Touched By The Devil (Boys of Preston Prep 3)

“Sugar! Come on,” she says, thrusting her hand to me. I stare at it, unmoving, blood pumping in my ears. She wiggles her fingers. “Sugar!”

I shake my head and take a step back, crashing into a body.

“Watch it!” I spin and see male hands coming toward me, palms out. It’s pure hindbrain instinct, bracing for a hit, flinching back.

I lurch away, looking for a way out—away from all these hands and bodies—running blind until the flickering blue lights push me off the road. I need a place to catch my breath, to hide, and finally duck behind a sign in front of a church. I nestle against the brick, tucked between thick shrubs, and put my head between my legs, panting shallow breaths. Fuck. What a time for one of these.

I only distantly register the police cruiser rolling by quietly, lights swirling off the front of the church. I take a few moments to gulp down air and calm this wild panic gripping my chest.

You’re fine, I keep telling myself. No one touched you—not really.

The relief at this is an old friend.

The disappointment? That’s new.

Before long, the taillights vanish around the corner and I start to feel the crushing weight of fatigue that always follows a panic attack. I stay there for a little while longer, though. Long enough that the dampness in the air turns to sprinkles, wetting my hair and shoulders.

Groaning in frustration, I stand and dust off my hands, looking around.

Now I really have no idea where I am. I re

ach for my phone and search for Georgia’s number. But just as I’m about to press ‘call’, a car rolls out of the shadows behind the church. Its window slowly rolls down.

Sebastian Wilcox rests his forearm on the window and looks at me with those piercing blue eyes. “Need a ride?”

You have to be shitting me.

9

Sebastian

I have this thing about picking scabs.

Always drove my mom nuts. Every scar I’ve gotten could have been a lot smaller if I hadn’t picked at the healing wound so much, unthinkingly, like a compulsion. There’s a huge scab on my knuckle right now, and I’ve been fiddling with it all night, exposing the raw pink skin beneath.

There’s another scab standing out there in what’s rapidly becoming a full-on rain shower, looking into my window with a stony expression.

Guess I can’t help but pick at that one, too.

“Come on,” I say, patting the seat beside me. “Promise I won’t bite.” She turns and marches away, arms wrapping around her middle. Rolling my eyes, I coast alongside her. “The sky’s about to drop and it’s cold as balls out here. We’re both going to the same place, it doesn’t have to be—”

“Fuck off!” she snaps, strides lengthening.

I know I should, but probably the only thing worse than subjecting her to my presence is leaving her on the side of a rainy highway on a cold night.

“Nah,” I answer. “What are you gonna do? Walk all the way back in the rain? Stop being stubborn.”

Her hair swishes heavily behind her and I can only barely make out the shape of her face, but there’s no mistaking the tightness of that jaw. She’s like a goddamn cinderblock wall. No getting through that.

“Come on!” Exasperated, I smirk, offering, “You can bring your knife.”

She stops.

I press down on the brake a little too late, surprised that even worked, but it still takes a long, suspended moment until I hear the passenger door click open. The pair of dog tags swinging around her neck enter before she does.

She’s got the knife, alright. She’s not even holding it blade up. She’s holding it like she’s in the middle of stabbing someone already. Jesus Christ. Maybe I should have left her on the side of the road after all.

She turns to me only halfway, damp hair veiling her pale cheeks. “Touch me and I’ll bury this in your fucking throat.”