Touched by the devil, p.49
Touched by the Devil, page 49
part #3 of Boys of Preston Prep Series
“Don’t call me baby.” I use my pen to point at the bed next to mine. “Georgia lives here, too.”
“I just saw her in the quad.” He shrugs, landing obnoxiously on the bed at my side, stomach-down, just like me. It makes the map crinkle and tear at the corner, and I shoot him a glare. He ignores it, inspecting the marks we’ve been making for the past week. “Huh. You added another one.”
Defensively, I say, “Yes,” and tug the map closer. He’s always got something snarky to say about my itinerary choices.
“Are you for real?” he groans, realizing what I’ve circled. “Four Corners? That’s the most touristy shit ever.”
Hotly, I argue. “It’s neat. Who doesn’t want to stand in four places at once?”
He slides his eyes to me. “Are we taking fanny packs, too?”
“It’s on the way to the Grand Canyon.”
He flops onto his side, face pained. “I was really convinced you were cooler than this.”
I jab him with an elbow. “Stuff it, or I’m putting the Sea Glass Museum back on the list.”
“You’re lucky you’re cute.”
I nod. “Ditto.”
Despite all that, his hand comes out to rest on my lower back, sweeping beneath my shirt. “Got the last one today.” I look at him, noticing now that he looks tired. “Brown.”
I instantly sit up, stomach swooping. “Really?”
He rolls onto his back, pulling an envelope from seemingly out of nowhere. “Came this morning.”
We made a deal to discard the email acceptances, dumping them the instant they hit. Instead, going old school so we could assess it all together. I take the envelope from him. Although I know letter thickness doesn’t mean anything, I still weigh it in my hand. “So, I’m just waiting for Chicago now.”
“Yep.” His eyes follow as I stand to tuck the letter away in my drawer, next to my letter from Rhode Island. His Chicago pick—or maybe more accurately, his father’s—is Northwestern. The envelope for that one is already right there, all snugged up between Emory and SCAD. Our two Yale letters are at the bottom. “We could just open them now.”
I slam the drawer shut. “No!”
He thrusts out a hand. “Come on! We’ve got seven of eight.”
“You’re worse than a kid sniffing out Christmas presents,” I snipe back, folding up the map and stowing it away beneath the bed. “It’ll be better once they’re all here. That way, we can make a choice.”
He makes a low, frustrated sound, because he’s an impatient fuck. “Maybe we can open two per day. It’ll be here by then, won’t it?”
But I stand firm, kneeing up onto the bed. “Patience is a virtue.”
“Virtue can suck my dick.”
“You’re tired,” I say as I snuggle up to his side. I’ve learned that Bass can get on a serious tear about some things, but that he’s also easily distracted. “How’d your test go?”
He grunts, arms coming around my shoulders to press me close. “Fine, probably. I never have a bad test.” I know he’s not lying. He might have issues with behavior and actual, like, attendance. But school comes easier to Bass than it does to me.
I settle my cheek against his shoulder, suddenly feeling tired myself. “Nap.”
He hums, sounding like he’s already halfway there, his soft breaths warming the top of my head. This is probably my favorite place now—all alone with him, curled up against his body as his hand makes the little idle rubs against whatever part of me is closest. When he’s tired like this, his movements will slow, falter, before starting back up in a random bout of renewed vigor, like he’s fighting not to nod off.
When his hand finally goes still, breath evening out, I let my eyes close, wondering where we’re going to be in four months.
“Oops!” Startled awake at the sound, I turn my head to see Georgia in the doorway. I can tell from the light in the room that it’s almost dark outside now. She shifts her feet, eyes apologetic. “Need the room?”
I stretch my legs, yawning. “No, we just fell asleep for a bit. It’s all good.”
Looking relieved, she enters the room, closing the door behind her. “Thank god. I cannot handle anymore prom shit. The hourly texts from my mom about choosing a date are bad enough.”
Bass, still sound asleep, lets out a little whuff when I roll over. “Still no candidates?”
