Touched By The Devil (Boys of Preston Prep 3)

His eyebrow lifts, accentuating the scar slicing down toward his eye. His gaze sweeps from my head to my toes once more, and every hair on my body stands on end. I force my legs to move and take a few steps back.

“…not to sound egotistical or anything—but everything is about me.”

The memory of his voice, that whole night, barrels down on me like a runaway train that only gains speed when he steps toward me.

“Stop!” I shout, pulling my knife from my bag and thrusting it toward him. “Come one step closer and I swear to god I’ll cut your fucking balls off.”

His face goes slack before screwing up angrily. “What the fuck’s your problem? I was just—” His eyes narrow, and I see the wheels turning, tension drawing into his pretty face. His grip tightens on the wrench in his hand, eyes sparking in recognition. He breathes a low, “Aw, fuck.”

He knows. He remembers. My jaw twinges in memory, too. It was three weeks before I could eat solids again, and it still aches sometimes, like a phantom blow. It’s not like I can’t take a punch. Eight years with Doug taught me everything I needed to know in that regard. It was the randomness of it. The lack of expectation. The knowledge that Doug could be anyone, anywhere, at any time.

I’m never safe.

Not from people like them.

“Look,” he begins, holding his hands up defensively. “That night at the Briar Cliffs, I never meant—”

“Shut up.” The only thing that’d make it worse is an apology. ‘Sorry’ is bullshit. I’ve heard enough of those in my life to know. “Tell Merle I’ll be back about the Mustang later.”

His eyes dart to the car on the lift, and he looks at it much like he just looked at me. I use the distraction to make a hasty retreat, running out of the enclosed garage and back into the cold winter air. I’d done everything I could to get away from the abusive asshole back home.

There’s no way I’m dealing with another one here.

3

Sebastian

With the barest thread of control, I manage not to lose my shit until she’s off the property. I don’t know at first just what I’ll do—as usual—but I can feel it swelling inside of me and bucking to break free. The instant she’s gone, I reach back and hurl my arm forward, flinging the wrench across the room. It smashes noisily into the workbench, landing with precision, scattering tools all over the floor. It’s meager and dissatisfying. It’s not the feel of my fist meeting bone, a flame licking up my spine and exploding from my muscles. I thrust my hand into the box and pick up another, throwing it at the same spot, and then another. I lose track of what gets thrown, unable to see past the thing burning inside of me, pummeling the fuck out of the wall.

It barely leeches the blind fury from the pit of my chest.

No matter how many direct hits I make, I can’t get that girl’s expression out of my mind. It was like she’d seen a ghost. No, worse, a monster.

I’m the one who saw a ghost. How else could I possibly fucking explain that girl from the Briar Cliffs—my dirty secret, the worst thing I’ve ever done—just waltzing right into this garage. It took me longer than it should have to recognize her. The blue tips of her hair were gone, and everything about her looked tired and harsh—especially her eyes. They’re what made me connect the dots. Those big hazel eyes. The fear was the same today as it was then.

She’s terrified of me.

At least this time she didn’t scream.

Jesus Christ.

I shove my hands in my hair, and it takes me longer now than it used to, gathering up all this fury and packing it away. It was easier when I could just beat the fuck out of someone and lay it all on them. There’s probably a name for it somewhere, in some boring, overly-technical textbook. Fucked-Up Pretty Boy Syndrome. If it had an illustration, it’d just be wild, Pollock-esque scribbles. The caption would read ‘prognosis: terminal.’

I try breathing. Everyone tells me do that when I get like this. ‘Just breathe, Bass’. Most useless fucking thing ever. My lungs are not the problem here. Still, I do it, air whistling through my gnashed teeth.

My eyes dart to the Mustang up on the lift, the one she said was hers. I noticed it when I got in this morning, mostly due to the fact I was surprised someone had been able to get it here in the first place. It was obviously held together by dirt, rust, hope, and a prayer. The paint is completely gone in places, and lot of the ornamental details are gone. It’s a complete junker—a total piece of shit. A beater. A lemon.

A challenge.

Breathing doesn’t help, but that does. I look at the body and let my brain start racking up a list. Plenty could probably be salvaged, with a shitload of work. But that’s not even to speak of whatever’s going on under the hood. And the interior, which is probably grotty, too.

Now that my adrenaline has waned, I look back over at the tool bench, biting back a groan. Fucking hell, Merle is going to kill me. He already barely tolerates me coming here in the first place. I’d charmed the old man—as much as the crusty, old bastard can even be charmed—into letting me rent a bay to work on Jasmine whenever I want. There’s a particular kind of affinity that runs through gear-heads, a common thread. Merle must have sensed it in me the first time I came in here with Jasmine. It’s best in the mornings and at night, when it’s quiet and there aren’t any customers here. Those are my times. That’s why I was so annoyed at a customer just walking up when I still had twenty minutes of blissful peace left.

Having something to do with my hands helps. A project to focus on. A physical, tangible objective. The only issue is that I’ve put so much work into my Jasmine that she’s in top shape. More and more, I’ve been snagging wayward tasks from Merle, desperate to keep myself occupied for just a little longer. This place has been my only goddamn saving grace these last few shitty months.

And now she’s a part of it.

That realization is depressing as hell and sparks the rage still smoldering in my chest. Without thinking, I give into the impulse to pick up one last wrench and throw it as hard as possible across the room. It hits the exit light over the door and the plastic casing cracks, shattering to the ground.