Touched By The Devil (Boys of Preston Prep 3)

“Sugar,” I say, willing her to meet my eyes. When she does, I hold her gaze, because I need her to know that this isn’t a fight. “Please, give me a chance. One chance.”

She looks up at the sky, groaning, “Sebastian, you don’t—”

“We can do it on your terms. We can play by your rules. If I fail, then I’ll leave you alone forever. Promise.”

She shifts on her feet, swaying back and forth, and my heart leaps into my throat at the awareness she’s considering it. I don’t push. I don’t beg. I suck a drag from my cigarette and play it cool—at least on the outside. On the inside, I feel like I’m either going to vomit or run like hell and pretend this never happened.

She finally sighs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ll think about it.”

“Fuck, really?” I blurt, before instantly tamping it down.

“But if I let this happen,” she adds, pointing her cigarette at me, “and you screw up, then I’m holding you to that promise. And it has to be real. No more of this pushing and prodding bullshit. You’ll have to really fuck off.”

I nod, sure that she means it. One fuck up and I’m done—we’re done—and I’ll have to accept it. I watch as she walks away, turning the corner around the building. I’m aware that there’s only one option here; not screwing up.

14

Sugar

“What do you think of this?” Georgia asks, holding the poster up to the wall.

I’m on her bed, munching on a slice from the pizza we’d ordered. I tilt my head, scrutinizing. “Maybe a little to the left.”

She slides it over a little before securing it, nodding. “Yeah, that’s better.”

We’re staying in tonight, which isn’t a surprise. Georgia’s been a lot better since that night Emory and Aubrey came to cheer her up, but she’s still laying low. After the shitshow I witnessed in Dr. Ross’s class yesterday, I think I might understand why.

I’d never ask. If it

’s true—if some absolute asshole recorded them having sex and then leaked it for the whole world to see—then chances are, she’s a stickler for privacy.

It makes sense, though.

A couple weeks back, I’d been trying out a new lens Mr. Lee had loaned me. I was in here snapping some random test shots and decided to get one of her. She was at her desk, mirror propped up on a stack of books, sweeping a shimmery green eyeshadow over an eyelid. When she heard the click of the shutter, she completely freaked out.

It’s not like she was naked. In her tank top and skimpy little sleep shorts, she was still wearing more than she had been the day she took me swimming. But she still wrapped her blanket around herself, pale-faced and wide-eyed, and told me in no uncertain terms that I’m to never, ever, take pictures of her.

She wasn’t mean about it. She just looked scared shitless. So I pulled out the film, effectively ruining every shot in it, and threw it in the trash, right in front of her, no questions asked.

Now, I get it.

“Okay, now you need something soft,” she says, stepping back to admire my side of the room. Apparently, I hadn’t been putting in enough effort to make my mark on it. I could frankly give a shit, either way. This dorm room is nice. It has nice people and it’s safe. But it’s not really home. I’m not sure I have one of those at all.

I suspect, however, that this is just a project she’s taking on to stay distracted, so I’ve been playing along. “What do you mean?”

“You know, textures,” she says, flopping down belly-first onto my bed. “Maybe some plushy pillows, or you could drape a sheer curtain over your headboard. Lots of options.”

I look to my left, and then my right. Georgia’s bed has eight pillows. Some are pink. Others are fluffy. One has sparkly sequins. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but do I look like the kind of girl who has decorative pillows and sheer curtains?”

She pauses with her slice of pizza halfway to her mouth. “Hm. Good point. Maybe some razor blades, then.” When I take one of her decorative pillows and throw it at her, she ducks, laughing. “I don’t know, punk isn’t really my aesthetic. I like soft pillows. They’re good for a lot of things.” She wiggles her eyebrows and I snort in response.

I hear what the other girls say about my roommate in the halls. Slut. Whore. Easy. Yeah, Georgia does have a lot of sex. But she’s really respectful about it. I know she has guys in here every time I have a meeting with the photography club. I’ve started to schedule my time outside with the cats, just to give her some more windows, although I’m not sure she’s noticed. This is not to say that she needs our dorm room to have sex. On many occasions, I’ve seen her come back to the room, rumpled and blissed out. I don’t know exactly where she goes, or who she does it with, but you know what?

More power to her.

Get that dick, girl.

One of us should be able to.