Touched By The Devil : Enemies-to-Lovers Standalone Romance (Boys of Preston Prep Book 3) Read online

  Touched By the Devil

  Boys of Preston Prep

  Angel Lawson

  Samantha Rue

  To all the angst-bois and bad ass bitches that inspired us to write this book.

  Never stop.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  About the Authors

  Prologue

  Sebastian

  There’s something ironic about how the uber-wealthy go to tiny, back wood, hick towns for vacation. God forbid we go to one of the five-star resorts that line pristine beaches, or the comforts of a modernized summer home in the mountains. Nope, every year the Wilcox family makes the trek to the little town of Briar Cliffs to stay in our hundred-year-old, musty cabin, overlooking the river that my father has been coming to since he was born, and his father came to since he was born. Apparently, it’s family tradition to bore the hell out of the Wilcox men, which is just a dangerous fucking move.

  It makes us restless, and if history has proven anything, it’s that there’s nothing worse than a restless Wilcox.

  Makes no damn sense. Even my dad hates it; he holes up in the makeshift office, drowning himself in work. When Mom actually decides to get sober enough to leave the house, it’s only to spend time with the other summer wives, who she doesn’t even like. Gossiping and trying to show each other up isn’t her scene. Being locked in the cabin with my absent father isn’t her scene, either. I pace around like a lion in a cage, trying to find something to do with my hands, going crazy with the ripple of unspent energy sparking beneath my skin. And Heston. Well, Heston is the worst of all. Putting him in any contained area with me and our mom is a recipe for disaster. This has never been a quality family bonding experience, is what I’m saying.

  It’s my sense of restless, energy-rippling boredom that ejects me from the cabin one summer night on the hunt for weed, pussy, and maybe a fight. Three things a determined seventeen-year-old can find pretty easily, even here.

  “Yo, Wilcox.”

  I look up and see my friends Reid and Mitchell walking down the cracked sidewalk. I jerk a nod in greeting. “Thing One, Thing Two. What’s going on?”

  “In the Briar Cliffs?” Reid asks, bumping his fist with mine. “Jack and shit.”

  “Except,” Mitchell says quickly, “we heard there’s a party down at the dock. Wanna come?”

  “Let me check my schedule,” I joke, pulling out my phone, which predictably has no service. I’ve had shit-all to do for weeks now but work on my tan and try to charm the pants off a few girls. “Yep, looks like I’m free.”

  We head off, passing the antique shops and pharmacy, taking the turn to the dirt road that heads down to the water. I know this place like the back of my hand, every nook and cranny. The steep cliffs overlooking the river. The seedy liquor stores. The mom and pop shops. The suburbs ten minutes north of here. Parents feel secure in letting their kids roam free around the Briar Cliffs from a young age—the wisdom being that there’s not much trouble to get into, and whatever trouble we do find, they’d done it all before.

  Reid reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a silver flask. It’s pretentious and a little douchey, but when offered, I take a swig. The liquid burns like fire down the back of my throat, then warms my belly. I hand the flask back over and ask, “Is this a townie party or summer people?”

  There’s a distinct difference between the two. Summer people, like myself, have the kind of parties you write home about. Great booze, big boats, and freaky bitches dying to be the center of some rich boy’s attention. Townie parties, though. Those are thrown hastily together on a wish and a prayer. The booze is cheap swill, the boats aren’t safe for occupancy, and the girls…

  The girls are dicey as fuck.

  Not always a bug, sometimes a feature.

  “Probably a mix,” Mitchell says, taking a drink and then wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I got a text from Karen telling me to come.”

  Karen is a local girl who works down at the marina. She’s a sexy ginger that Mitchell had the pleasure of hooking up with last weekend on one of the docked boats. I spent last weekend bare-knuckling it with some douche from Rockport and won two-hundred bucks, a loose molar, and a bag of weed. For the Briar Cliffs, that’s a pretty great night.

  We reach the top of a rise, and down below is the public dock. During the day, little kids jump and dive off the end, and families picnic on the beach. At night, it’s an infestation of older kids and a few college students. This is the place to be if you’re looking for some trouble. I head down the hill toward the crowd that’s already gathering.

  “Hey, Bass,” a girl calls out. I look over and see Madison, a girl who’s spent summers here almost as long as I have. Mostly I see her tits pressed tight against the fabric of her tube top.

  “Hey, Mads, how are you?”

  She walks over, gait a little wobbly. She’s already drunk. “Fine, fine, fuckin’ peachy.”

  I slide my arm around her waist, peering down her top. “You sure look fine.”

  “So do you.” Her hand presses against my abs, feeling the muscle. Madison has never been shy, but we’ve only hooked up once. “I’ve been wondering something…”

  “Yeah?” I lick my lips, thinking I might be ready to raise that number to two. “What’s that?”

  “Where has your brother been this summer?”

  And scene.

