gesture. “It’s this whole long, complicated family history that I don’t have time to go into now. Let’s just say I have absolutely no choice but to race. And win. If I don’t…” I look at her, willing her to understand. “If I don’t, then I’d be putting someone in danger.”
Concern furrows across her forehead. “Danger? Who?”
I take another deep breath. “Just… someone important to me. Family.”
A flicker of emotion sparks in her eyes, but she just nods. “Then I guess you have to do what you have to do.”
My head jerks back in surprise. “You won’t be mad that I’m racing when I promised not to? Or that I just fucking flipped out and almost hurt you again? Or that I’m clearly everything you said?”
“I’m not mad about anything right now.” She holds my gaze unflinchingly. “If you think that racing tonight is that important, then whatever. That’s your business. But …” Her eyes move to the car, forehead creasing. “That was some seriously out of control, batshit tantrum. It just… it just freaks me the fuck out. What the hell? Jasmine means everything to you.”
I look over at the damage, and shrug, voice flat. “It’s just a car.”
She gapes at me, wide-eyed. “Just a car? Bullshit. You put your own labor into it, Bass. Don’t act like this car means nothing to you. You were going to make me walk back to campus just for spilling a drink in it.” She shakes her head. “I don’t believe that. Not for one second.”
In the distance, engines rev, creating an echo against the cement building and flat parking lot. A voice carries, announcing the start of the races.
“I have to go,” I tell her, bending to gather the tools off the ground. “Do you want me to find you someone to catch a ride back with?”
Her head tilts, confusion evident in her frown. “What do you mean?”
I toss the tools in the trunk, feeling raw and tired. “Well, I figure the chances of you wanting to ride back with me are pretty slim, considering that I fucked up and—”
She steps forward and kisses me on the mouth. The feeling is instantaneous, a burst of warmth through my body. Sugar ends the kiss almost as soon as it starts, pulling back and swallowing anxiously.
I touch my lips. “What was that for?”
“Luck,” she says, burying her hands in her pockets. “I guess whatever’s going on with your brother can’t be solved tonight. But if you need to keep someone safe, then do it.” Her eyes are full of steel and the shadow of a secret, like we’re conspiring against something bigger than ourselves. “Always. You get me?”
I stare at her, stunned, feeling both steadied and unmoored by this one tiny girl. She has every right to bail on me—to be afraid. But the racing, what happened in class for Georgia, Always. When it comes to protecting someone, maybe Sugar gets it.
It’s a more solid form of forgiveness than our truce ever was.
16
Sugar
I watch Bass’s car idle at the starting line over by the boarded-up Food Court. The crowd has grown since we first arrived, people of all ages hustling for a good place to spectate. It’s a strange, awkward mishmash. There are a few teenagers that look way too young to be out here, and then older gear-heads who should probably be at home with their wives and kids, and plenty of others who fall somewhere in between. It’s the same kind of vibe as last time; loud engines, air thick with exhaust, the occasional fireworks. The sulfur mixes with the clinging scent of weed, and heavy bass from portable speakers bounces off the buildings.
It’s a straight up party.
I take a deep breath and work my way toward where I spotted Georgia earlier, sitting in the back of Emory’s truck. Like always, crowds like this stress me out, but tonight it’s hard to really dwell on it. Instead, I dwell on Bass and what I just witnessed.
Because he beat the shit out of his car. His car. The car that he named and talks about as if it were an actual person. The car that, according to him, he’d built himself, through blood and sweat, without any help from his parents, something that’s completely his.
It’s not that it didn’t scare the shit out of me, because it did. Seeing him like that, all raged out, fists flying, made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Every nerve in my body was screaming at me to run. Each time he made contact with the metal of the car, I could almost feel it, remembering what it’s like being on the other side of that raw, angry power.
I should have run.
Instead, I squared my shoulders, marched up to him, and stopped it.
Stupid.
Completely, inexcusably, ridiculously stupid.
