Touched by the devil, p.46
Touched by the Devil, page 46
part #3 of Boys of Preston Prep Series
I scoff. “This shit again? I already told you I don’t give a fuck about Sydney.”
But Heston smiles, sharp and menacing. “Imagine she was someone else.” He nods at the look on my face, voice pitched low when he leans in to hiss, “I will fuck her within an inch of her life.”
Everything goes a little fuzzy then, because I do. I imagine him doing to Sugar what I saw him doing to Sydney.
Heston hits the ground so hard, I can practically hear all the air escaping his lungs. He tries to push me off, but I get a knee into the center of his chest, pull my fist back, and slam it forward. The crowd from before notices a new skirmish and quickly surrounds us, swallowing up the sounds of my knuckles meeting Heston’s face. He tries to buck me off, that vein still bulging, but it barely moves me. He tries to turn his head away from the blows, but I don’t mind hitting his fucking skull, so that’s what I do.
I beat the shit out of him.
It’s the easiest fight I’ve ever had.
He strikes out, of course. He lands a few clumsy, wayward hits. One to my throat, another to my already-swelling eye. That shit doesn’t even slow me down. The longer I kneel there over him, finally—fucking finally—burying my fist into his face, the hotter the thing inside me burns. It’s hungry and eager, exactly what was missing from the fight before. And every memory, every threat, every goddamn bit of hurt he’s inflicted on the people I love is like a steady source of gasoline, feeding it.
I could hear Ben and Carl egging me on before, but now they’re quiet, even as the crowd is losing their goddamn minds. I barely register how fucked-up Heston is looking—bloody and apoplectic—or how my knuckles have gone numb, or that I can barely see out of my right eye.
I don’t stop hitting him.
Not until Emory pulls me off. “Cops, dude. We have to bail. It’s done, Bass. It’s done!” My fists are still swinging, even when he’s yanking me back. It’s not until Reyn takes my other arm and drags me away with him that I finally let go. I keep my eyes on him, writhing on the ground, turning to his side to spit blood on the ground below. A sick surge of satisfaction rises within me at the sight, which is new and interesting. I’ve fought a lot of guys in my time, but winning has always just been something that came to me like a bare fact. I never got off on it. It never made me feel good to know I’d hurt someone, even when they were dicks.
Now, I do.
I feel it as I shake Reyn and Emory off, and then some more as we run toward Em’s truck, the crowd dispersing in much the same way. The park is filled with blue flashing lights so quickly that, for a moment, I begin worrying about another concussion. It’s not, though.
It’s just that two cruisers are that close, sirens blaring harshly in the silence of the park. We jump into the truck—closer than the Shelby—but even though Emory cranks the ignition, he doesn’t put it into gear.
“Oh, shit,” he says, leaning over the steering wheel. “Reyn, look.”
From the back seat, I crane forward to see why the fuck we aren’t peeling out of here. Four officers are surrounding Heston, probably because he’s beat to shit and sitting there, too gassed to flee.
It takes me too long to wonder why they’re putting him in cuffs, but no one else.
There are at least five other people dragging ass at running away. The cops don’t even spare them a glance. It’s almost like they didn’t come to break up the party.
It’s almost like…
“I told you,” Em mutters. And then, louder, turning to me with a shit-eating grin, “I fucking told you our girls were handling that fucker!”
Reyn’s razor-sharp smirk beams back at me. “Guess your dad didn’t bail him out, this time.”
I hope he can tell through my swollen eye that I’m looking at him like he’s a moron. “Not yet. He probably doesn’t even know about it.” My father is home right now, probably sitting in his office, sipping some scotch, completely unaware that he’s about to get a phone call.
The hurt still hasn’t come, all that adrenaline still pumping through me like fuel. Maybe that’s why Reyn’s words come floating back to me from before.
Be better.
I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been thinking of them for the last couple days. Wondering what that would even mean. What it might look like. What it would take to get my father to give up his prodigal son for the sad specimen sitting right here.
