A Deal With the Devil (Boys of Preston Prep 2)

Prologue

The night it all changes begins like a fairytale.

It’s warm for late spring, even for the south, and it’s the first time I’ve seen fireflies this year. They twinkle across the rolling green of the golf course, like tiny fairy lights beckoning me into the dark. I watch them for a long moment, transfixed, feeling the bloom of awareness that always arrives with the changing of the season, as if suddenly realizing the world has taken a gulp of time. Without thinking, I wander away from the patio, the dessert buffet, and my parents, to follow the blinking bugs in an attempt to catch one.

Even at thirteen, I’m still the kind of kid who’s more interested in chasing fireflies than talking about gossip, looks, and boys. I’m just not into hanging out with the other tweens at The Club, which is not to imply that my parents would let me anyway. In a world of excess and privilege, I’ve been blessed with two obnoxiously overbearing parents who expect—no, demand—good, appropriate behavior. Especially for a girl. If others think I’m bland and boring, then it just means my parents are succeeding.

It doesn’t really matter to me. I’m more comfortable on my own, anyway. I can’t compete with the other girls my age, with their push-up bras from Victoria’s Secret, or their high-heeled wedges that make them three inches taller. My best friend, Sydney, is all in the thick of it, a cornerstone of their whispered bathroom conversations about sneaking alcohol and giving guys blow jobs. Along with all the stuffed bras, I suspect they’re making it up—well, I know Sydney is—but regardless, there has to be a certain level of confidence to even pretend to live that life. It’s something I definitely lack.

The firefly slips through the cracks in the wrought iron gate leading out to the parking lot. I push through unthinkingly, continuing to follow it, but jolt to a stop when I hear a voice.

“I bet you can’t do it,” I hear a boy whisper.

No, not just a boy. My brother, Emory.

Someone else scoffs. “Sure, I can.”

I freeze at the sound of this voice, my heartbeat stuttering at the low cadence. Reynolds McAllister is many things. He’s our next-door neighbor. He’s my brother’s best friend. He’s our neighborhood's biggest troublemaker. He is, I suspect, the focus of many of those whispered bathroom discussions among the girls. But most of all, Reynolds McAllister is this:

My soul mate.

Reynolds whispers, “I just need a distraction.”

I shift a little so I can get a better view. It’s already dark out—hence the fireflies—but the moon is bright and full enough that I can see both of their profiles in a thicket of sculpted bushes. They’re crouched low, peering out at the parking lot, and I can just barely make out the confident, loose smile curving Reynolds' lips.

“Are you down, or what?” he challenges.

I watch as Emory gnaws at a thumbnail, silent for a moment, before agreeing, “I’ll distract the attendant and you’ll snag the keys.”

Reynolds turns to him to say, “Remember what I taught you. Nothing too big. Don’t draw outside attention.”

“Yeah, yeah.” My brother flaps a dismissive hand, adding, “And you can’t just grab any key. It has to be something really nice, like a Porsche or Tesla.”

“Hey, hold the fuck up. Now there’s criteria?” Reynolds’ voice is already deep for a fourteen-year-old. He makes my brother sound like he’s still in middle school, with me—not a freshman at Preston Prep. His deep voice and penchant for curse words always makes Reynolds sound confident and a little commanding, like he’s the one in charge, older somehow. It also frequently makes my cheeks heat, but that started long before he hit puberty.

Since as far back as I can remember, I’ve always had a crush on Reynolds McAllister. It isn’t just his easy smile, nor is it the deep-set dimples on his cheeks, both of which are likely a useful distraction, as once he sets them loose, you’re rendered temporarily unable to wonder what he’s up to—though the answer is usually ‘stealing something’. It’s not his messy hair, or that he’s got the dreamiest green eyes, or the way he always slouches when he sits, with his legs spread wide, like he’s just too cool to care about anything. It’s not even that he somehow knows a lot about things that fourteen-year-olds shouldn’t.

