Touched By The Devil (Boys of Preston Prep 3)

I make a long, winding gesture. “It’s this whole long, complicated family history that I don’t have time to go into now. Let’s just say I have absolutely no choice but to race. And win. If I don’t…” I look at her, willing her to understand. “If I don’t, then I’d be putting someone in danger.”

Concern furrows across her forehead. “Danger? Who?”

I take another deep breath. “Just… someone important to me. Family.”

A flicker of emotion sparks in her eyes, but she just nods. “Then I guess you have to do what you have to do.”

My head jerks back in surprise. “You won’t be mad that I’m racing when I promised not to? Or that I just fucking flipped out and almost hurt you again? Or that I’m clearly everything you said?”

“I’m not mad about anything right now.” She holds my gaze unflinchingly. “If you think that racing tonight is that important, then whatever. That’s your business. But …” Her eyes move to the car, forehead creasing. “That was some seriously out of control, batshit tantrum. It just… it just freaks me the fuck out. What the hell? Jasmine means everything to you.”

I look over at the damage, and shrug, voice flat. “It’s just a car.”

She gapes at me, wide-eyed. “Just a car? Bullshit. You put your own labor into it, Bass. Don’t act like this car means nothing to you. You were going to make me walk back to campus just for spilling a drink in it.” She shakes her head. “I don’t believe that. Not for one second.”

In the distance, engines rev, creating an echo against the cement building and flat parking lot. A voice carries, announcing the start of the races.

“I have to go,” I tell her, bending to gather the tools off the ground. “Do you want me to find you someone to catch a ride back with?”

Her head tilts, confusion evident in her frown. “What do you mean?”

I toss the tools in the trunk, feeling raw and tired. “Well, I figure the chances of you wanting to ride back with me are pretty slim, considering that I fucked up and—”

She steps forward and kisses me on the mouth. The feeling is instantaneous, a burst of warmth through my body. Sugar ends the kiss almost as soon as it starts, pulling back and swallowing anxiously.

I touch my lips. “What was that for?”

“Luck,” she says, burying her hands in her pockets. “I guess whatever’s going on with your brother can’t be solved tonight. But if you need to keep someone safe, then do it.” Her eyes are full of steel and the shadow of a secret, like we’re conspiring against something bigger than ourselves. “Always. You get me?”

I stare at her, stunned, feeling both steadied and unmoored by this one tiny girl. She has every right to bail on me—to be afraid. But the racing, what happened in class for Georgia, Always. When it comes to protecting someone, maybe Sugar gets it.

It’s a more solid form of forgiveness than our truce ever was.

16

Sugar

I watch Bass’s car i

dle at the starting line over by the boarded-up Food Court. The crowd has grown since we first arrived, people of all ages hustling for a good place to spectate. It’s a strange, awkward mishmash. There are a few teenagers that look way too young to be out here, and then older gear-heads who should probably be at home with their wives and kids, and plenty of others who fall somewhere in between. It’s the same kind of vibe as last time; loud engines, air thick with exhaust, the occasional fireworks. The sulfur mixes with the clinging scent of weed, and heavy bass from portable speakers bounces off the buildings.

It’s a straight up party.

I take a deep breath and work my way toward where I spotted Georgia earlier, sitting in the back of Emory’s truck. Like always, crowds like this stress me out, but tonight it’s hard to really dwell on it. Instead, I dwell on Bass and what I just witnessed.

Because he beat the shit out of his car. His car. The car that he named and talks about as if it were an actual person. The car that, according to him, he’d built himself, through blood and sweat, without any help from his parents, something that’s completely his.

It’s not that it didn’t scare the shit out of me, because it did. Seeing him like that, all raged out, fists flying, made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Every nerve in my body was screaming at me to run. Each time he made contact with the metal of the car, I could almost feel it, remembering what it’s like being on the other side of that raw, angry power.

I should have run.

Instead, I squared my shoulders, marched up to him, and stopped it.

Stupid.

Completely, inexcusably, ridiculously stupid.

It just wasn’t like him. And knowing that, deep in my bones—knowing him well enough to understand this—was enough to drive me forward. People don’t just go around hurting the things they love for no reason. Not unless they’re complete psychopaths. Sebastian is a lot of things, but I’ve seen a real psychopath. I’ve lived under the heel of one for long enough to know the signs.