Touched by the devil, p.43
Touched by the Devil, page 43
part #3 of Boys of Preston Prep Series
I grit my teeth and turn away.
I’d expected a full crew, but the reality is a lot more depressing. It’s just Emory and Reyn, kicked back in a couple chairs, sharing some beers.
I go ahead and help myself to a bottle. “So where are the others? I know Ben’s out there getting practicing for his career as a minimum wage bouncer. Tyson’s too nice for conflict, so I get why he’s out. But what about Carlton?” Bitterly, I guess, “I probably know what he’s doing, considering I saw him hitting on her at lunch. Didn’t take him long, did it? Bet my used condom hasn’t even made it to the landfill yet and he’s already taking a run at her. Motherfucker.”
“Jesus, dude,” Emory says, face screwed up into a glower. “What the hell is going on with you?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” he spits back. “You come into classes every day hungover, looking like crap. That is, when you decide to actually attend. All the girls are riled up about whatever went down between you and Sugar. Vandy and Aubrey were the ones who asked us to talk to you. Even Afton said something, and you know she doesn’t get involved in trivial shit. I know break-ups suck, but this has gone somewhere toxic.”
“Look,” I shrug, “they’re Team Sugar. No skin off my back. You know, Hoes before Bros.”
“They aren’t Hoes,” Emory snaps. “They’re Devils, and they’re worried. We’re all a little worried. I mean, fuck, dude, you’re not exactly…” He waves a hand at me, as if encompassing my entire being.
I raise my eyebrows, waiting for him to continue.
“Stable,” Reyn cuts in, clearly having no problem throwing punches. “You’re not stable.”
I narrow my eyes. “Is Reynolds McAllister seriously judging my character? Because that’s like the pot calling the kettle—oh wait, someone stole the kettle. And the pot. And the whole fucking stove.”
Reyn just shrugs.
“No one is judging you,” Emory insists. “In fact, Georgia is convinced this is about Heston.”
I clamp my jaw shut, eyes narrowing. “Georgia needs to shut her cakehole.”
He ignores me. “Is it? Does this have something to do with Heston?”
I shove a hand through my hair and look away. Emory’s the only one who really knows my brother. Fuck, he idolized him and Bates when they ran this joint. But I also know that Emory wanted the Devils to be better than a group of pretentious bullying assholes. He wanted to make this into something worth being a part of. Kind of funny when I think about it—the long arm of Heston, still fucking the Devils up even after he’s left.
I take a long drag from my beer before admitting, “Heston found out about me and Sugar.”
There’s a long moment of silence before Reyn says, “Uh, so what? What’s the big deal. Did you think you could keep her a secret forever?”
“Did he say something?” Emory asks, eyebrows furrowed. “Did he threaten her?”
I think about the texts he sent me. It was an entire day of them. He found her school records. He knows she’s here on scholarship. He knows she doesn’t like being touched. Fuck, that one probably gets me the most. This thing I tried so hard to teach her was good and fine, and he’s more than willing to twist it into something ugly and awful, just to get back at me for…
I turn the bottle over in my hands, pressing my thumbnail into the glass. “He wants me to fight again.”
“You can’t,” Reyn instantly says, as if it’s that easy. “Unless you want your brain to turn into swiss cheese permanently.”
Rolling my shoulders, I grind out, “I know. But if I don’t, he’ll take it out on her. Fuck, if I do, he’ll take it out on her.”
Emory stares at me. “So what? You figured if you dumped her, he’d let it go?”
“He’ll lose interest if he thinks she doesn’t mean anything to me,” I explain. “If he doesn’t think he can use her against me, he won’t bother.”
“Then we go talk to him,” Reyn suggests.
“Oh geez, why in my eighteen fucking years on this earth had that never occurred to me? Thank you, Reyn! In two seconds, and with almost zero insight, you completely changed my life. Jesus Christ,” I say to Emory, jabbing a thumb to Reyn. “How much therapy has this guy had? Like everything can be ‘talked out’.”
Reyn just goes on, “Explain the situation. The concussion and everything. Work it out.”
