Touched By The Devil (Boys of Preston Prep 3)

“But,” he says, smiling coyly, “can I just ask one thing?”

“You can ask,” I reply warily, “but I may not answer.”

“Okay,” he says, glancing at his sister, who gives him a nod of encouragement. “Exactly how soft is his hair?”

I laugh, and because they are fourteen and absolutely adorable, I tell them the truth. “Soft as a baby kitten.”

Vandy had an assignment for the newspaper, so I told her I’d meet her near the Devil’s Tower when I was finished with photography club. While I wait, I walk around it, noticing a small plaque that claims it’s the oldest structure on campus—o

nce part of a church that burned down in the 1800s. I’m sure the people who built this thing as a religious icon would be delighted to know its legacy for becoming a teenaged debauchery sex den. I pull out my camera and take a few photos of the historic details—the arched windows and stonework. It’s a popular subject in the club among the kids who can’t get off campus, like me. I suspect Mr. Lee knows exactly why.

“Hey,” Vandy says, walking up with her slow gait. “Thanks for waiting. The basketball team is the focus of our next issue and I needed to do a few interviews.” She looks at the camera in my hands, shoulders falling. “Aw, man, I should have had you take the pictures. Mine are never very good.”

“I’m not sure how great I’d be at athletic photos,” I admit, snapping the cap over the lens. “I’m sure yours are fine.”

Two girls pass on the other side of the tower just as I start in the direction of the parking lot. “Seriously,” one girl says to the other, “let me see it.”

“No,” her friend replies. “It’s not a big deal.”

They stop abruptly and Vandy’s hand clamps around my wrist and yanks me back. Startled, I whip around and jerk it away from her grip. She drops her hand with an apologetic look and gestures for me to come back around the side of the tower. She whispers, “Sorry. I just…can we wait until they’re gone?”

I glance back at the two girls who have stopped in the pathway a few feet away, then back at Vandy. Her back is pressed against the tower, but she looks more annoyed than scared. I recognize the girls instantly; Sydney and her friend Fiona.

“Syd and I used to be best friends,” Vandy explains quietly, “but there’s a lot of bad blood between us since a bunch of dumb drama went down the fall. Seeing her just makes me so mad. It’s easier to avoid her.”

“Sure,” I say, in response. If anyone understands the desire to stay out of someone’s way, it’s me. I lean next to her, but still have a pretty good view of them, and it’s hard not to overhear their conversation.

“If it’s not a big deal,” Fiona says, face stony, “then it shouldn’t be a problem for you to show me.”

Sydney shifts her backpack from one side to the other. “It looks worse than it is.”

Fiona crosses her arms over her chest and stares at her friend. “Syd, show me.”

Sydney’s exhalation is annoyed but she lifts up the hem of her shirt with one hand while pulling down the top of her skirt with the other. A large, purpling bruise splays over her hip and waist in the shape of fingers. My heart lurches into my throat, making it momentarily hard to breathe. I know that kind of bruise. Not an accident. The pit of my stomach aches as I look at it.

“Jesus Christ, Sydney,” Fiona gasps, peering to look at the bruise. Sydney drops her shirt and moves her hands protectively over her waist. “He did that to you?”

“You say that like he meant to hurt me or something. He got excited,” she replies flippantly. “I can’t help it if I have that kind of effect on a guy.”

“That’s not excitement, Syd, that’s….” Fiona swallows, “that’s not cool.”

I have to agree with Fiona on this one.

“Look, he’s older. More experienced. Passionate.” She gives Fiona a pitying look. “One day when you’re actually, like, having sex, you can have an opinion, but until then? Stay out of my business.”

Fiona’s jaw drops but Sydney has already started walking down the path. A moment later her friend follows, I guess willing to let the condescending tone slide. I glance over at Vandy and see that she’s also heard the entire conversation. The look of annoyance is gone, replaced by something I can’t discern. “Do you know anything about that?”

“No,” she replies, “but with Sydney you never know what’s really going on. She’s not known for her honesty. Telling lies, twisting truths, and spinning drama is pretty much her brand.” She pushes off the tower and starts toward the path, her foot dragging on the cobblestone. I definitely don’t have a handle on the inner workings of all the interpersonal dynamics around here—who’s a liar, who’s a sneak, who’s a narc—but I do know one thing.

That bruise is real and whoever put it there is dangerous.

“Thanks for doing this,” I say, once we’re up in Vandy’s bedroom. It’s so clean and bright that I’m almost afraid to move in case I accidentally stain something. “I’ve never had to go to this kind of dinner before. I’m guessing, aside from my Preston uniform, my usual ensembles aren’t going to cut it.”

Georgia had made this perfectly clear, but doesn’t have much to offer me in the way of options until she goes home for the weekend. Luckily, Vandy and I are about the same size, even if our styles are miles apart.

“Farmhouse is a pretty low-key restaurant; it’s got this whole ‘farm to table’ vibe. Everything is organic and locally sourced,” she says, walking over to her closet. “So it doesn’t need to be too dressy, but it never hurts to make a good impression.”

That means it’s going to be dressy.