It’s about the way he looks at me sometimes, assured and trusting, like I’m not a child—like I’m more than the neighbor’s bratty kid sister. Emory and the rest of his friends have no tolerance for me. I can’t even count the amount of times Emory has wanted to do something and our parents have asked him to take me along. I can’t ignore the way my brother and his friends react with deep groans and barely-veiled glowers.

But not him.

Reynolds will just give me one of those easy smiles, gesture with a nod at the door, and wait for me to follow.

“Bro, look,” Emory explains, “if we’re going to jack one of these cars, it may as well be worth it. We’re both already on strike two.”

I gape at their shadowy forms, knowing that one of the biggest reasons my parents are so overprotective is that my idiot brother can’t seem to stay out of trouble. It’s like a moth to a flame. Which is why, despite the fact I’m not the least bit surprised the guys are talking about stealing a car, I am surprised they’re stupid enough to actually do it.

Again.

This has been going on for a year now already, and they’re both close to getting into real trouble—the serious kind of trouble that can’t just be wiped away with a phone call from our dad and a donation to whatever institution has fallen victim to their next antic. It comes as no surprise that Reynolds is orchestrating it, though. There are a finite amount of certainties in life; the grass is green, the sky is blue, and Reynolds McAllister will steal anything that isn’t bolted down.

Not that bolts would stop him from trying.

It’d started as a running joke in the community—little Sticky Fingers McAllister—but Reynolds isn’t little anymore, and no one is laughing now. It’s grown obvious that this is more than good-natured pranks, more than material desire. Reynolds just keeps taking things, no matter the punishment. Whether it’s for the fun of it, the challenge of it, or some weird compulsion, this is what it’s escalated to, and he’s dragging my brother along.

But Emory isn’t stupid, and unlike many of our other friends’ parents, ours would follow through on a serious punishment if he got busted one more time.

But I don’t need to wonder why they’re taking the risk. They’ve both been vying for a chance to be part of

the exclusive group of Devils at the high school. The Devils are a bunch of popular jocks, which is something Emory and Reynolds already are, so it doesn’t even make sense to me. They’ve already made the football team. They’ve dated the prettiest girls, have worn the matching letterman jackets, and have driven the expensive cars. They’re already legendary, even by middle-school standards. But, from what I understand, trivial schoolyard shenanigans are far below the cruel caliber of the Devils’ usual fare.

A prank like this would look great on their resume.

The second I decide to step in and do something, my heart starts pounding, palms growing sweaty, but I have to stop them before this goes too far. I don’t want either of them to get a third strike—whatever that means, it doesn’t sound good.

I take a deep breath and march down the sidewalk, having to cut around the shrubbery to meet them. But when I reach the bush, the only person I see is Reynolds, peering over at the valet attendant’s stand.

“Where’s Emory?” I whisper.

Reynolds jerks in surprise, whipping around to meet my gaze. When he does, he releases a slow exhale, shoulders slumping in relief. His green eyes sweep over me, then dart back to the attendant’s stand where my brother has suddenly appeared. “Get out of here, Baby V.”

Ugh, I hate when he calls me that. “I know what you’re doing,” I say, crossing my arms defiantly, “and you two need to stop.”

“If you know what we’re doing,” he says, sparing me a rapid glance, “then you need to get the hell out of here.”

From the attendant’s stand, my brother suddenly shouts, “Goddamnit, Bryan!” sounding much older than fourteen. “There’s a scratch on my father’s BMW! Do you want to explain how that got there?”

We come to this country club often enough to know that Bryan is new. “A scratch? Where?” Bryan narrows his eyes suspiciously at my brother, but it’s clear from the way they dart around that he’s worried.

Emory gestures wildly. “Down the whole side panel!”

My teeth grind in frustration at having been blown off by Reynolds, so I give up and just march toward the valet stand instead. If I can’t stop Reynolds, maybe I can talk some sense into my idiot brother.

“Why were you at the car, anyway?” the guy checked his clipboard. “I still have the keys here.”

Emory’s gaze jumps to mine as I approach, never flinching. “I was getting a sweater out of the car for my sister, and that’s when I saw it. If you don’t believe me, come see it for yourself.”