  I drop my arm but try to keep the easy expression on my face. “Heston didn’t come down with the family,” I say, trying not to grit my teeth over his name. “Busy getting ready for college.”

  “Oh,” she pouts, “too bad.”

  “Yeah.” I reach out to Reid and swipe the flask from his hands, taking another too-long swig. “Too, fucking, bad.”

  It should make it better, not having him here. Not having to listen to the way he talks to our mom. Not needing to jump in and push back against the way he spits at and ridicules her. Not spending weeks on end, tense and mindlessly pissed off, wishing him away.

  Instead, I just keep feeling all the spaces he should be. I keep coiling for fights that never come, bracing for snide remarks and hateful glares, always ready but never spent. It’s like the fighter’s equivalent of blue balls.

  “Hey!” he complains, rightfully.

  I swallow it down and shove it back at him. “Sorry.” I reach into my back pocket and pull out a small bag of weed, tossing it to him. “Take it.”

  He nods appreciatively. “Come on, let’s light up.”

  But I’ve already started skimming the
crowd, looking for something, someone, a reason to blow off a little steam. It doesn’t take long when I spot a few kids that I’d beefed with a week ago over a parking spot following my last fight. They’d parked too close to my car—my sweet Jasmine—and these motherfuckers showed her no respect. Downright rude, really.

  The biggest guy leans against the boat house, cat-calling a group of clearly uninterested girls nearby. They all shift uncomfortably when he says, “Come on, sweet thing! Don’t be like that.”

  My hackles rise in a familiar way, shoulders going tight, face smoothing out.

  “Meet you in a few,” I say to Reid, and start toward the dock. I sweep past the huddle of girls—townies, I gather, from the accents and clothes. Back home, I’m used to conservative uniforms at school and trendy outfits at parties. But these girls have an edgy grittiness that Preston Prep girls can’t buy. Frayed cut-off shorts. Worn boots. Stony expressions. I make eye contact with a pair of hard, hazel eyes and dart my gaze down to her lips. They’re pressed in a tight line. Whatever she sees in me, she’s not impressed.

  Well, sweetheart, I think, justwait until I’m done with these fuckwits.

  “Sugar,” the big guy pushes off the wall, leering at her, “you know, you’d be a lot prettier if you smiled every once in a while.”

  Hazel eyes scowls and cuts her eyes at him, jaw setting. She’s wearing a loose flannel shirt, which should be universal code for unsexy. Unfortunately, it just makes us really wonder what’s hiding underneath. Which is exactly what’s got this dumbass up her grill.

  She bites back, “You’d be a lot prettier if you fucked off and died, Derek,” and the other guys all laugh.

  Derek presses a hand to his chest, feigning hurt. “Come on, Sug, I bet I could make you smile for once.” He moves closer and the group of girls parts like the Red Sea, giving him berth. The only one still holding her ground is the girl he’s harassing. She’s tiny, yet her stature implies she’s tough as nails. Long black hair hangs over her shoulder, the tips dyed blue. “We’ve fought this thing between us for too long. Stop playing frigid princess and let me warm you up.”

  “Sure, I can probably find some lighter fluid,” she says, all faux-casually, looking around. “Setting you on fire could get me downright toasty.”

  I snort, but he takes a step forward, and something wavers in her eye. A flicker of fear. A hard swallow bobbing her throat. I dart between them and look up at the stupid oaf.

  “Looks like this girl isn’t interested in what you’re selling, Derek,” I say, looking behind me to shoot her a grin. I get nothing back but hard glare. Okay, then. “Why don’t you move along.”

  The oaf laughs. He’s got a couple of inches on me, and he’s big, but it’s not the lean mass that I have. I’m fast. Quick. And I already feel the building hum of anticipation in my knuckles, ready to slam into something hard and meaty. Beating his ass would be a pleasure. “Why don’t you move along, pretty boy. This isn’t about you.”

  I grin. “First, thanks for the compliment. I really am pretty. Second, I’ve seen how you treat other people’s things, and it’s not great, Derek, it’s not great.” He tilts his head, assessing me for a minute, like he’s trying to place me. “Third—and not to sound egotistical or anything—but everything is about me.”

  Derek narrows his eyes at me and a twisted grin tugs at the corners of his mouth. A moment later he lifts his two meaty paws and shoves them at my chest, pushing me back. The girl I’m defending skirts out of my way, but I keep my eyes on this asshole. He hardly moved me, but he’s just given me the opening I need to justify ruining him.

  “Thanks,” I say, grinning. “This was getting boring.” I jerk my elbow back and slam my fist right into his jaw. I barely feel the pain in my knuckles, just the momentum of my arm propelling them forward. I follow through on the punch and then slam a second fist right into his gut. He growls like a beast and swings, but I jump back fast enough that he misses. He tries to barrel into me next, hoping to take me down to the ground, but it’s easy to step out of his path and bury a fist into his kidney.

