Touched by the devil, p.3
Touched by the Devil, page 3
part #3 of Boys of Preston Prep Series
It’s the last time—I say it in my head like a prayer—the last time my step-father will ever hurt me. For the first time in years, this scream ends in a grin. I don’t need to look in the mirror to know it’s maniacal and slightly crazed-looking.
Preston Prep may be the home of the devils, but I’m not scared.
I’ve already survived hell.
Most of the drive is a slow unwinding. I feel freer than I have since before my dad died, like I can do anything, go anywhere, be whoever I want. It’d be naïve to call it happiness, but I feel optimistic enough to call it relief.
As if the fates are trying to take me up on the challenge, the Mustang sputters and wheezes a slow, painful death, three miles from campus.
So close, but so far.
Shit, shit, shit!
I manage to get my car pulled into the parking lot of a small diner and sit there for a moment, thinking. Unwilling to let this ruin my good day, I go through my usual series of troubleshooting steps. Pumping the gas. Letting it rest. Putting it into neutral. But all attempts at getting it back running are ultimately futile.
“Seriously?” I growl at the goddess who’s probably listening and laughing at me right now. “You couldn’t give me one fucking break?”
Thunking my forehead on the steering wheel, I sigh and look out the driver’s side window. Past the diner is another parking lot. Up by the road are stacks of tires. A garage. Halle-fucking-lujah.
“So, uh… thanks for picking me up.” I tuck my limbs in close, fingers laced together in my lap. “Kind of a shitty way to meet, but obviously I don’t know anyone else at Preston, and since you’d given me your number when we were assigned as roommates—”
“Hey, don’t sweat it,” Georgia says, tucking a piece of long red hair behind her ear. “I’ve been sitting around all day, bored out of my mind, waiting for everyone to get back. It was good to have something to do.”
She pulled up in a light blue convertible. It’s January, so the top is up. The smell of leather is still strong, making me think the car is pretty new. Of course, every car seems new compared to my big rusted pile of metal and sorrow. I knew the kids at Preston Prep had money, but when Georgia drives under the archway leading to the academy, I’m pretty sure that the Mustang breaking down may have been more of a blessing than a curse. It would have stuck out like a sore thumb in this place.
“Have you… been at Preston long?” I ask in a feeble attempt at small-talk. This girl and I have fuck-all in common. She looks sweet and put-together. Normal. Easy. Her clothes are nice and feminine, and she’s wearing jewelry—delicate golden necklace, silver hoop earrings. Her fingernails are painted pink. Back home in The Cliffs, we make fun of girls like her.
I’m wearing some ratty jeans and an old band tee, hidden beneath a denim jacket that people around here would probably refer to as ‘vintage chic’. I just refer to it as ‘the only jacket my mom had in the back of her closet’. The only thing close to jewelry I own are the pair of dog tags hanging around my neck. My nails are chipped and bitten down, cuticles rough. Here at Preston, girls like her probably make fun of girls like me.
“Since middle school,” she says. “Before that, I was at the primary school, which isn’t technically the same school but it’s not much different. Uh, a few years ago I spent a semester abroad, too. But, basically, I’ve been in this same circle of hell my whole damn life.”
She screeches into a parking spot between a BMW and a Tesla and pops the trunk. I get out and walk around to the back of the car, grabbing my suitcase. I’m pulling out the handle when I notice a shiny, royal blue muscle car across the lot. It’s a Ford, way nicer than mine, and I can’t help but think I’ve seen it before. “Is that a play on the whole Devil thing, or is this place really a hellhole?”
She laughs and points me toward a brick walkway. “A little of both, I guess. I don’t hate it here, but I’ve got a better group of friends now. For a while there, things were rocky.”
I give her a look out of the corner of my eye, doubtful. Nothing about the way Georgia holds herself signals a lack of confidence. If anything, she looks like she belongs here. Even the other few students milling around barely spare her a glance.