She wrinkles her nose, head shaking. “You’re lucky, snagging a Wilcox. My mom’s convinced I’m doomed to utter destitution unless I lock down someone rich and popular within the next month.” She rolls her eyes, flopping back into her bed. “George never has to deal with this crap.”
My forehead wrinkles. “Who’s George?”
She gives me a strange look. “Uh, my brother?”
I sit up, still feeling half asleep. “You have a brother?” I gawk at her. “Named George?”
“Duh.” She points to a photo on her desk of her and some guy, standing with bland smiles in front of a decked-out fireplace. “Twin brother.”
“Your twin?!” Sebastian stirs and I whirl around to him. He blinks up at me, looking momentarily confused. “Georgia has a twin brother named George?”
He chuffs a low laugh. “I know.”
“Why didn’t I know?”
“Because,” he explains, pushing himself up. “It sounds so fucking ridiculous that you wouldn’t have believed it, anyway.”
Georgia rolls her eyes at him. “George is George. We don’t really hang in the same circles. Or squares. Or rectangles.”
Sebastian looks at me, translating, “He’s a loser.”
“Don’t call my brother a loser!” Georgia cries, throwing her pillow at him. “Only I’m allowed to call him a loser.” She looks at me, asserting. “He’s a loser.”
“Good to know.”
Sebastian stands, pulling on his shoes. “I’m going to go grab something to eat. Any takers?”
Georgia waves him off. “I already made Carlton buy me pizza.”
“I’m in,” I say, reaching for my own shoes.
“You still need to give me that list,” he suddenly says, still clearly blinking sleep from his eyes. “The film and shit?”
Ah, right. “I decided to just take a few rolls. I’ve got it covered.”
It’s a bit of a bummer, sure. A big part of the appeal of a huge summer road trip had been the ability to take a shit-ton of photos.
He pauses, throwing me a confused glance. “What? A few rolls isn’t going to even get you out of the state.”
Sighing, I explain, “I won’t be here next year, and I don’t know where I’ll be next year. I won’t have a way to develop them myself, so just…” I flick a hand dismissively. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll save up for a digital—” My mouth clamps shut at the sudden spark in his eyes. “No.”
“Let me buy you one,” he bursts, even though my head is already shaking. Fuck, big mistake. If there’s one thing Bass loves, it’s blowing truly absurd amounts of money. “Come on! I’ve been trying to get you into digital for weeks now.”
“No!” I say, voice firm. “It’s too much. I hate it when you buy me shit. You never just get me something sufficient, you always go over the fucking top!”
“One camera,” he insists, pulling my hands into his chest. “Maybe some lenses or whatever fancy bullshit comes with it. It can be a graduation present.”
“No.”
“Please?”
“Hell no.”
He pulls me closer like he thinks I don’t know what he’s doing, those blue eyes blazing back at me, lashes fluttering. “Please?”
“Just how pretty do you think you are?”
His answer is immediate and unapologetic. “Devastatingly.”
Smoothly, I lie, “Not nearly.”
He takes my face in his palms, thumbs sweeping over my cheeks, which are totally not feeling hot and flushed from his devastatingly pretty anything. “Sugar,” he begins, eyes earnest. “I love your pictures. I love the thought of you being able to take them, without feeling like you have to ration resources. I love that you have a passion that will, most likely, earn you your own living some day, completely independent of anyone else. I love seeing shit through your eyes, because you always see it a little different from me, and that’s neat as fuck. I love the idea that I can help you do that, and with something that just so happens to come easier for me.” He presses a soft, slow kiss to my lips, finishing, “But most of all, I love you.”
I feel a little dazed when he pulls back. “Oh.” I blink heavy eyelids at him, tongue sneaking out to taste him on my lips.
Oh, he’s good.
Georgia’s voice snaps me from the trance. “For Christ’s sake, let him buy you a damn camera! You two make me want to hurl.” I throw her a hot glare, but she just rolls her eyes at me. “Boo hoo, my super rich boyfriend, who is totally hot and completely adores me, wants to buy me expensive things.” She scoffs. “Your problems are the first worldiest ever.”