  “Oh, so close!” I taunt, seeing some of his boys gathering in my periphery. Fucking classic. Can’t take someone one-on-one, just keep adding dudes to the pile. Fine by me. “Everyone can get a turn,” I assure them, swiping one of Derek’s flying fists.

  “Stop!” a girl cries from the growing crowd. “Stop fighting!”

  I play for a second like I’m deeply considering it. “Nah. Not until this piece of shit learns a little respect.” But Derek’s had time to recover. He doesn’t lunge at me, taking in my stance—fists up, legs loose and quick. Instead, he shakes out his shoulders and braces himself, mirroring me. The sight of it pulls a laugh from me, high-pitched and crazed. “Now we’re talkin’.”

  No more of this clumsy rage-driven shit. It’s too easy.

  His fist flies forward, but I duck it. I’m not counting on his left fist following it, but it’s a messy, badly-coordinated punch. This guy is no south paw. His knuckles barely graze my cheek. Even though he’s not here, I can hear my brother’s voice in my head, vicious and taunting.

  You’re such a little bitch, Bass. Look at you, gonna get your ass beat by this loser? Typical. Can’t even handle a drunk townie. Fuck, you’re embarrassing. This is the only thing you’re good at, and you can’t even win.

  It makes my focus narrow tightly in on him, filling my head with a violent red and something so chaotic that I can’t pin it down long enough to understand it. I just know it makes me want to pound this fucker’s face in.

  I reach back and slam my fist forward, getting in a solid hook that rocks Derek backward. I don’t stop. I plan to keep burying my fist into his face until it’s bloody and limp. A flash of movement comes from the side, and I know one of his boys is coming to help him. I react on pure instinct, jerking back and slamming a tight fist into the face coming at me.

  The sound is almost sickening—the sharp crack, the loud gasp, the soft sound of a small body hitting the ground.

  It takes me so long to realize that it’s not one of Derek’s boys that I’m already turned back to the oaf, fist raised. But I freeze, doing a bewildered double-take.

  Because that was not a hard jaw.

  That was not a man.

  The body on the ground has long dark hair, with blue tips. A girl, the girl I’ve been defending.

  My fist drops to my side.

  “Fuck,” I say, and the crowd shifts, her friends shuffling forward with palms covering their mouths, watching her lifeless body.

  I had to have killed her or something. She’s not moving, and I don’t punch like a little bitch. I follow through. That had been a hard hit—a devastating hit—to someone smaller than me. To someone who’s not used to it. To someone with soft skin and a delicate neck. I move forward in horror, looking down at her limp body, but notice instantly that her eyes are open. Unfocused. Squinting, like she’s confused.

  “Hey,” I try, bending down to touch her arm. “I’m sorr—”

  Her hazel eyes finally go into focus, landing on mine. She opens her mouth, dragging in a big inhale, and releases it in a bone-chilling scream.

  I jerk back first, and then everyone else does. The scream—it doesn’t stop. It keeps building and climbing, but it doesn’t die. Even when she drags in another breath, it’s just to feed that blood-curdling shriek pouring from the pit of her chest.

  I look around nervously, but the crowd is frantically dispersing. This is too loud, too much attention. The cops will come. People will ask questions. We’ll all be fucked.

  Thick with terror and a pain that goes far beyond the punch I’d landed. I stare at her for another for a moment, and then I do the only thing a Wilcox can in a situation like this.

  I run.

  1

  Sebastian

  “Nice ink.” Dr. McCord glances at my chest. I’m not sure which one she’s talking about. The collar I’ve been working on for the last year, or the Devil’s ma
rk that I got two months ago. Either way, I know she’s checking out my chest, and I fight the urge to puff up and pull out a pick-up line. I mean, who isn’t into older, sexy, smart women?

  But I’m guessing trying to bang your cougar of a doctor is probably not the best display of good decision-making skills—something I’ve been trying to build.

  Well.

  Halfheartedly, anyway.

  “Thanks,” I reply, trying to sound aloof. I glance around the room, my eyes landing on the fake ficus in the corner. Although it’s the third of January, it’s still decorated cheerily for Christmas, little shiny bulbs hanging from the thin branches.

  “How was the end of first semester?” she asks. “Everything go okay?”

  Well, Doc, let’s see. I joined a secret society, got a tattoo, committed no less than five crimes, received and gave oral in the Stairway to Hell, pulled an epic prank on my school, got in a few fights, burned my brother, got burned by my brother, made a few new friends, and oh right, recovered from this concussion. My second one in six months. Hence, the visit.

  “Pretty okay,” I reply blandly. “Chill.”

  She pulls out her little light and flashes it in my eyes. “How have the headaches been?”

  “Better, I guess.” I shift on the table, making the paper sheet crinkle. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

  She gives me a stern glance over her glasses. “You have had a series of concussions, Sebastian. It’s not about what you can handle. It’s about making sure that your condition is improving.”