Fist clenched tight around my bottle, I explode, “It doesn’t work that way with Heston!”
“You’re the toughest guy I know, Wilcox,” Reyn admits. “How bad can it be?”
I chuckle darkly. “You want to know how bad my brother really is? He’s the asshole who kicked his best friend’s girl in the face during a fire drill. He picks on little gay kids and mocks them in front of the whole school. He’s the one who preys on girls, films them in vulnerable positions, and hey, if they’re lucky, no one can see their face while he’s abusing them!”
I stand and start pacing the room, feeling the anxiety and anger rising. “He’s the kind of guy who sets up his little brother with an unfair fight that gives him a wicked concussion just to get a bigger payday. I’ve watched him drive our own mother to the edge of her own fucking sanity, just because she showed me a sliver of something he saw as favor.”
I turn to Emory, adding, “You know that pregnant cat? The one Sugar and I have been feeding? I took her home to have her kittens, and you know the first thought that popped into my head at the thought of leaving them in the house with him?” I look at Reyn, explaining, “That he’d kill them. Just because they were something I wanted to protect, something I gave even half a shit about. That’s who Heston is, and that’s what Heston does. Emory doesn’t even know the half of it. Being a Devil with him? That’s nothing. Try living with him. Being related to him. Being someone he’ll never see as anything more than competition.” I shake my head, tossing back my beer. “I will do everything in my power to protect Sugar from him, even if that means breaking her fucking heart and having her and the Playthings hate me forever.”
Emory and Reyn both look on, slack-jawed and still.
Reyn’s the first to break out of it. “But what about your parents? You dad? He’s powerful, right?”
I laugh darkly. “He is powerful, and he wields it to protect his kids, not the rest of the world.”
“Aren’t you one of his kids?” Emory wonders. “Doesn’t he want to protect you from him?”
I shake my head, raising my arms. “Heston’s his big, fat Wilcox heir. He’s got the Ivy League, the looks, the prickish attitude, and the Wilcox name. My dad’s been grooming him for this shit since he was born.”
“So be better.”
I turn a hot glare on Reynolds, feeling sort of like I want to bash his face in. “Excuse me?”
He just shrugs. “You’ve got all of that—or at least the opportunity to have it. Be better than Heston and your dad will choose you.”
“Be better than Heston,” I repeat, dumbfounded at his idiocy. “Sure, let me just go back in time and erase the fact that eighty percent of my favorite pastimes are illegal. Or that my dad has taught me fuck-all. Or that Heston was born first. That’s helpful as fuck, McAllister.”
“Well, you need to do something,” Emory cuts in. “Are you just going to live your entire life not wanting or having anything because you’re afraid Heston might fuck it up?”
“Looks like it,” I say bitterly.
“That’s not realistic, Bass.”
“How’s this for realism. You wanna know who he threatened before he found out about Sugar.” I give them each a tight grin. “Vandy. Just because Syd told him we were friends. That’s all it takes.”
Reyn doesn’t look so fucking blasé now. “Excuse me, he did fucking what?”
Emory barks a laugh. “I’d like to see him try.”
I tip my bottle at him. “That’s exactly why he won’t. Not because he’s afraid of you—he isn’t—but because I’m not worried. You see, it’s not fun for him unless I’m worried.” I down the last of my beer, tossing my bottle on the ground.
“So that’s it,” Emory asks, face grim. “You’re going to go back to fighting, just because that’s what he wants.”
I smile bitterly. “What Heston wants, Heston gets. Path of least resistance, Em. He won’t stop, and if someone gets in his way, he’ll bring everyone down with him.” I glance between them. “Look at the Devils. Heston organized that club prank and the whole group went down. He’s not afraid of cutting off his nose to spite his face. So,” I continue, “unless you have something that will take my brother out for good, I can’t risk it. I can’t risk her.”
Neither of them have a response to that, which is about fucking right. He’ll come after them next, and neither of them are going to risk it, either.
I don’t blame them one bit.
