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

Thank god for contraband phones, social media, and girls with either the high or low self-esteem to send sexy photos. But, Carlton isn’t wrong. Too many dicks and not enough tits. I glance over at a table of girls I’d seen the day before at cheerleading practice and feel the familiar tightening in my groin. “But yeah, but overall, it sucked. I’m glad to be back in the world of co-eds.”

“So what I want to know is,” Ben asks, gesturing with his fork, “is it true that you have a gnarly scar from the wreck?”

The whole table falls abruptly silent.

Emory slams his can on the table. “Jesus, Ben. What the fuck?”

“What?” Ben asks, totally clueless. “Chicks dig scars! I’m just saying, if it’s bad enough, maybe it’ll get you some ass.”

Carlton jabs him in the side with his elbow and gives Ben a dark look. Looks like even that asshole gets the dynamic going on. Talking about my scar like that is so fucking far from being okay. Not in front of Emory. Not after what happened to his sister.

It’s been the elephant in the room for days now—years, actually, if I’m counting all the calls and chats where we both completely ignore the issue at hand. But it’s our elephant. Mine and Emory’s. We don’t need jackasses like Ben pointing it out.

Ben adds into the awkward silence, “Well, he never undresses in the locker room.” And when that just makes it more awkward, “Probably because of Carlton checking everyone out all the time.”

“Yeah. My scars are gnarly,” I offer blankly, letting my fork fall onto my tray. My appetite is long gone. “And trust me when I say they’re not getting me any pussy.”

There’s nothing cool or sexy about the way my back looks. It’s hideous. A week in the burn unit and four skin grafts didn’t do much to salvage anything. I have skin. That’s about the most I could hope for.

After a long beat of silence, Emory stands, picking up his tray and striding away.

Ben mutters, “Tough crowd,” and I gather up my own shit, suddenly feeling exhausted by the whole day. As I walk away from the table, I can hear Ben asking someone, “Have you seen my drumsticks?”

Mine now.

“Hey,” I call out when I catch up to Emory. The hallway is empty, since most everyone is still eating. I fall into stride, jaw tightening. “Are we just never going to talk about it?”

He stops abruptly, mouth twisted into a hard grimace. “What’s there to talk about, Reyn? It was an accident. Everyone knows it. Even Vandy says that deer came out of nowhere.”

“Her being in the car wasn’t an accident.” I look away, still remembering how I’d held my hand out to her, coaxing. “And you’re the only one who doesn’t want to see me strung up for it, which is pretty weird, considering.”

Considering that I’ve been privy to four days of Emory’s vicious protective streak when it comes to Vandy. I’ve spent more time than I’d like to admit just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Yeah, well.” Emory folds his arms and shifts, eyes diverted. “What happened that night was a fucking disaster, but it was my fault as much as yours.”

I give him a look that I can only hope conveys how moronic that sounds. “How do you even figure?”

He explains, “I’m the one who didn’t back off when she walked up to the valet. I lied and got her involved. You asking her to go with you was just...it made sense. Otherwise, she would have narc’ed. At the time, it was smart thinking.” He runs his hand through his hair. “I don’t blame you for that. Not any more than I blame myself.”

“I got her into the car and then crashed it.” My voice is flat, mechanical, matter-of-fact. “I crippled her.”

Emory’s eyes flash in something bright and livid, and it’s almost a relief when he slams a hard palm into my shoulder, shoving me back a step. “She’s not a fucking cripple. You don’t know anything about it! The things she’s done, the things she can do? She’s fine. She’s stronger than either of us. Don’t ever talk about my sister like that, you fucking hear me?”

I watch him fume for a long moment, something hard and noxious settling miserably into the pit of my stomach. “You’re right,” I concede. “I don’t know anything about it. Sorry.”

It’s almost a disappointment to watch the anger drain from his face. “Do you remember that night? When I came to see you, in the hospital?”

I s

tuff my fists into my pockets, shrugging. “Only a little.” It’d been late—or maybe even early—and everything seemed fuzzy around the edges, indistinct, disorienting. Emory could have come to see me, or he could have been a hallucination. It strikes me that, until now, I never actually knew for sure.

“Yeah, you were out of it,” he says, leaning against a column. “Your mom said they had to sedate you because you were in a lot of pain, but also—” He pauses, giving me a significant look. “But also because you kept trying to get to Vandy.”

My jaw feels tense when I nod. “I remember.”

“You were a mess. Busted up, like her. All it took was five minutes with you, and I guess I just knew.” Emory nods, like this is something he’s confident about. “I knew nothing I said or did could make you feel worse about it.” After a moment of watching me, he asks, “Do you wish it’d been you? If you could take her place and—”

“Yes.” No hesitation.