It just wasn’t like him. And knowing that, deep in my bones—knowing him well enough to understand this—was enough to drive me forward. People don’t just go around hurting the things they love for no reason. Not unless they’re complete psychopaths. Sebastian is a lot of things, but I’ve seen a real psychopath. I’ve lived under the heel of one for long enough to know the signs.
Sebastian Wilcox, for all his impulsive, hot-headed nature, isn’t that. This guy’s got some serious shit going on.
I didn’t want to run from him, I wanted to sink inside him. I wanted to cool his fire and be warmed by it, at the same time. I wanted to cut away all his frayed edges and see him still again. I wanted to pull him back from the chaos, because I’ve been wrong. So fucking wrong. That look in his eyes—angry and feral, yes—but also so full of anguish, is one I know well enough, and why shouldn’t I?
Until a few weeks ago, I’d seen it in the mirror, every goddamn day. I just needed to know. I needed to know that someone like Sebastian, so strong and sure, could grasp that anguish and conquer it. Because if Sebastian Wilcox can’t, then what hope do I have?
I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours practically gagging for a chance to feel him against me again, solid and alive. That part was easy, winding my arms around him, coaching him to breathe with me, our bodies flush. He was so warm, so strong, even on the verge of falling apart. Hearing the pain in his words, the admission that he was caught up in something bad with his brother. The guilt for going back on his promise to me. His need to protect someone.
It’s that warmth that I carry with me as I cut through the crowd to reach my new friends. I tuck into it like I’m hiding behind a shield, the tingling sensation of Bass’s body against mine. For so long, touch has been something so bad, so painful, that I truly forgot that it could also feel like this: good and pure and so warm that I just want to fall into it and stay there.
I already can’t wait to feel it again.
“Hey, you’re here!” Georgia says, when I finally reach her. She shifts over, giving me room to climb into the truck bed.
Aubrey and Emory sit on the top of the cab, his arms wrapped around her shoulders from behind. Along the sides of the bed, a few other kids from school are hanging out. I give them a small nod, watching Carlton sneak a sip from a longneck.
“Where have you been?” Georgia asks.
“Talking to Sebastian,” I explain, looking toward his car. I brought Mr. Lee’s zoom lens, and it’s not great for such low light, but I can just get Sebastian in frame, close enough to see the way he’s looking out the windshield, intense and eerily still. I press the shutter without thinking.
“Holy shit.” I can hear Emory shifting behind me, a slow inhale sucked through his teeth. “Is that Jasmine? What the fuck happened to his car?”
Carlton adds, “Oh, shit! She’s all busted up.”
Lowering the camera, I mutter, “He’s racing and isn’t very happy about it.”
“He is?” Emory says, glancing back at Ben. “Did you bet on him?”
Ben grins back, patting his front pocket. “Got it in at the last second. Sounds like he was a late addition.”
I slide him a cutting look. “He said his brother is making him race.”
They all look at me and Emory frowns. “Wait, you’re saying Heston is here?”
“I guess.”
“Where?” Georgia asks, looking around. I’m not imagining the way her expression shifts to something tight, hunted.
“I saw him a few minutes ago,” Aubrey says. “With Sydney Rakestraw.”
Emory’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. “Seriously?”
“Yep.”
“Jesus, not that I’d put anything past Heston, but since when does he sniff around high school girls anymore?”
I look to Georgia to get her reaction to all of this, but she’s uncharacteristically quiet. I ask, “This Heston guy… is he really all that bad?”
She ducks her head, hiding her face. “You know I love Bass. I mean, I’ve told you repeatedly to give him a chance, so obviously I’d vouch for him. But Heston?” She shakes her head. “That guy is a fucking psychopath.”
Carlton overhears and pipes in, “Hey, go easy on the psychopath community. Pretty sure even they don’t want to claim him.”
All of this is putting some of Bass’s meltdown into perspective.
“It’s about to start,” Ben says, nodding toward the parking lot.
