Devil May Care (Boys of Preston Prep 1)

I shouldn’t be surprised he’s an aggressive sexual predator. Sexual assault fits with everything else about his entitled, demanding, and controlling persona. No, the only thing truly shocking here is that I kissed him back. I didn’t run when I could. I didn’t knee him in the balls or slap his pretty face.

As in all things, I met him beat for beat.

And I liked it.

Every step toward the carpool line feels like a walk to the guillotine. The twins are smart, annoyingly observant. What if they can tell?

I snort at myself, even if only inwardly. God, it was just a kiss. It was nothing but the last-ditch effort of a bully’s struggle to intimidate me. Nothing more, nothing less.

Debbie’s van swings through the line, and I try to shake the vestiges of smoky tendrils from my mind. I have a game face, and while I almost never use it around family, I can adapt it, right? Shoulders straight, face relaxed, lips tipped up into a grin. Nothing wrong here.

When the twins jump out, Michaela bounces forward to clutch me into a hug.

Debbie watches through the open window. “You look tired. Are you sick?”

“No.” I hug Michaela back just as hard, explaining, “I just didn’t sleep very well.”

“Here,” she says, holding up her morning latte. She gets them from the coffee shop down the street on the way to school; I know it’s a morning ritual for them. Hot chocolate for the twins. Latte for her. Back when I’d ride with them, my order was always a mocha.

I frown as Michaela releases me. “I don’t want to take your drink.”

But Debbie just shrugs me off. “I’ll stop for another. You definitely need a jolt of caffeine to get through the day.” I know it’s futile to argue, so I lean in to grab the paper cup. But she snatches it just out of reach before I can. “I know this is about more than just lack of sleep.”

I freeze, staring back at her with wide eyes. “What?”

How did she know? Dammit, this is why I don’t use a game face around family. They can always tell.

“I’d know that face anywhere, Gwendolyn Adams,” she continues, inspecting me closely. “Ever since that time when you were four, and I caught you sneaking downstairs for candy during nap time. And I’ve been seeing it for months now. That’s your guilt-face.” She sighs, eyebrows pulled low in a frown. “I’ve told you this

before, what happened to Sky is not your fault. If anything, you’re the reason she got the help she needed.”

Sky. She thinks this is about Sky. And I suppose she’s not even completely wrong.

“I know.” I tuck my hair behind my ear, grimacing at how obvious I am. “It’s just... sometimes being here makes it hard not to remember, that’s all.”

“You’re welcome to come home any time, baby girl. You know you can change schools, too. Your mama and daddy will be happy to do that.”

Oh, I know they will. There’s nothing they love better than pushing the past behind them and moving on to something shinier and new. New school, new house, new family.

“I can’t,” I insist, “swim season starts next week.”

The look she gives me is hard and wise, like she knows this is about more than just the team. Fortunately, a horn blares from the carpool line, people fed up with waiting or driving around. Debbie finally hands over the drink, offering me a comforting smile. “Just call me if you need me.”

I try to muster a smile. “I will.”

I step back and see the twins have already started toward their building. Checking my watch, I realize that Debbie and I spoke too long, pushing me perilously close to the bell. Now I’ll have to run, or Dr. Ross will give me detention for being late.

The main hall is already clear by the time I get there, which is a nice break from the usually packed hallway of people ignoring me. Shit. But I have to stop at my locker for my book—another thing Dr. Ross is a stickler about. It’s not exactly like I can ask someone to share. The whole student body has frozen me out.

I make a beeline to my locker, furiously spin my combination, grab the book, slam the door, and rush down the hall. This is cutting it close, even for me. It’d taken me weeks of careful calculating, but I’d created the optimally timed routine, all orchestrated for my arrival to class at the exacting moment of the bell’s ring. It’s an economy of tolerance. The less time I have to be subjected to silent scorn and spiteful stares, the better.

I pass a clock outside the science room and glance at it just in time to see the minute hand shift to 7:58. I mutter a curse under my breath, but I see the classroom from here. If I run, like really run, I can totally make it.

My legs come to a sudden and jolting stop when I turn the corner.

Hamilton Bates is waiting outside the door. Those broad shoulders are rigid, eyes wild, and his hair is just a bit sloppier than the usual bedhead style he probably spends an hour in front of the mirror perfecting every morning. When he sees me, he straightens, throat bobbing with a swallow.

I hesitate. Is he waiting on me? What? Why?