30
Sugar
Mr. Lee looks through my photos, one more time. I know from the way his lips turn down into a sharp frown what he’s going to say before it’s even out of his mouth. “But these two, at least?”
I don’t even look at them. “No, thanks.”
Mr. Lee has spent the last three days trying to convince me that the photos of Sebastian are the most compelling in my portfolio. The recruiters apparently are partial to portraits. I can’t even bring myself to look at them. The most recent ones, taken during that day at his house, had been developed the night after he dumped me. Locked down in the lab, watching his face appear in a grim parade of wound-rubbing salt hadn’t been my finest moment. There’s just something about putting the moments on paper—capturing them, locking them away, pinning them down—that makes it easier to let go.
Or, well. That’s how it used to be. Now it’s just a constant reminder that at one point, however briefly, Sebastian Wilcox had managed to snare the best parts of me.
Stings like a bitch.
Mr. Lee sighs, shaking his head. “That’s a real shame, Sugar. This one, with the fire…” He doesn’t make me look at it, but he does wait for me to meet his gaze. “This piece is the perfect representation of your style, the emotive nature of your work, and your skill and precision with a camera. I don’t want to push you somewhere you creatively—or emotionally—aren’t ready to go,” his sympathetic face makes it clear that he knows enough, “but I’d be remiss in my position if I let you walk out that door without telling you that this photo should be front and center. It’s your ticket, Miss Voss, plain and simple.”
Internally, I wince. The photo of Sebastian, taken the night of the bonfire, has been on my mind more than Mr. Lee could possibly know. Of course, it’s a great picture. It’s the best fucking photo I’ve ever taken. I know that. Nevertheless, “I’ll just stick with the graffiti.”
Unable to bring myself to even look at the photos I’d taken of him, Mr. Lee and I have reached a tenuous compromise. Even though it’s still like picking at a raw, gaping wound, we’ve decided my shots from the car shows were the best compromise.
He looks disappointed, but finally slides the photo back into the folder. “You can start setting up your exhibit on Saturday morning. I know it’s not a lot of time, but you were a late addition. Can you swing that?”
I assure him I can, even though I’ve lost all enthusiasm for it. It’s not all because of the way my chest feels like it’s caving in, pretty much every second of every day. It’s not all because of Sebastian. It’s not even because of my mom. It’s not because, in the span of a single day, I lost every bit of footing I’ve ever had. My past, my present, and now my future.
Mr. Lee is right. My car show pieces are good—some of them are even amazing—but most of them are just okay. Pedestrian. Formulaic. Entirely without feeling or substance. It’s a mediocre display of my capabilities.
But it’s all I can do.
Later that day, I’m back in my dorm, staring down at them, the spread of photos blurring into one indefinable blob of gray. It’s stupid. I don’t have time to keep waffling on this. The exhibit is in two days. It should be hard to dwell on the way my insides feel hollowed out when I’m so busy, but there are times when it still feels like I’m doing nothing but treading water.
Every night, before falling into a fitful rest, I think the next day will better. It can’t always be like this. One day, I’ll have to wake up and not feel this churning twist of grief and anger.
Hasn’t happened yet.
It’s pathetic. I know it’s pathetic. I’m pretty sure by now everyone around me knows it, too. Hell, even Mr. Lee knows it. Every time I lay in bed at night, staring sightlessly at the ceiling, only for Georgia to suddenly lean into my line of sight with that troubled look on her face, I know she’s thinking it. When Vandy links her arm with mine in the halls, determined to touch me even though it turns me into a mess of tangled things—taking it upon herself to adopt Sebastian’s quest of making me better—I know she’s thinking it, too. When Carlton approaches me at the lunch table, offering to slip me a little something to smooth out the rough edges, it’s because he’s thinking it.
I should be stronger than this. No one wants to be the girl whose whole life is consumed by some asshole guy. Especially one like Sebastian. As much as it hurts—all the fucking time, day and night—it’s also so goddamn mortifying that I fell for him, hook, line, and pretty-boy sinker.
