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

Hair all plastered to his sweaty forehead, he grunts in acknowledgment. “Yeah, you’d smell bad too if you’d just run twenty suicides.” The instant the words come out of his mouth, his face pales, and it takes me a second to even realize why.

Vandy Hall can’t run. She’s lucky she can even walk.

“Fuck, Van.” I can see the guilt in his eyes, even through my periphery. “I didn’t mean—I’m sorr—”

“Stop,” I say, shaking my head. “You know you don’t have to apologize for saying normal stuff. That’s...that’s bullshit, okay

? It’s worse.” I meet his gaze, willing him to see that I’m fine. “It’s worse when you feel sorry for me.”

He looks away, fidgeting with his keys as he puts them in the ignition, and I know he’s looking for the right thing to say.

I get my sunglasses from the glove box and recline back in my seat. “Although, you’re wrong about one thing.”

He raises an eyebrow. “What’s that?”

“If I’d just run twenty suicides,” I slip on the sunglasses, flipping my hair over a shoulder, “I’d still smell like sunshine and rainbows.”

His eyes crinkle when he laughs. “Knowing you, you probably would.”

With the tension cut, he backs out of the parking lot. I try really hard not to get mad at Emory, even when he’s doing dumb stuff like dating Campbell and getting caught up in Devil nonsense. He’s just a really good brother. He’s stuck by me this whole time, even after his best friend got sent away and I became the object of the school’s pity. Emory might pity me, too, but it’s a different kind. Emory hurts when I hurt. It’s another reason I’d wanted to get the newspaper position; I’d wanted to prove to him that I’ll be okay next year on my own.

I calm down on the way home, the two of us talking about the first day at school. He has Dr. Ross, a notorious hard-ass. We both foresee him getting many detentions in the future. I have Art with Mr. Kent, which earns his side-eye. Kent is young, handsome, and by the intel gleaned from Sydney’s social media stalking, very single.

“What about Campbell?” I ask, diverting the conversation. “Have you heard from her?”

“According to ChattySnap, she’s having the time of her life at UVA.” He shrugs, like he doesn’t care, but I know better. I don’t understand what he sees in Campbell. She doesn’t treat him right. He should just drop her altogether, and her going to college seemed like the perfect opportunity.

“You should stop following her on there,” I say instead, watching Emory lean out the window to punch in our code. Seconds later, the gate to our neighborhood opens. “It’ll just make you crazy.”

He gives me a smug grin, settling back into his seat. “I could, but then how will she see that I’ve got a date with Aubrey Willis on Friday night?”

I shake my head. “That sounds like nothing but a heaping pot of drama and heartbreak.”

To be honest, I’m not sure how much Emory thinks with his heart. I’m pretty sure most of his emotions are ruled by another part of his body. Spoiler alert: not his brain, either.

Emory turns down our street, passing the other large homes in the neighborhood. The community is pretty idyllic, with tree-lined streets and wide sidewalks. The lots are big, with many houses, including ours, facing the lake.

Up ahead, there seems to be some commotion, however. The security cart with its rotating amber lights is stopped in the middle of the street. It appears that Jerry has someone apprehended, a man pressed up against the side of the vehicle, hands resting on the roof.

“Stress in the city!” Emory whistles. “Got us some serious piggy po-po action up here.”

Emory and I both crane our necks as his truck crawls past. Jerry seems to be frisking whoever it is—a jogger, by the looks of his clothing—and the man has his head bowed as he stands akimbo, seeming to tolerate it all patiently.

Just as we pass, the man raises his head, his green eyes staring right through the truck.

“Holy shit,” Emory says, foot stomping down hard on the brakes. My body lurches forward, and his arm flings out protectively, catching me.

Reynolds.

Brakes.

The screech of tires.

The world turning upside down, car flipping, the crunch of metal and glass, the heat of fire, the smell of gasoline, the rough scrape of asphalt as I slide and tumble, rolling—

Emory whips his head around to ask, “You okay?” and for a long moment, I can’t breathe.

It’s fine. Just a short brake. The truck is fine. I’m fine. Emory is fine. Reynolds is—