Touched By The Devil (Boys of Preston Prep 3)

Reyn walks right up to me and jabs a finger sharply into my chest. “You’re lucky you have a concussion, or I’d beat the shit out of you.” And from the look in his eyes, I know he means it. “Do you know how much pain she’s in from you dragging her up four flights of stairs? Tell me, Wilcox, what do you do when you’re in pain? Huh? Tell me!” He shoves me back, face wild with anger, and I can’t do anything but gawk back at him. “Do you take a little something to make it go away? I know you do, you piece of—”

“Reynolds!” Vandy’s voice is some crazy amalgam of fury and hurt, and fuck.

Fucking shit. V’s in recovery. If she’s in pain, she can’t take anything. “I didn’t realize—I didn’t know.”

Reyn spits, “You didn’t fucking care!”

Emory grabs Reyn by the shoulder and jerks him back. But if I thought he might be on my side here, I’m dead wrong. He looks me in the eye and grinds out, “What the fuck were you thinking, dragging her out of class like that? Taking her all the way up Hayden?”

“I wasn’t,” I admit, my anger all burned out. It’s replaced with something heavy and slow-moving, and when I meet Vandy’s gaze, it burns almost as badly. “V, I didn’t mean—I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

“I know,” Vandy says, eyes tracking Reyn as he leans against Sugar’s Mustang, arms folded, still seething.

Sagging, I ask, “Are you okay? How bad is it?” and it makes her eyes flash hot.

“Oh my god, the three of you! The problem was not the fucking stairs.” She looks like she wants to tear her hair out. “So what if I hurt a little? I can handle it, I’m fine. The real problem here is how you acted in that room. What the hell, Bass?”

Reyn jerks his chin in my direction. “He’s having some kind of beef with that new girl.”

“I’m not having beef!” There’s a sting in my knuckle when I squeeze the wrench in my hand, but I barely notice the trickle of blood. “She’s the one with a problem here! I was just trying to show her that I’m not an asshole.”

Vandy tilts her head, visibly confused. “By acting like an asshole?”

“By introducing her to someone who knows I’m not an asshole.” Only now, I’m not so sure that’s the case.

Vandy turns to her brother and boyfriend, sighing. “Guys, can you give us a minute?”

“Why should I?” Christ. Reynolds McAllister sulks like no ot

her.

Her face goes sharp. “Because I can fight my own battles. I didn’t need the two of you racing over here like two yipping guard dogs.” Apparently unable to argue with her, they both slink off back toward their cars, eyes still watching. Vandy turns back to me. “What’s going on, for real?”

“Look, you remember at the beginning of the year, right? When we made the video?” I don’t need to say which video. The first initiation rite into the Devils was for everyone to spill their deepest, darkest secret, all while being filmed. It was a sort of mutually assured destruction; can’t become a Devil until you’ve shown your demons. “Remember the girl I accidentally—”

“No way,” V says, eyes wide with disbelief.

Jaw tightening, I nod, sweeping my hand in gesture. “She just shows up here—everywhere—and she’s treating me like I’m some sort of creep, like I meant to hurt her or something, and it’s bullshit, you know? She’s the one who jumped in the middle. She’s the one who followed me here. I didn’t even fucking—”

Vandy says, “Stop!” and I realize that I’ve started pacing again, that hot angry thing returning to my chest.

I’m about to lose it again.

The way Reyn and Emory are both tense, poised to spring, tells me it’s obvious to them, too.

“I’m cool.” I take a deep breath. “I’m chill.”

Vandy asks the same question that’s going through my head. “Why are you letting her get to you like this? You hurt her, Sebastian. She’s entitled to her feelings. Just leave it be.”

“It’s not that easy!”

She rolls her eyes. “Come on, you can’t handle one person not liking you?”

“It’s not about that,” I argue, and it isn’t. I shouldn’t care. I know this. I try to explain, “I know the kind of person I could have turned out to be. Can you imagine Heston, but with the physicality to back it up?”

She blanches. “That could never be you.”

“Exactly,” I say, flinging the wrench into the toolbox. “It can never be me.”