It helps that life at Preston runs full steam ahead. When I’m not in class or studying for an exam, I’m prepping for the art exhibit, or listening to speculation about who pulled the prank at the basketball game. My break-up becomes old news as other drama unfolds among the students. Things move fast here. Which may be part of the problem. Sebastian Wilcox rolled over me like a rogue wave, cloaked by the darkness of the night sky, dragging me under until I couldn’t find my way to the surface again.
“Which one do you like best?” My rusty voice asks Georgia, holding out two black and white proofs. I took it the night at the mall. It’s of Jasmine, mid-curve, the shape of her silhouette transforming from the sleek, organic curve to a rigid, straight line. She’s going so fast that the shape is blurred at the edges. One version is a crisp black and white, while the other has kept the red saturation of the taillight’s eerie glow.
“Hmm.” She taps her pen against her lips. “I think I like the splash of color. It looks kind of retro, don’t you think?”
I look at the one she chose, preferring it, too. Of course, I would. It’d started out as my exhibit’s main aesthetic—black and white with selective pops of color—but that was back when my exhibit was still worth having.
My phone vibrates with a text and Georgia watches curiously as I read it. “It’s Vandy,” I explain. “She says he’s at lacrosse all afternoon, so we’re clear to go to the garage. She’s going to pick me up in five minutes to drive me over.”
Georgia frowns at the word ‘he’, pushing to her feet. “I’m coming, too. Let me get my shoes.”
I almost ask her not to bother, but the thought of saying it feels rude. Georgia has been a good friend—a better friend than I deserve. At first, all she and Vandy wanted to do was talk about what happened. I humored them for a while, going over it again and again…
The sex was fine, just not worth all the bullshit, truthfully.
They were determined that if they analyzed every word that transpired between us—every action—they’d be able to figure out why Sebastian dumped me like that. But after a couple days, I couldn’t take it anymore. Each time I went over it, repeating his cruel words, remembering his cold, flat stare, the heavy thing sitting on my chest burrowed in a little deeper. Eventually, I put my foot down and told them they had to stop obsessing over it, because I needed to stop obsessing over it. They aren’t the ones who have to walk around with this constant, yawning fissure inside them. They don’t wake up at night with wet cheeks, and in a moment of humiliating weakness, wonder why they weren’t good enough. What they said wrong. What they did or didn’t do. How they could have been better. If there were ever any hints that this was all just some sick game.
They don’t go around wishing that he’d look at them, just once.
That’s all on me.
Thankfully, they both respected my decision. But it seems like their fixation just shifted slightly to the side. Since then, they haven’t stopped talking about Sydney and the video they suspect Heston has on her. This seems to have struck a nerve with both of them, and it’s no surprise they’re discussing it, again, on the way to the garage.
“It’s just so crazy,” Vandy says. “That day Sugar and I saw her talking to Fiona, she seemed so weirdly proud of those bruises. Right, Sugar? I mean, she acted like she was pretty into it.”
“That’s what he does,” Georgia says from the backseat. I recognize this tone of voice from her now—low, a little too carefully controlled. She’s getting pissed, just talking about it. “You’re excited he’s giving you attention. He’s good-looking, popular, and smart. Who are you? Some nobody. You feel so lucky that he’s interested, you spend most of your time with him trying not to mess it up. Doing whatever it takes to make him like you—to make him happy. You go into it willingly, and then when he has sex with you…the way he…” she swallows, “…you know it’s not okay, but by then it’s too late. By the time you realize what really happened, it’s over and done.”
“You were a Freshman, Georgia. There’s no way you could have anticipated that.” Georgia glances at her in the rearview mirror. “Sydney is a little older, but she’s super immature. After being rejected by Reyn and Seb—him,” she glances apologetically at me, “I’m sure she was ready to prove herself. What better person than his brother?”
“Do you think she knows about the video?” I ask. I haven’t seen it. None of us have, but apparently, when Georgia confronted Sebastian about it, he confirmed it exists.
“I doubt it,” Georgia says. “I didn’t. Not until he leaked it and it went viral all over school.”
