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

Once it’s out of his mouth, that sucker dashes away.

Knew it.

“You’re welcome,” I mutter to its wake, working now to lunge for the cat before he can go after it.

I corner him behind an azalea, clutching the cat to my chest. Despite the loss of his prey, Firefly still deigns to bless me with an affectionate headbutt to my chin. “Yeah, yeah, you’re a fierce predator,” I pant, still catching my breath. That’s about when I hear the sound of an appro

aching vehicle, unable to do much more than blink before the driveway is awash in a flood of headlights. My brother’s truck—and I would recognize the bass from his sound system anywhere—comes to a slow stop.

Shit.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I freeze, trying to decide what to do. Run? I physically can’t do that—not well, at any rate. He’s sure to hear my shuffle-limp across the driveway. I could just step out, admit I was out here with the cat. My mind runs through all the questions that will lead to; why were you in the kitchen, is something wrong, why aren’t you asleep, do I need to tell Mom and Dad? It wouldn’t even be a threat. It’d be concern. I realize it’s stupid—insane, even—how ridiculously overbearing my family has become. But it’s true, nevertheless. Getting up for a popsicle could land me back in twice-a-week therapy.

That’s what leads me to option three: hide.

With the cat clutched to my pounding chest, I stay hidden behind the thick azalea and wait for my brother to head into the house. His door opens and shuts. Then... opens again? The second set of footsteps is what makes me realize he’s not alone.

I close my eyes against the tide of horror.

“So what do you think?” Emory says, voice low but echoing in the silence of the driveway.

It takes Reynolds a long moment to answer. When he does, his voice is low and reluctant. “Collins made it pretty clear at my meeting that this kind of stuff is off limits.”

“Well, that’s what those assholes get for trying to shut down a long-standing tradition,” my brother says.

There’s a shuffling sound. The jingle of keys. Firefly twitches. “Come on, be straight with me,” Reynolds says. “Is this just you being pissed that you couldn’t be leader of the Devils this year? Because I’ve seen the way these people act around you, Em. You don’t need it.”

Emory scoffs. “Dude, fuck what the Devils used to be. The way Hamilton and the guys before him ran shit? It was petty posturing. This is how we reclaim it, don’t you see? We’d be putting our own mark on Preston Prep, ushering in a new era for...” A thread of significance deepens Emory’s voice, “for the people we leave behind.”

Reynolds makes a soft scoff. “So that’s what this is about.”

“I’m not like Hamilton Bates,” Emory says. “He left and never looked back, but I don’t have that luxury. I know the Devils were stupid, okay? But I also know this school, and I know what the student body is like. Preston needs a group of upperclassmen—the right group of upperclassmen—to lead them. Because if they don’t, someone else will, and those people won’t be like us. It might be a bullshit power structure, but that’s still what it is—structure.”

“What it is,” Reynolds says, “is full-on secret society shit.”

“Which makes it infinitely cooler!” I dare a peek through the dense limbs and see Emory holding something in his hands. It looks like a book. “It’s all here. Every ritual. Every tradition. The way it was always meant to be. This—” I see Emory hold up the book, “—is legacy. Don’t you want to be known here for something other than...” Emory trails off, and the driveway fades into a tense stillness.

“Other than being a fuck-up?” Reynolds finishes, voice so flat and lifeless that it chills me.

“I didn’t mean it like—" Emory sighs. “Look, I just know you’re bigger than that. I know it.”

“And if I get caught doing this, then that’s all I’ll ever be.”

“No one is going to find out, that’s the whole point. I’m not dumb, dude. Not anymore.” Emory explains, “In here, there are precautions, okay? Insurance policies. I know what’s on the line here.” Emory shifts on his feet. “Bro, I need to do this. And I really want you to do it with me. It’ll be like old times, you know? Before everything went to shit.” There’s another stretch of silence so long and loaded that I risk another peek.

“Christ, Em.” Reyn’s face is cast to the side, shadowed gaze trained off into the distance. I watch as his fingers flex around the strap of his equipment bag, knuckles going white, and I unconsciously mirror him, tightening my grip on Firefly. There’s something dark and hunted in the curve of Reynolds’ brow. Whatever struggle he’s locked in makes his voice come out low and defeated. “I’ll have to think about it.”

“Yeah,” Emory says, like this much is obvious. “We have some time, no problem.”

I watch them bump fists before Emory walks toward the house, taking the sidewalk on the other side of the bush I’m hiding behind. The cat senses his presence and, being completely over my embrace, squirms right out of my arms.

I watch helplessly as the cat darts away, and now it’s my turn to shoot him a surly, betrayed look. It’s not long before I hear the door to our house open and close. My feet are wet and coated with dirt, and my leg is trembling, struggling to hold my crouch, but I stay there, listening for the sounds of Reynolds’ retreat. I feel the surge of worry seizing my chest as I wait.

What the hell was my brother talking about? It sounded serious.

Like serious trouble.