Me, on the other hand…
“You’re going to want to cover that up tomorrow,” Georgia says, pointing to my wrist. “Visible tats are against Preston’s code of dress. Totally lame.”
I look down at the tattoo on my wrist. It’s just a small thing—something I’d gotten to honor my dad. Two raven wings and a date. It’d been last year, back when the thought of being touched was distasteful, but not quite this fucking horrible, heart-stopping thing it’s become. A part of me always feared this would happen—that the skin-crawling whirr of anxiety that came from being touched would someday graduate to a Full-Blown Issue.
Well.
Here it fucking is.
I’d done a lot stupider things than the tattoo back then, but none as permanent. I don’t regret it, but the dark ink on my wrist serves as more than one reminder.
Firstly, there’s no one left to protect me. No one is going to stand between me and the Dougs of this world. I’m all I’ve got, so I better be real fucking good at it.
Secondly, there’s no making this thing—the way I feel when people touch me—any better. I tried. I did the work, I played at being normal, and it just got made worse. It’s easier now, just accepting it for what it is, seeing it as a part of me, as much as the color of my hair or the freckle on my collarbone. Everyone has problems. We’re supposed to be able to cope with them, but sometimes we just can’t. Sometimes we have to learn to avoid. It’s not cowardice. It’s just survival.
We cross the campus, and there’s no doubt that, even in the dead of winter, it’s beautiful here. The Briar Cliffs have their own beauty, but it’s not timeless. You need to be awake to watch the sunrise over the river, but if you are, it’s real pretty. Quiet. Tranquil. Sometimes, going to the cliffs at six in the morning with nothing but my camera and a big cup of coffee was the only thing that got me through. All of that pretty tranquility only lasts for a blink before time steals it away, the Cliffs morphing back into gloom and bad odors.
But that’s what the camera was for.
Here, even at noon, it’s like something out of a movie. I have a clear view of the bell tower, something I’ve only seen online or in the brochure that came in the mail. Thinking it might be a good place to snap some shots, I nod at the tower, wondering, “Can you go up in that?”
A small, secretive smile lurks on her lips. “Technically, yes, but like everything else in this place, it’s not that easy. That tower belongs to the Devils and no one goes up but them.” She cuts her eyes at me. “Or an invited guest.”
Whatever the hell that means.
“The Devils?” My suitcase has been rolling behind me, thumping on the uneven bricks, but stops suddenly. I look back and see that the wheel’s stuck. I wiggle to get it out and her hand reaches out, grazing mine.
I flinch away.
“I think it’s wedged between those bricks…” She meets my gaze and I do everything I can to keep my expression neutral. The wheel gives, popping out of the crevice, and she grins. “See?”
She holds out the handle and slowly I reach down and grip the side of the bar. This is easier back home. Most people already avoided me, anyway. And the ones who don’t? Well, let’s just say the Briar Cliff motto has a lot to do with minding your own damn business and not asking too many questions. It’s a whole culture. This girl is looking at me like she’s dying to know why my face is white as a sheet.
“Thanks.” My heartbeat pounds in my ears, lungs feeling constricted. I search for something, anything, to redirect. I shouldn’t be surprised. This ridiculous plan to masquerade as someone whole and normal was always a feeble hope. “So, uh, the Devils? What’s that all about.”
“Oh, right,” she says as though nothing has happened. Outwardly, nothing has. It’s just me, being a freak. I take a deep breath with every footstep. “It used to be a douchey group of guys that ruled this place with a special brand of bullying.”
“Basic assholes,” I say.
“Pretty much.” She leads us in the direction of two large, red brick buildings. There’s one on each side of a grassy courtyard. “They actually got disbanded last year. Total drama.” She rolls her eyes. “But a few months ago, there was this like, reemergence. Seems like maybe they’re back.”
I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I do make a solid note to myself that I don’t want anything to do with any of that. I’m here to get away from bullying assholes, not dive back into it.
“So anyway,” she continues, leading us up to one of the buildings. ‘Hayden Hall’ is carved over the dorm. “Don’t go into the tower unless you’re invited and only if you want to.”
