Touched By The Devil (Boys of Preston Prep 3)

The screen door opens with an abrasive whine, ominously heavy footsteps following in its wake. I ignore it—him—and walk toward my car to open the passenger door. The springs creak even worse than the screened door, and a piece of rusted paint comes off in my hand. But it’s drivable, and it’s the only thing left in this house owned by my father. Aside from my camera, it’s the only thing from this place I’m determined to take with me.

“Time to leave already?” he asks, voice deceptively casual. “Figured you’d back out, you’re such a chicken-shit.”

“Now, Doug,” my mom says, her tone exasperated. “Sugar’s going to be just fine. She had perfect scores on her entrance exam, and she wants to go.” In a lower voice, she pleads, “Please don’t. Not today.”

I can almost hear the impatience in her own voice, too. It’ll be easier for her when I leave. She won’t have to put up anymore token protests. She won’t have to deal with my burns or cuts or bruises. She’ll be able to care about me from a distance, where I won’t cause trouble between them. It’ll be a nice life for her. Doug doesn’t treat her the way he treats me.

I push back the seat and reach for my bag, shoving it through the small gap. Even though I can’t see him, I can feel him, sense him. Always have. It’s not the house that makes this place unbearable. It’s this. The persistent wait. The knowledge that it’s coming and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. Not that I haven’t tried. There was a time I put in an effort—struggled to tiptoe around, make myself small and convenient and whatever version of well-behaved was ‘in’ that week. I used to think I had some control.

I used to be an idiot.

My stomach balls tight. I fight against the seat and suitcase, flustered by the sound of his footsteps getting closer.

I feel his breath on my neck.

My skin crawls. Crawls.

Every instinct in my body surges toward flight, but I know better than that now, learned long ago that it’s worse when I run from it. His breath washes across the skin of my neck like hot acid. “Here,” he says, voice deceptively even, “let me do that.”

I hope you fucking die. “I’ve got it.”

“Do you?” He takes the suitcase from me and slides it in the space. Because I knew it was coming—it always does—I’m already rigid and cringing when his hand clamps around the base of my neck, digging in hard. From the outside, it probably looks normal. But his hand squeezes, and if it were on the other side of my neck, he’d be strangling me. It hurts. But worse than the hurt is the way being touched makes me feel. I gnash my teeth to bite back my scream, body thrumming with something uncontrollable.

It didn’t used to be like this. Before this summer, Doug used to have to put in the effort of hitting me to get this kind of reaction. Oh, and he was good at it, too. The more tolerance I built to his blows, the worse it got. He ramped it up so well.

Now—after what happened that night on the docks—this is all it takes.

One. Fucking. Touch.

I should run. Fight. Twist away. But he knows I won’t, and so do I. Because it’s taking everything in me to just breathe. I can’t contain my shudder when he hisses in my ear, “I know you’re running away because you think you’re better than us, but you’ll be back. Crawling on your hands and knees after how those rich brats will treat you. You’re nothing, you hear me? You’re trash. No one wants you.”

He finishes by giving me a teeth-rattling shake. Tears spring to my eyes and my jaw clamps shut, but I keep quiet and still. Even though my neck is screaming in protest, this is nothing. He’s done worse. So much worse. I’ve spent the last eight years wishing Doug away and it never happened. Not once. Catching my breath, I jerk back, elbowing him hard in the ribs.

“You little fucking bitch,” he spits, but it gives me room to slide in the front seat and slam the door. Taking one last look at my mother, I crank the engine and peel out of the driveway as fast as I can. The tires squeal, and I stop caring about how it looks to the neighbors.

The smaller he grows in my rearview mirror, the more it feels like a layer of my skin is left behind with him. I draw in a breath and release it in a scream that no one can hear, hands clutched tight around my steering wheel. This scream isn’t the like the other ones. There’s no fear here. There’s no pain. This scream is pure fucking promise.

It’s the last time—I say it in my head like a prayer—the last time my step-father will ever hurt me. For the first time in years, this scream ends in a grin. I don’t need to look in the mirror to know it’s maniacal and slightly crazed-looking.

Preston Prep may be the home of the devils, but I’m not scared.

I’ve already survived hell.

Most of the drive is a slow unwinding. I feel freer than I have since before my dad died, like I can do anything, go anywhere, be whoever I want. It’d be naïve to call it happiness, but I feel optimistic enough to call it relief.

As if the fates are trying to take me up on the challenge, the Mustang sputters and wheezes a slow, painful death, three miles from campus.

So close, but so far.

Shit, shit, shit!

I manage to get my car pulled into the parking lot of a small diner and sit there for a moment, thinking. Unwilling to let this ruin my good day, I go through my usual series of troubleshooting steps. Pumping the gas. Letting it rest. Putting it into neutral. But all attempts at getting it back running are ultimately futile.

“Seriously?” I growl at the goddess who’s probably listening and laughing at me right now. “You couldn’t give me one fucking break?”

Thunking my forehead on the steering wheel, I sigh and look out the driver’s side window. Past the diner is another parking lot. Up by the road are stacks of tires. A garage. Halle-fucking-lujah.

“So, uh… thanks for picking me up.” I tuck my limbs in close, fingers laced together in my lap. “Kind of a shitty way to meet, but obviously I don’t know anyone else at Preston, and since you’d given me your number when we were assigned as roommates—”