Touched By The Devil (Boys of Preston Prep 3)

“I’m saying that you need to do what’s right here, because I sure as hell can’t.” Not any more than I already am. “If you want me out of the Devils, that’s fine.”

“I never said anything about—”

“Official or not, you’re the Queen Bee of the Playthings. They’ll do what you say and follow your lead.” I haven’t forgotten how quick Heston was to target Vandy just for being my friend. Looking at Afton now—thinking of all my brave, fucked-up, beautiful girls—I add, “It’ll be best if you all stop calling me a friend. In fact, don’t call me at all.”

She stares at me hard and long, and when I can’t take the scrutiny any longer, I turn and walk away. Walking away from Sugar was bad enough, like ripping open a part of myself and plucking out all the good bits, one by one.

Tossing away the rest is like a pitchfork to the heart.

It doesn’t get better from there. It turns out that Sugar Voss has made an impression on my friends. Everyone is pissed at me. The Playthings. The Devils. I’m met with cold shoulders and hot glares everywhere I turn. If I thought my boys would have my back, then I’m just shy of being mistaken. Unlike the Playthings, they don’t look like they want to rip my balls off.

They also don’t look like they want to defend me much, either.

And they shouldn’t, is the thing. It hurts, having to cast them all aside—knowing if I didn’t, they’d do it for me. But knowing that Sugar’s carved herself out a place here, has inspired their loyalty after only a few months…

I’m glad she has that.

She deserves it more than I do, anyway.

Even Dr. Ross, who I swear knows more about the inner workings of teenage drama than she’d ever admit, gives me a dark look when I enter the classroom the next morning.

Sugar’s already in her sea

t, and I’d been preparing myself for this all night—if getting wasted in my room again can count as preparing—but it’s still like feeling a knife buried into my chest, just seeing her sitting there. Without a word, I walk down the aisle, passing her desk, and drop heavily into my own.

She jumps at the sound of my seat squeaking on the floor, but visibly clenches tight, pitching forward.

The whole class is like that.

I still get all these wild, nagging impulses to reach for her hair. I’ve spent the last couple weeks playing with it in class, even having halfway learned to do a braid while Elana looked on, snickering at how lumpy and twisted it looked.

My knee bounces throughout the lecture, and I wish I could just get all these hard parts over with. Seeing each other in classes, the halls, pretending like we aren’t both being singed from the inside out.

Sugar begins packing her bag long before the bell rings, and when it does, she’s out of her seat like a bolt of lightning, not even waiting for the other girls at the door. I take my time, listlessly shoving my shit into my bag and sliding from my chair.

Reyn doesn’t even wait around for me.

The rest of the week goes like that. I go to class, people glare at me, Sugar avoids me, I eat lunch with the lacrosse team, I go back to my dorm and get drunk until three in the morning, when I finally manage to nod off to sleep, only to wake four hours later and do it all over again.

On Friday, I’m on my way to lunch, cutting through the Arts wing, when I pass the weekly art exhibit. The twins are adjusting a piece on the display, bickering and huffing like they always do. I slow my roll, because let’s face it, it’s been a hard few days, and getting a little love from my biggest fans would help a lot. I stop to inspect the photo being hung—a closed eye covered in glittery eyeshadow and thick, rainbow-colored eyelashes.

“It needs to go up on the right,” Micha says, hands on his hips. Michaela shifts the frame up and down. “Nope, too high. Now it’s too low.” He throws his hands up. “I’ll just do it myself.”

“I can adjust a frame,” Michaela snipes, rolling her eyes at her brother.

The move forces her to look over his head, locking eyes with me. I give her a grin, expecting a smile in return, maybe a little blushing, but instead I get a hard glare.

“I think it looks great,” I try, digging my hands into my pockets. “Who took this? Michaela?”

“Oh,” Micha says, whipping around, eyes narrowing, “it’s you.”

“Yep. Just admiring your work.”

The twins exchange a knowing look, then turn back to the frame.

“Do you need any help?” I reluctantly ask.

“No, we’re all good,” Micha says, waving his hand at me dismissively.