Touched By The Devil (Boys of Preston Prep 3)

Prologue

Sebastian

There’s something ironic about how the uber-wealthy go to tiny, back wood, hick towns for vacation. God forbid we go to one of the five-star resorts that line pristine beaches, or the comforts of a modernized summer home in the mountains. Nope, every year the Wilcox family makes the trek to the little town of Briar Cliffs to stay in our hundred-year-old, musty cabin, overlooking the river that my father has been coming to since he was born, and his father came to since he was born. Apparently, it’s family tradition to bore the hell out of the Wilcox men, which is just a dangerous fucking move.

It makes us restless, and if history has proven anything, it’s that there’s nothing worse than a restless Wilcox.

Makes no damn sense. Even my dad hates it; he holes up in the makeshift office, drowning himself in work. When Mom actually decides to get sober enough to leave the house, it’s only to spend time with the other summer wives, who she doesn’t even like. Gossiping and trying to show each other up isn’t her scene. Being locked in the cabin with my absent father isn’t her scene, either. I pace around like a lion in a cage, trying to find something to do with my hands, going crazy with the ripple of unspent energy sparking beneath my skin. And Heston. Well, Heston is the worst of all. Putting him in any contained area with me and our mom is a recipe for disaster. This has never been a quality family bonding experience, is what I’m saying.

It’s my sense of restless, energy-rippling boredom that ejects me from the cabin one summer night on the hunt for weed, pussy, and maybe a fight. Three things a determined seventeen-year-old can find pretty easily, even here.

“Yo, Wilcox.”

I look up and see my friends Reid and Mitchell walking down the cracked sidewalk. I jerk a nod in greeting. “Thing One, Thing Two. What’s going on?”

“In the Briar Cliffs?” Reid asks, bumping his fist with mine. “Jack and shit.”

“Except,” Mitchell says quickly, “we heard there’s a party down at the dock. Wanna come?”

“Let me check my schedule,” I joke, pulling out my phone, which predictably has no service. I’ve had shit-all to do for weeks now but work on my tan and try to charm the pants off a few girls. “Yep, looks like I’m free.”

We head off, passing the antique shops and pharmacy, taking the turn to the dirt road that heads down to the water. I know this place like the back of my hand, every nook and cranny. The steep cliffs overlooking the river. The seedy liquor stores. The mom and pop shops. The suburbs ten minutes north of here. Parents feel secure in letting their kids roam free around the Briar Cliffs from a young age—the wisdom being that there’s not much trouble to get into, and whatever trouble we do find, they’d done it all before.

Reid reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a silver flask. It’s pretentious and a little douchey, but when offered, I take a swig. The liquid burns like fire down the back of my throat, then warms my belly. I hand the flask back over and ask, “Is this a townie party or summer people?”

There’s a distinct difference between the two. Summer people, like myself, have the kind of parties you write home about. Great booze, big boats, and freaky bitches dying to be the center of some rich boy’s attention. Townie parties, though. Those are thrown hastily together on a wish and a prayer. The booze is cheap swill, the boats aren’t safe for occupancy, and the girls…

The girls are dicey as fuck.

Not always a bug, sometimes a feature.

“Probably a mix,” Mitchell says, taking a drink and then wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I got a text from Karen telling me to come.”

Karen is a local girl who works down at the marina. She’s a sexy ginger that Mitchell had the pleasure of hooking up with last weekend on one of the docked boats. I spent last weekend bare-knuckling it with some douche from Rockport and won two-hundred bucks, a loose molar, and a bag of weed. For the Briar Cliffs, that’s a pretty great night.

We reach the top of a rise, and down below is the public dock. During the day, little kids jump and dive off the end, and families picnic on the beach. At night, it’s an infestation of older kids and a few college students. This is the place to be if you’re looking for some trouble. I head down the hill toward the crowd that’s already gathering.

“Hey, Bass,” a girl calls out. I look over and see Madison, a girl who’s spent summers here almost as long as I have. Mostly I see her tits pressed tight against the fabric of her tube top.

“Hey, Mads, how are you?”

She walks over, gait a little wobbly. She’s already drunk. “Fine, fine, fuckin’ peachy.”

I slide my arm around her waist, peering down her top. “You sure look fine.”

“So do you.” Her hand presses against my abs, feeling the muscle. Madison has never been shy, but we’ve only hooked up once. “I’ve been wondering something…”

“Yeah?” I lick my lips, thinking I might be ready to raise that number to two. “What’s that?”

“Where has your brother been this summer?”

And scene.

I drop my arm but try to keep the easy expression on my face. “Heston didn’t come down with the family,” I say, trying not to grit my teeth over his name. “Busy getting ready for college.”

“Oh,” she pouts, “too bad.”

“Yeah.” I reach out to Reid and swipe the flask from his hands, taking another too-long swig. “Too, fucking, bad.”

It should make it better, not having him here. Not having to listen to the way he talks to our mom. Not needing to jump in and push back against the way he spits at and ridicules her. Not spending weeks on end, tense and mindlessly pissed off, wishing him away.

Instead, I just keep feeling all the spaces he should be. I keep coiling for fights that never come, bracing for snide remarks and hateful glares, always ready but never spent. It’s like the fighter’s equivalent of blue balls.

“Hey!” he complains, rightfully.

I swallow it down and shove it back at him. “Sorry.” I reach into my back pocket and pull out a small bag of weed, tossing it to him. “Take it.”

He nods appreciatively. “Come on, let’s light up.”

But I’ve already started skimming the

crowd, looking for something, someone, a reason to blow off a little steam. It doesn’t take long when I spot a few kids that I’d beefed with a week ago over a parking spot following my last fight. They’d parked too close to my car—my sweet Jasmine—and these motherfuckers showed her no respect. Downright rude, really.

The biggest guy leans against the boat house, cat-calling a group of clearly uninterested girls nearby. They all shift uncomfortably when he says, “Come on, sweet thing! Don’t be like that.”

My hackles rise in a familiar way, shoulders going tight, face smoothing out.

“Meet you in a few,” I say to Reid, and start toward the dock. I sweep past the huddle of girls—townies, I gather, from the accents and clothes. Back home, I’m used to conservative uniforms at school and trendy outfits at parties. But these girls have an edgy grittiness that Preston Prep girls can’t buy. Frayed cut-off shorts. Worn boots. Stony expressions. I make eye contact with a pair of hard, hazel eyes and dart my gaze down to her lips. They’re pressed in a tight line. Whatever she sees in me, she’s not impressed.

Well, sweetheart, I think, justwait until I’m done with these fuckwits.

“Sugar,” the big guy pushes off the wall, leering at her, “you know, you’d be a lot prettier if you smiled every once in a while.”

Hazel eyes scowls and cuts her eyes at him, jaw setting. She’s wearing a loose flannel shirt, which should be universal code for unsexy. Unfortunately, it just makes us really wonder what’s hiding underneath. Which is exactly what’s got this dumbass up her grill.

She bites back, “You’d be a lot prettier if you fucked off and died, Derek,” and the other guys all laugh.

Derek presses a hand to his chest, feigning hurt. “Come on, Sug, I bet I could make you smile for once.” He moves closer and the group of girls parts like the Red Sea, giving him berth. The only one still holding her ground is the girl he’s harassing. She’s tiny, yet her stature implies she’s tough as nails. Long black hair hangs over her shoulder, the tips dyed blue. “We’ve fought this thing between us for too long. Stop playing frigid princess and let me warm you up.”

“Sure, I can probably find some lighter fluid,” she says, all faux-casually, looking around. “Setting you on fire could get me downright toasty.”