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

“Guess old habits die hard,” Reynolds’ low voice suddenly rings out from the driveway. I cast my eyes around, wondering if someone else has arrived. Jerry, maybe. Or maybe he’s just talking to himself. But then, he adds, “Isn’t that right, Baby V?”

I stop breathing, eyes clamping shut in denial.

He sighs, voice is breezy and bored when he says, “I can see your foot.”

My eyes fly open, shooting a glare to my dirty toes. I ascend slowly, carefully, in stages, forcing my bum leg beneath me. When I limp out from behind the bush, I see Reynolds leaning against the truck. His legs are crossed at the ankle, a gym bag slung over his shoulder. His dark eyes sweep over me.

“What are you doing.” This is not phrased as a question.

“Uh.” I pull my sleeves over my fists, gesturing weakly toward the yard. “I was just getting my cat. He had a chipmunk, and I—”

Reynolds is tall and thin, which is probably what makes him so fast on the field. He pushes off the vehicle, bringing himself to full height, and his face is that same shadowy, hard-edged blankness from the other night. “You’re still a bad liar.”

I feel a rush of indignation, Sydney's words floating back to me—your territory—and I pull myself to my own full height. “I’m not lying.”

His face remains emotionless, even as his chest bounces with a silent laugh. “Lesson number one about eavesdropping; it’s all about the cover.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Look,” he says, the light from a distant lamppost bringing his tense features into sharp relief. “I know you’re not happy about me being back. It’s really obvious. And that’s...” He works his jaw for a moment, fingers flexing. “That’s fine. I deserve that. But I’m doing my best here to stay away from you, and let you be. You nosing around like this?” His dark gaze drops to my bare leg, something sharp and troubled in the curve of his brow. “It’s just going to get you hurt again.”

I feel the weight of his eyes on my leg so intensely that I actually stumble back a step, heel dragging across the ground as my muscles lag just a moment too slowly. I breathe in sharply, anticipating the tilt of the fall.

It never comes.

Reynolds, who only a moment ago was ten feet away, somehow manages to leap over the distance, lunging to catch me before I topple backward. His arm around my torso feels as solid as steel, pulling me upright, right into the wall of his warm body.

It takes me a moment to reorient myself, still half expecting the collision against the pavement. Instead, I feel Reynolds’ slow, relieved exhale against my temple. Over his shoulder, I can see where he’s dropped the gym bag, which is the last bit of sense I recognize before my lungs are filled with the clean, undeniably masculine scent of him. My belly twists in a humiliating tangle of bright-hot want that’s so sudden, I immediately shove him away.

Reynolds instantly complies, lurching back with his palms up. His lips are pressed into a tig

ht, grim line, and when he mutters a rough, “Fuck, sorry,” I wrap my arms around my middle and turn away, eyes feeling hot and prickly.

I walk as fast as I can toward the house, and when I get there, I don’t have to look back to know he’s still standing in the driveway, watching. I don’t turn around to confirm whether or not the heat of his gaze on the back of my neck is real or imagined. I just step inside, exhaling raggedly when the door is closed, and press my back against it.

I knew Reyn and I were going to have to speak to one another sooner or later.

I just didn’t expect it to go like that.

6

Reyn

Even though it’s past midnight, I know there’s no reason to be quiet when I walk in the house. My dad’s car is gone. It hadn’t taken me long to realize that he spends more time out than at home these days. It’s just one more weird adjustment, going from being cramped up in tiny dorms with hundreds of other guys to finding myself constantly alone in this huge, silent house.

I slam the back door loud enough to wake up every dog in the neighborhood, which is probably not the smartest move coming from someone who’s been ducking Fucking Jerry for three days. I run my hands through my hair, frustration thrumming through my veins.

Goddamnit!

Why’d I have to touch her?

It’s not like I could just let her fall. It was instinctual, involuntary. The second I saw her stumble, I was clutched by panic, jumping forward to catch her. She was small and warm and solid, and I just wanted to carry her into her fucking house and tuck her meddlesome ass into bed, and then lock her in there. Safe. Away from all this. Away from me. Why does she have to make this so difficult? It’s easy. She stays over there, I stay over here, and I won’t get into trouble.

This is all for her. Emory hadn’t come out and said as much, but he didn’t need to. It should have been obvious from the moment he mentioned it. Only one thing would make Emory willing to ask me to be part of something so unbelievably risky. And here she is, sticking her fucking nose in it, just like old times.

I open the refrigerator. If it weren’t for the three cartons of rank leftover Thai, a bottle of wine, and a bag of apples, it’d be completely empty. My father has clearly forgotten that there’s now a growing boy in this house—one who needs protein and a caloric intake befitting someone currently engaged in required team athletics. Unless I count the sad protein bar I’d had before the game—stolen from Ben’s locker—I haven’t actually eaten since lunch. With a deep sigh, I grab an apple and take an aggressive bite. Deciding it could be worse, I carry a spare apple with me and climb the stairs to the second floor. The first thing I do when I walk in my room is check the window. Like every other time I’ve looked out, Vandy’s curtains are tightly closed. It’s kind of fucked, if I’m being honest, this way she has of closing me out of her world while simultaneously trying to nose into mine.

I shuck off my shirt before emptying the pockets of my jeans. There’s a crisp five-dollar bill, liberated from the jacket pocket belonging to someone on our second string. A pair of dice my neighbor had been playing with in Chemistry. A little pickle-shaped button the girl beside me in History had pinned to her bookbag proclaiming ‘Dill with it’.