“Got it.”
She lifts her arms wide. “Welcome to the dorms. Girls live in Hayden. Boys in Cresswell.”
I look up at the building that will be my home for the next six months and take a deep breath. I don’t know anyone here, and no one knows me. Exactly how I want it.
Sleep should come easy to me, knowing he isn’t just down the hall. But even though I don’t feel the deep thrum of building panic, it’s still difficult. The room is unfamiliar. The lights from outside play against the wall in a way I’m not used to. The sounds of Georgia’s breaths and sleep-shifting is a constant reminder that I’m not alone in here.
It’s stupid. Georgia really seems okay, even though she’s a little physical for my tastes. Her hands are constantly moving, touching her hair or face, reaching for things—me. In just a few short months, I’ve become a master of standing just outside of the contact zone. It’s tiring, I think, staring up at the white ceiling. My hand is clenched around the shaft of the knife under my pillow, the way a kid would cling to a blanket, getting used to other people’s movements. At home, even with Doug invading my space all the time, he was familiar. Dangerous, but familiar.
The devil I knew.
When morning comes, I dress, pausing only when Georgia rolls over in her bed, yanking her pillow over her head. It’s easy to sneak out the door.
My goal is to get where I need to, either early or late. The less people around the better. I need to build a system here, a solid routine that reduces the likelihood of contact as much as humanly possible. From the quick tour Georgia gave me the night before, I locate the dining hall easily. I grab a coffee and a bagel, swiping my meal card through the little slot. The green light blinks, approving it—approving me. There’s this hum of background anxiety that people will realize I’m not supposed to be here, that it was all a mistake. I mean, who gives a scholarship to a girl mid-way through the year, and especially Cliff trash like me?
You’re nothing, you hear me? You’re trash. No one wants you.
Well, the Adams Scholarship did.
Getting out of the Briar Cliffs had long been a dream of mine, one that seemed desperately out of reach until college at the very least. But I’d subscribed to a newsletter that lists available scholarships to private schools and prestigious camps, and buried in with the rest, I saw one for Preston Prep that hadn’t yet been awarded this year. I applied on a whim, meeting the criteria for low income, academic excellence, and—with the help of a portfolio thrown hastily together on the public library’s scanner—creative potential. My tragic background probably lent a helping hand, too. What I was, most of all, was desperate to get out of my house and just… away. It could have been a shack on the side of the highway, and it would have been enough for me. If I hadn’t been accepted here, I probably would have run away eventually. I’d have just gotten into the Mustang and went as far as it could take me. I’d been shocked when the email came, announcing I’d won.
Three weeks later, here I am, standing among the ancient oaks, historic buildings, and a dining hall that looks straight out of Harry Potter, trying to figure out how to fit into a world with rich kids, secret societies, and world class facilities.
I go out the exit just as the entrance door swings open, and a group of guys walks in. Perfect timing, as planned. They’re a blur of red and black. Letter jackets, names and awards stitched on the back, shouting greetings at the workers, banging trays along the serving line. They jostle against one another, and there’s no hostility in it, but my ever-present unease stills simmers under the surface.
I walk out the front door and head toward the parking lot, prepared to walk the three miles to the garage to check on my car. I need the time and cool, fresh air, to think about how I’m going to pay for getting my car fixed. I have eight-hundred dollars in my bank account, which is all that’s left from my summer job. Everything on a classic car like the Mustang is expensive, always costing more than is strictly necessary for the piece of junk it is. I know once the mechanic gets under the roof, he’ll find even more problems. A smart person would sell it for scraps and buy something reliable and dependable. But there’s no way I can do it.
Halfway there, the deep rumble of a muffler echoes off the pavement. I turn and see a burst of shiny bright blue as it streaks past, the leaves on the street and my hair blowing from the gust of wind it creates. I catch sight of the license plate before it vanishes down the road.
JAS-MIN.