I’ve been wondering what kind of sacrifices that might entail and if they’d be better or worse than a life spent dodging Heston’s bullshit.
I think I already know. “Em,” I say, falling back into the seat, eyes fixed to the roof of the car. “Could I ask a favor?”
I see his eyes flick to mine in the rearview. “This isn’t the hot nurse thing, is it? Are you concussed? Do you need to go to the ER? Goddamn it, Bass, I fucking told you—”
Breathing out a laugh, I shake my head. “Nah, I’m good. I feel fine.” I meet the reflection of his eyes, voice feeling thick with exhaustion. “I’ll take a ride to my house, though.”
If I can get there before that phone call, maybe I won’t have to wonder anymore.
32
Sugar
Georgia finally falls asleep around two in the morning. She’s been a mess since she got back from the station, two hours ago. Aubrey’s in the bed with her, having passed out long before Georgia nodded off.
I’m lying in my own bed, watching the clock tick away. Since I’d slept all day, I’m completely fucking wired, although I suspect a part of it is because of what happened after leaving the exhibit tonight.
The whole thing was a tough sell to Sydney, who basically wanted fuck-all to do with anything that incriminated Heston. It kind of made me sick, knowing she was protecting him, even after all he’s put everyone through. Even when we told her about the video—even when she looked surprised to find it existed—she still swore up and down that she didn’t care. I’m not sure if the others could tell she was lying, but I sure as hell could.
I happen to know a thing or two about excusing abuse for the sake of keeping your shit cogent.
Eventually, Vandy got fed up with it all and pulled her outside the dorms. They talked for half an hour. I’m not sure what was said, or why Sydney returned with a blank, tear-streaked face, but she gave Georgia the nod and that was that.
Aubrey, Vandy, and I all sat in the car while the two of them disappeared behind the doors of the station. We listened to the radio for an hour, then sent Aubrey off to get us some burgers from across the street. We ate and waited. We talked and waited. We waited and then waited some more. They didn’t get out until midnight, both returning to the car with tired eyes and grim faces. Their expressions said it all.
This wasn’t the end of a fight.
It’s the beginning of one.
I’m still doubtful it’s a fight Sydney is willing to finish, but eventually the other girls will learn. You can’t force someone into seeing themselves as a victim—as a survivor. It has to be something they realize themselves, and even then, the hunger for justice isn’t a universally shared ache.
What Doug did to me was untenable, but the thought of trying to bring him down—legally, officially—makes me physically ill. Maybe that makes me the kind of person who doesn’t stand up for herself. Or maybe that makes the kind of person who does—by acknowledging that it’ll only hurt me more. Because the truth is, the thought of looking back at it makes me tired.
Sebastian was right that day in the garage.
I’m tired of fighting.
I’m still tangled in these thoughts when I hear a knock at the door. It’s so gentle, so quiet, that I almost question if I heard it at all. But who knows? It could be one of the Devils, coming to check on their girls.
So I climb out of bed to open the door.
Sebastian’s leaning against the far wall, head hanging low on his shoulders. His blond hair is messier than it was when I last saw him, a tangle of golden chaos. He’s wearing a heavy jacket that’s opened, revealing his bare chest, hands shoved into the pockets.
When he lifts his head to meet my gaze, it feels like the floor has fallen from beneath me.
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
It was all for nothing.
It’s a horrible, selfish, myopic sort of thought. The kind that I’ll be kicking myself for later. Georgia needed to report Heston because he hurt her. In a way, so did Sydney. It was never really about stopping the fight—not at its core. It was about making sure that there was something on record. Proof that Heston Wilcox is dangerous. A predator.
But seeing Sebastian standing there, eye almost swollen over, face bloody and bruised and battered, I can’t help but think that it isn’t fair.
“Hey,” he says in a rusty voice, slurred with something I’m hoping like hell is just the same exhaustion I saw before. “Should see the other guys.”