“Do you mind if I stand up so I can get some pictures?” I ask, looking at Emory.
He looks surprised I’d bother asking. “Go for it.”
The set up tonight, while still make-shift and temporary, is less primitive than a straight drag race down the street like the first time I came. There’s an elaborate course, set up with cones and a few metal barricades. It’s hard to tell where the lines are, but it seems to arc all the way across the big parking lot, and loop back around.
“It’s one lap,” Ben says, noticing me surveying the course. “Whoever finishes first or without crashing, wins.”
I spot the Shelby—Jasmine—nose up to the line. Nerves spin in my stomach and I focus on my camera, the crowd, anything to keep my mind off what’s about to happen. I’ve seen Bass drive. I’ve seen him fight. I’ve seen him handle himself. I know his reflexes are good, but he didn’t exactly seem at his most level-headed. All that pent-up anger behind the wheel of a two-ton moving ball of steel doesn’t feel safe.
The flicker and glint of sparkles catches my attention and I press my eye to the viewfinder, watching through my camera. Someone is walking out in front of the two cars, but the most prominent thing I can make out about them is the fact they’re dressed in sequins.
And then, they turn.
I don’t bother trying to hide my smile. “Fuck me, is that…?”
“That is Micha Adams,” Aubrey says, her tone tinged with a similar awe. “He’d posted on his ChattySnap account that he was going to be here tonight and had a surprise for everyone.”
The kid saunters up to the beam of headlights, a red cloth hanging from his hand. His outfit is a sparkly red and gold, and his eye makeup matches flawlessly. The headlights hit him like the catch of sparks, practically making him glow. He looks like a smirking phoenix.
“He’s the flag girl—er, boy?” Emory declares or asks. I’m not sure he knows. But this kid, Micha? He knows. Goddamn, he’s glorious out there. My lens zooms in on him like a magnet, and through it, I can even see Sebastian grinning at the sight.
Micha raises the flag in the air, and everything goes suddenly still and silent. The two engines rev, and Micha has to know that everyone is watching him, waiting. Just like that, this little freshman holds a whole parking lot of party-goers right in the palm of his hand.
His arm drops, flag slicing through the air.
It’s a blur of smoke and the sharp smell of rubber at first, the two cars squealing off. Georgia and her friends spring up to watch, and I inch out a bit to avoid the press of their bodies. Sebastian’s car is a blur of blue as it approaches the south side of the building where I’d been photographing graffiti earlier, and then they both disappear around it.
I can still hear them though, the roar of their engines bellowing to us against the concrete. Everyone turns to the north side of the building, waiting in anticipation. My camera’s sensor isn’t good with high action shots, so I don’t bother. I loop it around my neck and wait with everyone else, and I don’t even know what the fuck.
Suddenly, I’m wanting Sebastian to win this thing so badly, I can taste it.
Ironic that it’s the first time I truly feel a sense of belonging in this place, all of us poised as one with bated breath, a strange patchwork of unified eagerness. The first car to come around the building drifts in a long, skilled slide of rubber and exhaust, and at first, it’s hard to tell which car it is. It doesn’t matter, though.
I know it’s him.
Jasmine careens around the track and the other car follows closely, gaining speed. My insides feel stiff and electrified as I watch the cars push and pull. Emory’s shouting, “Come on, Bass!” and Ben is emitting some truly embarrassing, screeching sort of sounds, but I can barely hear them over the sound of my heartbeat.
In the end, Sebastian passes the line of worn, jagged spray paint on the pavement in a whir of wind and the crowd’s celebratory shouts.
I deflate in relief at the victory,
“Not too shabby,” Carlton declares, “for a last-minute entry.”
Post-race is almost as much pandemonium as the first time, just with less cops. I pull back, not wanting to get into the push-pull of the people as they scatter about, even though I feel a weird spike of annoyance at the way everyone swarms his car. These people don’t actually understand. None of them saw him right before, that crackle in the air around him, like the electricity of a thunderstorm.
