Touched By The Devil (Boys of Preston Prep 3)

And people think I have issues with violence.

“Noted.” I try a smile, but it doesn’t penetrate. If anything, it just makes her lip curl more. Fortunately, when I step on the gas and start down the road, she seems to relax—minutely. At least she kind of chills on the whole knife-wielding thing, resting it in her lap in favor of gathering her hair up into one of those sloppy buns girls are so good at. As soon as she’s done, she picks the knife back up, tapping it anxiously on her knee.

Sugar leans into the door, body inched as far away from me as possible. Never mind the console between us that houses the gearshift and other instruments, she’s acting like I could fly at her at any moment. I’d have to resort to gymnastics to even get to the passenger seat, but her breath fogs up the window and her hand clutches the handle of her knife like she’s plotting her escape.

She’s shivering.

“I’m taking the long way back to campus,” I tell her, getting on the loop that runs around town. “Just to avoid cops.”

She nods, her hand smoothing the frayed threads loose around the holes in her jeans. There’s one up near her upper thigh, showing a pale strip of flesh, then another down at the knee. I drag my eyes away from the movement, looking back at the dark road.

“I’m going to turn on the heat,” I warn, keeping my movements slow, measured, as I reach for the knob. This is like riding with a skittish, slightly deranged kitten. When she doesn’t react beyond mashing herself a little closer to the door, I turn on the stereo too, hoping to cut some of the awkward silence. Being around people who hate me isn’t something I’m used to, particularly with girls.

She pulls this angry-gawking expression at my sound system. “I like this song,” she says, all accusingly, like I plotted to ruin it for her and now she’s pissed off about it. Like how dare I have the nerve to listen to the same music as her?

“Hey, so do I. Guess we have something in common, huh?” I give her a smile that just makes her sneer back. “Could knock me over with a feather.”

She lifts her chin, flashing a vicious, sharp smile. “A feather wasn’t quite what I had in mind.”

Now it’s my turn to gawk. Goddamn, this girl is a spitfire. Scary as hell. Quick to step up. Slow to back down. Almost as good-looking as I am. I shoot a glance at the pretty little bitchy number currently occupying my passenger seat, and it’s like lightning.

Oh, I’m in for this.

I’m all in.

It takes a few minutes, but her shivering eventually stops. She doesn’t necessarily chill, but she at least doesn’t look ready to fling herself out the window. Progress.

“What were you doing behind that church?” she abruptly asks, her voice more even than I’ve heard it so far.

Surprised at the question—both the content and lack of attitude—I spare her a quick glance. “Hiding out,” I reply, lounging back in my seat, wrist draped casually over the wheel as I deftly shift gears. I know I can’t impress her, but this sudden impulse to show off for her isn’t something I’m built to oppose. “I heard the sirens and knew I should get off the streets. Cops busting up car shows is more of a ‘when’, not an ‘if’.” I switch lanes, engine revving loudly as I fly past a truck. “I always have a backup plan set.” Fully prepared to have my balls threatened again, I ask, “Uh, what about you?”

I’d seen her crouched behind the church for a long while, wondering if I should make myself known. I might have, if not for the fact she had her head buried in her knees, shoulders hitching with loud breaths. I figure she was crying. Nothing worse than a crying girl—except maybe one with a knife.

Fucking hell, Merle had me pegged.

“I guess I was hiding, too.” Her fingers twist at the frayed thread and she sounds more tired than anything else. I can work with that. “I was running after Georgia and Caroline, but…”

I glance over and see her tight jaw. “But…?”

“We got separated and then there were too many people, and this asshole bumped into me.” It all comes out in a rush, like it’s been bottled in her chest. “I just had to get out of there.”

My brain holds onto these little nuggets of information, like pieces of a puzzle. It may be the concussions, or the fact I’m an idiot, but a bigger picture is slowly starting to take form. “So what you’re saying is that I’m not the only guy you don’t want touching you.”

She cuts me a look and my balls shrink up a little. “No, you’re not.”

My instinct is to reach across the seats and tuck the strand of hair hanging by her cheek over her ear. It’s strong—a compulsion—pick pick pick. Part of it is my usual impulse to touch, plus my tendency toward oppositional defiance, but there’s something else, too. There’s pain written all over her face, and it’s weird, but I don’t like it. There’s some moronic urge brewing to take it all away, to make her feel better—good. Huh. Maybe this is what it’s like when you suddenly realize you’re into someone. That feeling is what keeps me from crossing the line.

Well, that and the fact I don’t want to be stabbed to death.

Would really stain Jasmine’s leather seats.

I rest my hand on the gear shift instead, letting the Shelby eat up the road, “So, where’d you get that Mustang? That thing must have been a sweet piece back when.”

After a tense beat, she offers, “It was my dad’s.”

It’s killing me not to tell her about the rebuild. I’m almost done with the alternator, and the hoses just came in yesterday, and I can get started on the transmission soon. I’ve been driving Merle crazy by chattering over it all week.

“Oh, that’s cool.” I’m wondering what kind of dad gives a girl a broken-down, unreliable car that’s barely holding together. “My dad would never give me something like that.”