Touched By The Devil (Boys of Preston Prep 3)

But I was wrong. The longer I looked at them, the more I realized they were a love letter from me. Every look, every glance, every moment captured were just snapshots of how badly I wanted her. How much I loved having her. How intensely I didn’t want to lose her.

If I thought I had half a chance of denying it, then realizing she knew about what I did to the Mustang squashed that right under its boot. It’s just something else that’s making my blood buzz with frustration. I should have fucking been there. I should have seen her face when she saw it for the first time. Her expression when she opened the door and saw inside. The way her face lit up when she cranked it and it started, easy as breathing. I should have been there beside her when she took it on the road and opened it up.

I should have done—and been—a lot of things.

None of that matters now.

Reluctantly, I resign myself to leaving the Shelby on the side of the road. It’s a shitty part of town and the Ford is perfect for getting jacked. Nothing about this night is going the way I want it to, but the sooner it starts, the sooner it’s over.

I activate Jasmine’s alarm, pausing to look at her there under the glow of the streetlight, all battered and sad. Shoving my hands into my coat pockets, I head down the path that leads behind the overgrown baseball fields. The park has been abandoned for years, but a preservation group keeps the city from razing it entirely. Past the dugout, I take the old cement stairs down to the crumbling deck. In the distance, I can already see a crowd of kids huddled around a makeshift fire, 40 ounces in hand, weed wafting through the air. The sound of skateboards zipping back and forth bounces off the curved floor of the empty pool, spray paint covering the interior walls. That’s where I’ll fight tonight, down in the well of the deep end.

Seems fitting, says a voice in my head. It sounds a lot like Sugar’s.

“Dude.”

Turning, I see Emory. The rest of the Devils, minus the girls, aren’t far behind him.

“Came to watch the show?” I take a final drag of my cigarette and toss it on the concrete, stabbing it out with my shoe. I tell Ben, “Make sure you get your bets in, because I’ve got plenty of shit to work out on whatever unlucky bastard fights me tonight.”

“Bass, stop,” Em says, eyes full of that patented Devil arrogance. “You’re not going to do this. You don’t have to do this.”

“No? I’m pretty sure I do.” It’s me or Sugar. Heston has made that perfectly clear. Maybe this will buy me time to really sell that she doesn’t mean anything to me. Maybe it won’t. But I have to try. If I don’t fight, he’ll come after her, and I have no fucking idea what his depraved, twisted idea of payback will be. “So, you might as well get a good seat.”

I claim an area by the edge of the pool and drop my bag, reaching for tape to wrap my knuckles with. I can already hear some of the whispers. People are realizing I’m actually here. That it’s really going to happen. The buzz in the air grows to something frenetic, full of anticipation. I reach into my bag for my lucky shoes next, easing out of my current sneakers to put them on, face set as I pull the laces tight.

“Wilcox.” Reyn appears suddenly at my side, his voice tight with annoyance. “He’s right, you know. Whatever you’re afraid of…it’s over. Georgia and the rest of the girls went to the cops. They got Sydney to go, too. Vandy was there and everything.”

I pause for a moment, looking over my shoulder to read their expressions. “Why would Georgia…?”

Only, now I’m realizing exactly what Georgia has to do with all this. I’m realizing why that video of Sydney seemed uncomfortably familiar. It’s been years since I saw the video of Georgia, and even then, I’d only gotten halfway through it before closing it out.

“He’s the one,” I say, not even feeling surprised. “Of fucking course.” I had been wondering. Heston making a threat toward Vandy, but not Georgia, hadn’t made sense to me at the time. I understand now. He never needed to threaten Georgia. He’s been tormenting her for years without even having to lift a fucking finger. “Well, that sucks, because all they did was expose themselves. When he finds out—which, he will—he’ll tell everyone it’s them in the videos. Their last shred of anonymity will be gone.”

“I don’t think you’re picking up what I’m putting down,” Emory stresses, expression strangely urgent. “Georgia said the cops believed them. They’re pressing charges.”

“Oh,” I tug off my sweatshirt, hoping the chill in the air can energize me. “The cops believed them, huh?” I nod over their heads. “Then what the fuck is my brother doing here?”

Reyn looks back, jaw tightening at the sight of Heston. “Maybe they’re still looking for him?”

“Or maybe,” I rip off a piece of tape with my teeth and begin wrapping my hands, “my father already made this disappear.” The grin I give them feels brittle and wrong. “There’s no getting out of this, boys. But do me a favor?”

Emory grimaces. “What?”

“If things go badly and I end up in the hospital or something, make sure I get a hot nurse, okay?”

“Don’t be such a fucking—” Carlton starts, but I’ve already jumped into the pool. That act brings a round of excited cheers from the kids sitting and standing on the deck. My opponent strolls down the shallow end steps, like he’s Muhammad Ali. I half expect him to be wearing a goddamn cape. I search the crowd, looking for familiar faces, but only see the Devils down on the end, none looking too pleased. Heston stands by the bookie, arms crossed, like he should be the one wearing a cape. Why not? We’re all just his fucking pawns. Me. This kid I’m about to pummel. The girls…

I look around one last time, but none of them are here. I don’t think they’ve ever missed one of my fights. Not since we all became Devils. I want to get pissed that they’re not supporting me, but I know that’s not right. The last fight of mine they watched was a shit show. And it’s not like I can expect Sugar to come here and watch me get my brains splattered on the concrete like I had that night. She’s had enough violence for a lifetime.

Which is just one more reason we can’t be together.

I hop on my feet, trying to get some blood pumping against the cold. The guy in the ring with me, for all his swagger, doesn’t look so tough. But that can be deceiving. He’s shorter than me by a couple inches at least, even if his arms are bigger. This is probably as fair a fight as I can expect from Heston.

I don’t talk shit this time or hype up the crowd. This is a job. This is something I’m doing because I don’t have a choice. Nothing about this is fun or exciting.

It’s not like it used to be.