Devil May Care (Boys of Preston Prep 1)

She honestly believed I’d been in control of the whole thing. That I’d set the whole thing up, let those Northridge kids do a train on her sister. I’m a lot of things. I’m controlling, and sometimes cruel, and probably often an entitled prick.

But I’m not a monster.

Xavier sighs, finally letting his arms drop to his sides. “Why are you asking?”

But what he’s really wondering is, why now? And I can’t tell him the truth. I can’t tell him that, fifteen minutes ago, I’d been pinned underneath the fire of pure hatred in Gwendolyn’s eyes. And I definitely can’t tell him that it somehow stoked my libido enough that I came this close to creaming my shorts as I kissed her.

I run my hand through my hair. What the fuck is wrong with me? “I guess with the swim season coming up, and being forced into close proximity with her sister, it was just on my mind. No big deal.” I tip the bottle to my lips and down the rest of my drink, waving him off.

This must appease Xavier because he nods, turning back to the door to open it. He pauses with his hand on the knob, though, adding, “Look, don’t sweat all this shit with Gwen so much. It doesn’t do anyone any good.” With that, he leaves.

After a long moment spent glaring at his wake, I toss my trash and peel off my shirt, headed into the bathroom to shower. Xavier confirmed what I thought—what I knew—that Skylar Adams had put herself in that situation to get back at him.

Just like tonight, when Gwendolyn had the chance to run, and she didn’t. She kissed me back. She touched me. She leaned into it.

Into me.

She wanted it and that’s got to be it. Having a hot willing body under me, someone who’s shaking with it, wanting a piece of me? Like I said. I’m only human. Any other guy would have done the same.

That’s gotta be why I caved.

I just can’t seem to wash it off. The scent, the humiliation, the shame. I’m on my third shower, but I still feel all of it.

I showered once when I got back to the dorm. And then again, after kicking everyone’s ass in Madden. And then I took a third shower when I woke up at six a.m., covered in sweat and caught in the spider webs of a familiar dream. I lather the soap, trying to scald that girl off my body. My mind wanders to the dream. It’s one I’m used to having, but it’s been a while, old memories tugging me back under.

It’s summer at the beach. Twilight. Lights blinking on the pier.

“Tell Mama and Daddy I’m meeting some kids at the marina, okay?”

It’s my older sister, Hollis. She’s sixteen. I’m twelve.

“Can I come?”

She peers into her compact’s powdery mirror as she paints her lips a bright, angry pink. “Sorry, bro. You’re too young.”

“I’m not that young!” I argue, feeling this is the absolute worst insult. “I’m in middle school now. Come on, Holl! I can hang. I won’t tell Mom or Dad if you’re drinking.”

She cuts her eyes at me. They’re thick with black mascara. She looks like a cat. “Like Mom and Dad care if I drink or smoke?”

I frown. “Then what do they care about?”

She squeezes a bottle, and even in my dream

I smell the flowery scent.

“Legacy,” she says simply. “That’s it—that’s all. Trust me, one day you’ll understand.”

She ruffles my hair and goes to the door that leads to a balcony off her room. The rush of the ocean fills the room, all salt-sharp scent and humid air, and she waves over her shoulder before vanishing over the railing. I follow her to the balcony, peering down to the beach where a shadowy figure meets her. I can’t see their faces, but I do see them kiss before walking hand in hand down the beach.

I turn my face into the showerhead, drowning out the imagery. It’s a beach. Two teenagers sneaking out. Who cares?

My father, that’s who.

That night, when Hollis left, was the catalyst to the skeleton in my family’s closet—our biggest shame. It’s why I have no choice but to be the best. It’s all on me, now. I’m the only one left to carry on the family legacy. There isn’t anyone else to share the weight with. Not anymore.

I scrub my hands through my hair and reach for the body soap, squeezing it into my shaky palm. The long and short of it is this: the pressure of perfection is a crushing weight. Like how some nights I wake up from this dream, but then other nights I wake up choking on it all, barely able to draw in a breath, my chest’s so fucking tight.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m up to the task. I know it. I was bred for it, raised for it, but any slip… any mistake. There are nights I could lay there in bed and come up with lists of things that could ruin it—and they go on forever. Not fucking up? It’s like threading a needle, only the needle’s in a haystack the size of China.