Turning back to Sebastian, I release a defeated huff. Georgia has a point. “I’m only saying yes because I know if I don’t, you’re going to use that graduation present excuse to buy me something even more stupidly expensive.”
He plants another kiss on my lips, looking satisfied.
Satisfied and devastatingly cute.
“Where are you?” I mutter angrily, pacing back and forth in front of his door. I loop my thumbs into the straps of my bag and squeeze. I’d sent him three texts, but they all went unanswered. He’s been a lot less diligent about charging his phone since his dad began blowing it up regularly. Fucking inconvenient bullshit.
It’s a half an hour before I finally hear steps ascending across the hall, Sebastian finally coming into view.
“Where have you been?” I hiss, grabbing a handful of his shirt and tugging him toward the door. “I’ve been waiting forever.”
The question is unnecessary. Going off the way his hair is still wet, gym bag hanging from his hand, it’s already obvious. “I was at practice. Same time every Wednesday. You know this.”
Right.
“Well, come on, let me in,” I say, flapping a hand at the knob.
He raises an eyebrow, cheeks still flushed from practice. “Need it that bad, huh? I’m a little wiped, but my stroke game is probably still on point.” That cocky grin of his disappears the instant I hold up the bundle of letters. He swipes them from my hand flipping through, realizing. “Chicago came.”
I confirm. “Chicago came.”
He stares down at the stack, eyes jumping up to me. “So, we’re going to do this?”
“We’re going to do this.”
“Are you going to just keep repeating everything I say?”
I push his shoulder. “Open the door!”
“Alright, geez. So much for patience being a virtue.” Despite his grumbling, I can tell from the way he fumbles with his keys that he’s just as anxious as I am.
We get into his suite, which is thankfully nice and tidy. I’ve discovered that the state of Sebastian’s living space holds a direct correlation to his mood. I turn around in the room, watching him dump his things off, holding the letters carefully out of the way.
When he’s done, he says, “Okay,” and drops down on the couch. “Which first. SCAD, right?”
I frown at the way he says it, like it should be obvious. “Why SCAD?”
“Because,” he explains, giving me a quick, guilty look. “Save the best ones for last, right? Not that SCAD isn’t a good school, or that I don’t want you to get in, or that I wouldn’t—”
I drop into the space at his side, stopping him. “No, I get it. Three-hour drive between there and Emory.” It was the closest school his dad approved of.
He hands me one envelope and plucks another from the stack. “You first.”
I nod, taking a breath before jamming my nail between the—
“Fuck, wait,” he says, jolting forward. “Hold on.” I watch in confusion as he crosses the room, toeing his shoes off and kicking them aside. He bends to grab another, darting back to the couch to put them on.
Baffled, I ask, “What are you doing?”
He shoots me a glance as he tightens the laces, a lock of hair falling in his eyes. “They’re my lucky shoes.”
I blink. “I’m sorry, you have lucky shoes?”
“Laugh all you want, but these babies,” He sinks back into the couch, kicking a foot up on the table, “have won me many fights.”
“You know what? I’m not even going to comment on that.” I rip open the envelope, stomach fluttering as I pull out the letter and unfold it. I scan it quickly, not feeling any less full of nerves when I realize, “I got in.”
“Good,” he says, like it was never even in question. He rips open the one from Emory, eyes sliding over the page. “Me, too.”
We both pause, looking at each other.
“They’re good schools.”
He agrees, “Some of the best.”
I nod, eyes straying to the other letters, “But I’m sure we got into others.”
He tosses his letter aside. “I’m gonna be real here. Emory would never let me live it down if I went to Emory.”
“That would get confusing.” I’m not sure why anyone would name their kids after their alma maters, but that’s the Halls.
I fold my legs beneath me to contain my bouncing knee. “Chicago next.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Yeah? Not feeling the Chi-town, huh.”
I hurry to add, “Not that Northwestern isn’t an amazing school! Of course, I mean, obviously that’s a fine option.”
“Better than Emory and SCAD,” he volleys back.
