Devil May Care (Boys of Preston Prep 1)

I look at him, suddenly feeling the urge to laugh. “Are you sure you and Gwen aren’t genetically related?” His eyes flash again, but before he can get started, I hold up a hand. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry for what happened to Skylar, and I’m sorry for what happened to Micha. Even though I didn’t have anything to do with either of those, it doesn’t make me any less sorry about it.” I take a deep breath, relieved just to see he’s letting me talk. “I know you don’t think I’m a good person, and that’s... that’s fine. That’s fair. But I swear to you, Brayden, I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

I’m not sure. Maybe he can see the plea in my eyes. Maybe he can hear the tremor of remorse in my voice. Maybe he can feel that I’m being sincere. Either way, he finally drops his gaze, jaw going tight. “Even if what you’re saying is true, it doesn’t matter. I know you, Bates, and I know the Devils. You might not have put the poster of Micha up, or put Skylar into that room,” He looks at me, eyes blazing, “but you created the environments, the situations. So how exactly does that make you blameless?”

“It doesn’t.” I shake my head, conceding, “I’m accountable for that, and I am trying. I’m trying to make it better.” Brayden raises a skeptical eyebrow and I remember my sister’s advice. Actions, not words. I add, “I got that wall cleaned up as soon as possible. I mean... after beating the shit out of Heston, but that’s—” Probably best to skirt around the bloody violence. “And I dissolved the Devils. And I already apologized to Micha.”

Brayden looks taken aback by this, arms dropping. “What? When?”

“About a week after it happened.” I shrug, remembering how awkward the moment had been. I’d cornered him after his nanny had driven away, and Michaela looked about three seconds away from kicking me in the nuts and yelling some scary Stranger Danger shit. But Micha had been surprisingly forgiving for a kid living in the Adams house. He looked me right in the eye and said, “Just keep me out of your dumb straight white boy drama from now on,

” and then walked off.

“He never said anything to us about that,” Brayden argues.

I nod. “We pretty much agreed it’d be best if he didn’t. Considering, you know.”

“And Gwen?” Brayden asks, face stony. “Do you really think an apology is going to make things better for her? Do you realize you’re the first guy she was ever with? And the messed-up thing is that I told her—I told her you were playing her—and she actually defended you.” He shakes his head, cold gaze boring into mine. “She really thought you’d changed, you know.”

“But I did!” I insist, willing him with my eyes to listen. “She thinks it was a trick, but it wasn’t.”

He laughs. “Sure, you were hooking up with my sister for weeks because you liked her.” He watches me for a long moment before his expressions falls, transforming into something flat and blank. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

“Yeah.” I give him a sad, defeated smile. “I’m sort of stupidly in love with her, actually.”

I don’t react soon enough to protect my shoulder when Brayden pitches forward, shoving it again, growling, “You’re such an idiot.”

This time, I don’t even try to hide my cry. The pain is swift and intense enough that it bends me back and makes me stumble to my knees. “Son of a bitch!”

Brayden gapes down at me in disbelief. “Have you been watching too much soccer or something? It was just a shove, give me a break!”

“It was already injured.” I pant through clenched teeth as I climb to my feet. “Fucked it up swimming and just made it worse when I—” Right, skirting around the violence. “Jesus.”

Brayden watches me nurse my shoulder with a series of very complicated winces, before huffing. “I can’t believe I’m about to do this, but get in the damn car.”

Little kids run past me, shrieking and squealing. The room looks like North Pole vomited all over it. Twinkling lights, crafts and glitter, elves, music, and of course… Santa.

“Why are we here again?” I ask, flinching when another little kid runs by.

“It’s called volunteering,” Xavier says obnoxiously. “Nice people do it because they like helping others. People like you and me do it in an attempt to clean up our karma.” He shoves his hands in his jacket, rolling his eyes. “Look, my grandma comes to this community center. She signed me up. And then I signed you up.”

I nod, swiping a cookie from the cotton-snow-covered snack table. I grumble, “I guess I could use a little karma repairing.”

Xavier snorts and leads us over to a table manned by a woman in a festive red smock. He gives her our names, and her beady eyes closely assess us.

“You two look like strong, strapping fellows. How about helping with the tree lot out back? They’ll need assistance getting trees tied onto the top of cars.”

“Great,” Xavier says, handing me a name tag.

“You seriously want me to spend the afternoon throwing trees on the top of cars?” I aggressively slap the sticker on my chest, flat across the PP on my letter jacket.

Xavier elbows me. “I want you to chill out, relax, and just focus on something other than your personal drama for once.” His eyes dart around the room before leading me out the back door.

I guess it could be worse. We could have to wear one of those elf costumes. And ever since that day I tried going to the Adams house, my shoulder is feeling a lot better. Apparently, Brayden still has a lot of contacts from his varsity football days. He took me straight to an office that specializes in sports injuries. After a fucking painful massage, and an assessment where they determined at least half my problem was from holding in too much stress, he took me back to Hollis’ with sheets of instructions. It’s not one-hundred-percent—I suspect this is going to be one of those things I’ll need to patient about—but the freedom I feel just being able to lift something like a Christmas tree is a potent thing.

An hour later, I have to admit that Xavier and Hollis are right. I needed to take a shower and get out of the house. Strapping down trees all day turns out to be a stupidly satisfying experience. It feels good to work again, to feel the pull and burn of my muscles, to do something solid and tangible with my body again. And watching those little kids' eyes light up when they see their tree tied to the top of the car is surprisingly cool, too.

“Guys,” the coordinator of the tree lot says, “there’s a couple of girls two rows over who need help.”

“I’ve got it,” Xavier says, patting the hood of the car we’re just finishing with.