Touched By The Devil (Boys of Preston Prep 3)

I laugh darkly. “He is powerful, and he wields it to protect his kids, not the rest of the world.”

“Aren’t you one of his kids?” Emory wonders. “Doesn’t he want to protect you from him?”

I shake my head, raising my arms. “Heston’s his big, fat Wilcox heir. He’s got the Ivy League, the looks, the prickish attitude, and the Wilcox name. My dad’s been grooming him for this shit since he was born.”

“So be better.”

I turn a hot glare on Reynolds, feeling sort of like I want to bash his face in. “Excuse me?”

He just shrugs. “You’ve got all of that—or at least the opportunity to have it. Be better than Heston and your dad will choose you.”

“Be better than Heston,” I repeat, dumbfounded at his idiocy. “Sure, let me just go back in time and erase the fact that eighty percent of my favorite pastimes are illegal. Or that my dad has taught me fuck-all. Or that Heston was born first. That’s helpful as fuck, McAllister.”

“Well, you need to do something,” Emory cuts in. “Are you just going to live your entire life not wanting or having anything because you’re afraid Heston might fuck it up?”

“Looks like it,” I say bitterly.

“That’s not realistic, Bass.”

“How’s this for realism. You wanna know who he threatened before he found out about Sugar.” I give them each a tight grin. “Vandy. Just because Syd told him we were friends. That’s

all it takes.”

Reyn doesn’t look so fucking blasé now. “Excuse me, he did fucking what?”

Emory barks a laugh. “I’d like to see him try.”

I tip my bottle at him. “That’s exactly why he won’t. Not because he’s afraid of you—he isn’t—but because I’m not worried. You see, it’s not fun for him unless I’m worried.” I down the last of my beer, tossing my bottle on the ground.

“So that’s it,” Emory asks, face grim. “You’re going to go back to fighting, just because that’s what he wants.”

I smile bitterly. “What Heston wants, Heston gets. Path of least resistance, Em. He won’t stop, and if someone gets in his way, he’ll bring everyone down with him.” I glance between them. “Look at the Devils. Heston organized that club prank and the whole group went down. He’s not afraid of cutting off his nose to spite his face. So,” I continue, “unless you have something that will take my brother out for good, I can’t risk it. I can’t risk her.”

Neither of them have a response to that, which is about fucking right. He’ll come after them next, and neither of them are going to risk it, either.

I don’t blame them one bit.

30

Sugar

Mr. Lee looks through my photos, one more time. I know from the way his lips turn down into a sharp frown what he’s going to say before it’s even out of his mouth. “But these two, at least?”

I don’t even look at them. “No, thanks.”

Mr. Lee has spent the last three days trying to convince me that the photos of Sebastian are the most compelling in my portfolio. The recruiters apparently are partial to portraits. I can’t even bring myself to look at them. The most recent ones, taken during that day at his house, had been developed the night after he dumped me. Locked down in the lab, watching his face appear in a grim parade of wound-rubbing salt hadn’t been my finest moment. There’s just something about putting the moments on paper—capturing them, locking them away, pinning them down—that makes it easier to let go.

Or, well. That’s how it used to be. Now it’s just a constant reminder that at one point, however briefly, Sebastian Wilcox had managed to snare the best parts of me.

Stings like a bitch.

Mr. Lee sighs, shaking his head. “That’s a real shame, Sugar. This one, with the fire…” He doesn’t make me look at it, but he does wait for me to meet his gaze. “This piece is the perfect representation of your style, the emotive nature of your work, and your skill and precision with a camera. I don’t want to push you somewhere you creatively—or emotionally—aren’t ready to go,” his sympathetic face makes it clear that he knows enough, “but I’d be remiss in my position if I let you walk out that door without telling you that this photo should be front and center. It’s your ticket, Miss Voss, plain and simple.”

Internally, I wince. The photo of Sebastian, taken the night of the bonfire, has been on my mind more than Mr. Lee could possibly know. Of course, it’s a great picture. It’s the best fucking photo I’ve ever taken. I know that. Nevertheless, “I’ll just stick with the graffiti.”

Unable to bring myself to even look at the photos I’d taken of him, Mr. Lee and I have reached a tenuous compromise. Even though it’s still like picking at a raw, gaping wound, we’ve decided my shots from the car shows were the best compromise.

He looks disappointed, but finally slides the photo back into the folder. “You can start setting up your exhibit on Saturday morning. I know it’s not a lot of time, but you were a late addition. Can you swing that?”