Devil May Care (Boys of Preston Prep 1)

I look at her and say, “I don’t want to be here anymore,” and then break into a wet, broken sob.

She instantly pulls me into her arms, cupping a warm palm over my head, as if shielding me from it all. I want to tell her that it’s not what she thinks, and how guilty it makes me feel. That what happened to Micha and Skylar was awful, but that this gaping void in my chest is the result of me stupidly giving my heart to a guy who could never want it. I want to tell her that it hurts, and that it doesn’t seem like it’ll ever end. Instead, I bury my sobs into her shoulder, hands fisted into her cardigan as if I could force it into her through osmosis, this ghoulish truth that I brought it upon myself.

Her fingers card through my hair as she soothes me through it, and the only thing that calms me are her soft, whispered words.

“Pack a bag.”

27

Hamilton

It doesn’t take long to burn, at all.

The metal barrel flashes sharply when I throw the match into it, and then a few moments of leaping flame. It calms into an almost serene glow, the paper of the poster and programs curling into dark smolders. I watch, transfixed as the halo of fire gets consumed by the ashes, until the barrel finally goes dark again.

The whole thing is disappointing.

It should have been bigger, brighter, something worthy of the catastrophe it caused. Instead, I’m bathed in darkness once again, with nothing but the sounds of tree limbs rattling in the chilled breeze. I should have brought more shit to burn. It’s late enough that the whole campus is dead. Even Buster, the floppy old security guard, is probably taking a nap somewhere. It seemed like a good time to come down and destroy the evidence.

Well, that and I got sick of the pervasive and weirdly angry silence in the suite since I’d beaten the shit out of Heston and declared the Devils dissolved.

Ansel and Emory aren’t talking to me. Heston spent four hours in the infirmary, and then got sent home, even though nothing was broken, and it wasn’t all that bad. I probably hurt myself more than anything, my shoulder throbbing wildly with even the slightest movement. I rotate it now, just to feel the pull and ache, letting the pain anchor me.

For a long time, I wonder where I went wrong.

“What are you doing out here?”

I flinch in surprise, whirling around. I’d been so lost in thought, staring into the black pit of the barrel, that I didn’t even hear anyone approaching. I squint against the brightness of the flashlight, holding up my hand to block it.

“Buster?”

So much for his nap.

He lowers the beam enough that I can actually see his face. “You’re breaking curfew, young man.” He points the flashlight into the barrel, face stern. “And I saw that fire.”

I explain, “I was just getting rid of something. It wasn’t...” I push my hands into my pockets, frowning. “It wasn’t a big fire.”

“Nevertheless,” he says, “I think you and yours have left your mark on school property enough for one day. Don’t you?”

I stare blankly at his sharp, disapproving frown, and it’s probably a good thing that the Devils are done, because in a single day, we’ve lost every bit of favor. Even after getting Ansel and Emory immediately down there to clean it up, and even with Xavier standing guard to divert any attention, it didn’t matter. Since we live in a society where everyone has to document everything—even stupid illegal, expellable things—someone took pictures, and someone shared them on social media.

“Yeah, I guess we have.”

“Back to bed, Mr. Bates.” He grabs my arm and starts marching me back toward Cresswell. “Word has it you’ve got a big day tomorrow.” And while I wouldn’t describe the fissure of buoyancy in his voice as delight, it isn’t far off.

I never really gave much thought to it before—how much of a burden the Devils have been on the staff here. There are pranks, of course. There’s the initia

tions. There’s the sneaking out, and the booze, and the girls, and the vandalism. Pissing off the staff has never been anything more than a childish game, as far as the Devils are concerned.

When we reach the dorm, I turn to him. “I’m really sorry if we caused you trouble, Mr.—er, Buster.”

He peers at me through his thick glasses, mustache twitching. “No use sucking up to me, son. Administration doesn’t give a hoot how I feel. If they did, all of you would have been expelled years ago.”

“No, I’m not—” But the rest of it gets blown away on a tired exhale. “Never mind. Good night.”

I’m halfway up the steps when he says, “A bit of wisdom, Mr. Bates?” and I turn back, lifting an eyebrow. “If you think nothing you do matters, one day you’re going to wake up and find out that what you’ve done is all that matters.” He turns, waddling away. “Make it out count, kid.”

At eight a.m. the following day, I’m sitting in Headmaster Collins’ office with my father.