“Exactly.” He hands me the envelope to Chicago and we tear into them at the same time, the room quiet as we read the letters. I exhale slowly. “I got in.”
Sebastian frowns at his. “Waitlisted? The fuck?” He turns it over, like maybe he’s expecting an explanation.
“It’s not a rejection,” I say, trying to sound excited.
But he just snatches the letter from my hand and throws them both aside. “Fuck Chicago.”
Trying for a rueful smile, I reach for the next two. “Okay, Rhode Island and Brown!”
Easily distracted, he tears open the envelope while I rip into mine. “Well,” he says, “Brown at least knows what’s good.” He turns the letter, showing me his acceptance.
My stomach sinks when I read mine. “Oh. I didn’t get in.”
“What?!” He rips the letter out of my hand. “That’s bullshit!”
I shrug, trying to shake it off. “Come on, two out of four? That’s really good, considering. And SCAD and Chicago are really good schools, so it’s not like I don’t have options.”
He’s still seething at my rejection letter. “Well if you’re good enough for SCAD and Chicago, then you’re good enough for Rhode fucking Island. What’s so great about Rhode Island anyway? The world’s largest bug?”
I reluctantly point out, “I actually still want to see that.”
“Nah.” He tosses both letters aside with the rest. “Fuck Rhode Island. We’re not going there, we’re boycotting. Let’s open Yale.” He hands me one of the last two envelopes, and he looks so casual about opening it that I don’t have the heart to tell him that’s it for me.
It was the only really big-league school I applied to, and even that was mostly a lark. I was already well aware it’d take a miracle, but if I couldn’t get into Rhode Island, then I have absolutely no shot at a place like Yale.
Somehow oblivious to this very simple fact, Sebastian rips right into his, tongue peeking out to wet his lips as he reads. I know from the slow smile that curves his mouth that it’s good news. His eyes rise to mine. “Got in.” And then he turns to the discarded Northwestern letter, flipping it a middle finger. “Suck on that, bitches.”
I roll my eyes, but inside, my chest aches. Yale is such an amazing school and now he’s going to have to choose between it and me. “Bass...”
“Don’t give me that look.” He nudges the letter in my hand. “Open it before you admit defeat.”
My face feels warm as I open it, knowing that I’m going to have to be rejected twice in front of him. And then he’ll get mad. He’ll say a bunch of bullshit about how it’s their loss. He’ll say he won’t even want to go to Yale anymore, not if they don’t want—
I shoot to my feet. “Oh my god, I got in!” I don’t actually believe it, even after reading it three times, hand clutched to my chest. How the fuck does Cliff trash get into Yale motherfucking University? I look at Sebastian, eyes wide. “Did you have something to do with this?”
He’s halfway up himself, expression caught somewhere between celebration and confusion. “What am I, the mob? I got waitlisted at fucking Northwestern. If I had that kind of pull, I think I could have gotten you into Rhode Island, don’t you think?”
“So this is just…”
“Just you,” he says, gently plucking the letter from my hand. He folds it carefully with his own, blue eyes shining back at me. “Because you’re fucking awesome Sugar Voss.”
Slowly, I realize, “Holy shit, we’re going to Yale.” He doesn’t even stumble when I leap forward to hug his neck, squealing. He effortlessly lifts me, sweeping my feet off the floor and carrying me forward. I don’t realize we’re in the bedroom until we fall into the mattress in one excited, breathless heap.
In one month, it’ll be just like he promised that day in his shower, when he decided to fight for me; just the two of us, and the open road. Three whole months of nothing but having him at my side.
And then four years of the same.
He leans down to kiss me, the warmth of his palm dragging deliciously up my shirt. It’s almost hard to remember a time where I was afraid of this, the brushing heat of him against my skin. Sebastian Wilcox barreled into my life in a whirling dervish of fists and flame, and he rearranged me. Tossed me about. Settled me into someone tidy and sound. The kiss he gives me is all at once sweet and stinging, a lot like the trail of fire left by his fingertips.
That’s just what it’s like to be touched my Devil.