By the time I see the glowing diner sign up ahead, I’m thinking I may have a plan. If the repairs cost more than what I have, maybe they’ll let me put it on a payment plan. I can get a job after school and pay in increments. It’s not like I’ll need it much since I’m living on campus. They can hold onto it until I can pay in full.
I take a deep breath and cross the street, walking up to the garage. Even though it’s Sunday, one bay is open, and the sound of fast, hard music carries into the parking lot. Merle, the manager, told me he’d be here by ten and it’s only 9:30. I consider the fact he’s here already to be a stroke of rare luck and head through the open door.
The Mustang is up on one of the lifts, but the first person I see is bent over the hood of a different car—the blue Ford. Jas-min.
He must hear my footsteps because he emits a hard sigh and says, “Not open yet.” In a lower mutter he probably doesn’t expect me to hear, he adds, “So fuck off.”
His jeans are faded, pale blue, frayed at the cuffs that hang over the tops of his black Converse. I don’t know who this guy is, but it’s definitely not sixty-year-old Merle, in his army green jumpsuit. I see his hand reach into the toolbox, knuckles red, streaked in grease. My hair-trigger fight or flight response tickles at my sore neck and I take a step back, deciding to wait outside. I need some air, anyway.
My foot catches on something, and the sound of metal clanging to the ground bursts through the garage. The mechanic tenses, and then jolts up, taking care not to hit his head on the roof of the hood. It’s his hair that I see first; fine, almost white, pushed messily above his forehead. But it’s his eyes that squeeze all the air from my lungs. They’re intense, piercing, and horrifyingly familiar. Even if I hadn’t already met him once, I’d still know those eyes anywhere.
They’re the impending promise of chaos.
Nothing makes him less terrifying, not even the surprised part of his lips. My hand goes to my jaw and I will my feet to move. That’s the problem with my body. It never cooperates anymore.
His fault, my brain hisses.
“Damn, girl, you startled me,” he says, running his greasy hand down his thigh. “You’re looking for Merle, right? He doesn’t usually get in until a little later on Sunday. But I guess…” I don’t miss the way his eyes rove over my body, nor the way his demeanor has grown suddenly friendly. “Maybe I can help.”
“No,” I say, voice flat and hard, hand curling around the knife in my bag. “I think I’ve had enough of what you call help.”
His eyebrow lifts, accentuating the scar slicing down toward his eye. His gaze sweeps from my head to my toes once more, and every hair on my body stands on end. I force my legs to move and take a few steps back.
“…not to sound egotistical or anything—but everything is about me.”
The memory of his voice, that whole night, barrels down on me like a runaway train that only gains speed when he steps toward me.
“Stop!” I shout, pulling my knife from my bag and thrusting it toward him. “Come one step closer and I swear to god I’ll cut your fucking balls off.”
His face goes slack before screwing up angrily. “What the fuck’s your problem? I was just—” His eyes narrow, and I see the wheels turning, tension drawing into his pretty face. His grip tightens on the wrench in his hand, eyes sparking in recognition. He breathes a low, “Aw, fuck.”
He knows. He remembers. My jaw twinges in memory, too. It was three weeks before I could eat solids again, and it still aches sometimes, like a phantom blow. It’s not like I can’t take a punch. Eight years with Doug taught me everything I needed to know in that regard. It was the randomness of it. The lack of expectation. The knowledge that Doug could be anyone, anywhere, at any time.
I’m never safe.
Not from people like them.
“Look,” he begins, holding his hands up defensively. “That night at the Briar Cliffs, I never meant—”
“Shut up.” The only thing that’d make it worse is an apology. ‘Sorry’ is bullshit. I’ve heard enough of those in my life to know. “Tell Merle I’ll be back about the Mustang later.”
His eyes dart to the car on the lift, and he looks at it much like he just looked at me. I use the distraction to make a hasty retreat, running out of the enclosed garage and back into the cold winter air. I’d done everything I could to get away from the abusive asshole back home.