Guys? “Plural?” I think he tries to smile. It ends up looking more like a painful twitch of his cheek. “What are you doing here, Sebastian?” It comes out plaintive and quiet, and not at all the way I intend it. What I mean to ask is why he isn’t at the nearest urgent care center.
But he just rests his head back against the wall, staring down his nose at me with those tired eyes. “Showing you something honest.”
The words make every cell in my body come instantly to life. Unwilling to let him see this, I prop a shoulder against the door jamb, ducking my head. “You honestly look like you’re about to collapse in my hallway. Why aren’t you in yours?”
His shrug is a loose, lazy thing. “I wouldn’t be able to sleep,” he says. Even his inhale sounds exasperated with it all. “Not until I told you that it was all bullshit. Every word of it.”
Softly, I reply, “I know,” but even though it’s still nice to hear it like this—said aloud, to my face—it doesn’t take it all away. It soothes the hurt, but deep down, the sting remains.
“I don’t know exactly how to fix it.” He pauses, shoulders sinking impossibly lower. “I just couldn’t let another night go by with you thinking I don’t love you. And I doubt I’m currently in the position to do shit like think, or make promises, or tell you that I’ll do whatever it takes to get you back. Because I think I’m sort of a loser, and not worth it for you.”
“That’s what you think?” I ask, lifting my eyes to see his heavy nod. “Then you’re right.” I watch his face fall, shaking my head in response. “You’re not in the position to think right now.”
His eyes spark, head lifting from the wall in order to watch me closely. “I’m really fucking not.”
I shuffle my feet, taking in his crazy hair and fucked-up face. “Wait here a second.”
Leaving him in the hall, I throw on my coat, reaching under my bed for various supplies. I pause to look at Georgia and Aubrey in the bed, still sleeping soundly. Truthfully, it used to make me a little jealous, how close the twelve of them are. They’re always calling each other their boys, or their girls. Maybe the Devils are some dumb, pretentious, over-the-top secret society, but they’re also so much more. They love each other—sure, in their own weirdo, messed-up ways—but it’s a kind of love, nonetheless.
That’s why I leave a note, quickly scrawled on the back of someone’s old Bio homework:
Off taking care of your boy.
He doesn’t ask where we’re going, even though it should be obvious. Instead, it’s like he just follows me blindly down the stairs, out the door, across the space between the buildings, over to the boys’ dorms. I put in the code myself, letting us inside.
When we get to the fourth floor, something clicks.
He stops in the middle of the hall, eyes cast to the side. “Uh…”
“What?” I whisper, looking nervously up and down the hall.
“It’s a fucking mess in there.”
Pausing, I slowly assure him, “That’s okay,” but when he meets my gaze, his are full of a strange sort of dread. When he pushes open the door, I see why. “…oh.”
He sighs. “Yeah.”
It looks like a bomb went off in here—if there were such things as takeout-beer-laundry bombs. I step carefully over a textbook, face down, pages all crumpled beneath the hard cover. His lacrosse equipment is strewn about the room, and even though the floor looks like a tornado ripped through, every flat surface is oddly clean. It takes me a moment to understand what this is.
I purse my lips at him. “Had a bit of a tantrum, huh?”
He reaches up to rub at the back of his neck. “A bit.”
Nodding, I survey the room, but quickly decide to ignore it. This can’t be fixed tonight. Instead, I nod my head toward the bathroom, waiting for him to follow me. At least in there, I’m relieved to discover, everything is still in its place.
“Sit,” I demand, opening my bag to retrieve the first aid kit.
He doesn’t sit on the toilet like I expect him to. He slides up on the counter, reaching over the sink to crack the window. I don’t protest when he pulls a pack of rumpled cigarettes from his pocket, pinching one between his lips and lighting it.
“My mom’s doc already looked me over,” he says, eyes tracking the way I set out the antiseptic wipes, bandages, and ointment. “No concussion. No stitches. Just some bruises. Superficial bullshit.”
I arch an eyebrow at him. “It’s going to feel a lot less superficial in the morning. Take these.” I hand him two pain relievers, watching as he swallows them down with a handful of water from the tap. “Now stay still.”
The cut on his cheek isn’t deep enough for stitches—the doctor was right about that—but it’s still caked with dried blood and debris. I tear the package to the antiseptic wipes and rub one over the open wound.
“Son-of-a—” he winces back, brow furling. “Jesus, that always hurts.”
I run the wipe over it again. “Then maybe you should stop always needing it.”
We’re silent after that. I check out his eye, wondering what the likelihood of him having ice in that kitchenette might be, before moving to his bloody knuckles. He hisses just as badly when I run the wipes over them. For someone who clearly gets some level of gratification from getting into fights, he sure is a big baby when it comes to the aftercare.
Once I’ve tended to his wounds to the best of my abilities, I put all the supplies away.
And then I start undressing.
He watches me shuck off my shirt, a deep crease forming between his eyebrows. “The fuck?”
“Take off your clothes,” I tell him, nodding to his pants. “And where did your shirt even go?”
He obeys me like someone paying very little mind to why, fingers going to the button on his jeans as he watches me shimmy my pants and underwear off. “Couldn’t find it fast enough. We had to bail.” Even though his pants are undone, he’s still sitting on the counter, looking at me with a baffled expression.
Naked, I stand there and nudge at his knee. “Come on, get down.” He complies in a slow, stilted way, tossing his cigarette butt in the sink before sliding to his feet. There aren’t any protests when I reach out toward his hips, tugging his pants and boxers down his legs.
I pause, staring at his erection in disbelief.
“You’re the one who wanted to get naked,” is his weak defense. “The whole bloody and beaten thing turn you on or something?”
“Yep,” I answer tonelessly. “In fact, I’m about to get soaking wet for you.”
Understanding dawns on his face when I reach in the shower, turning the knob with a jerk of my wrist.
“Come on,” I say, dragging him under the spray of the shower.
It hasn’t escaped my notice that he hasn’t touched me.
Not once.
His eyes watch me the entire time I clean him, running a wet, soapy rag across his chest, over his throat, his neck. Even when he tilts his head back under the spray, letting me strain up against him to lather some shampoo into his hair, he still looks on, like he’s in some weird, exhaustion-induced daze.
“You don’t have to take care of me, you know.”
“You don’t have to take care of me, either.” I make him turn so I can run the cloth over his broad, muscled back. “But I feel like maybe you do.”
When he turns back, some of the ache constricting my chest begins to ease at the sight of him, bruised but whole. I sweep a palm down his chest, checking my work, finding it satisfactory. With the task completed, I feel adrift, wondering where I should go from here. I hadn’t really been thinking beyond ‘Sebastian’ and ‘hurt’.
When our eyes meet, I know what he’s going to ask before he even does. It’s there, in the way he looks cautious and lost.
“Can I touch you?”
I can’t even remember the last time he asked me that. Probably not since that night in his backseat. Ever since, he’s just done it, pretty much banking on the fact he could. It’s all at once a relief and a jagged wound, seeing him transformed into this quiet, careful man who’s disinclined to brush up against a boundary he might not be privy to.
It’s simple to answer, “Yes.”
He touches my cheek first, wet thumb brushing over the skin, soft as a whisper. He looks like maybe he’s expecting me to flinch, but I don’t. There’s no fear here, involuntary or otherwise, just a sense of release. My eyes slide closed when his fingers thread into the hair behind my ear, palm cupping my cheek. It’s not like I haven’t been touched since that awful fucking day. The girls have been feeding me touches in small, measured doses for the last week.
But this is just different.
I hear him sigh, right before his palm moves to the back of my head. He effortlessly pulls me into him, arm coming around my shoulders to hold me close. The feel of our chests pressed together is like being wrapped in a large pulse of warmth. My shoulders hitch, knees trembling at the feel of him against me.
Fuck, he knows I like that.
