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

“Because it starts out fun,” she explains, eyes sliding closed, “like there’s a million opportunities, you know? Boys. Booze. A hot tub. It’s like anything can happen, yet every single time, nothing new happens.” She exhales dramatically. “Just the same old hook-ups. The same fights. The same crappy alcohol that leaves a pounding headache.”

Yep.

Just a humblebrag.

“I’m sorry?” I say, not really holding back my eye-roll. “I mean, you know what they say about repeating the same behavior over and over, and expecting a different outcome.”

She glares at my insensitivity and shuts her eyes as the chair begins kneading her back. I look down at my feet, the water in the tub swirling around. This is the closest I’ve ever been to a hot tub. I’ve never been to a party. Never been invited. There’s just this assumption that poor little Vandy Hall—Baby V—would never do something like that.

I lean back and let the massager pound into the tense muscles in my own back. I’m not even sure how the reputation of me being some virginal, angelic goody-goody even came from, b

ut it follows me around like toilet paper stuck to the bottom of my shoe. I mean, for the most part, I really am a good kid. I don’t seek out trouble like Emory. I don’t go out of my way to flaunt myself like Syd. I don’t steal like…other people. Truthfully, I’m a fan of the path of least resistance. That just so happens to mean not causing trouble.

But there’s no doubt that it’s all about the wreck. That’s when my status was elevated from ‘good girl’ to ‘tragic victim’. The only thing a group of school-kids loves to do more than rally behind a classmate after something terrible happens is to belittle them as subtly as possible. It didn’t help that Emory went into overdrive as the protective older brother. He’s gone way beyond the cliché. Even if a guy were interested in me—he wouldn’t be—or if my parents let me go on a date—they super wouldn’t—there’s no way my brother would allow it to happen. His best friends were on the highest rung of the social ladder. If they weren’t interested in me, no one was. And none of them would dare.

That’s where the Oxy made things a little easier. I know it’s wrong, and bad for me, and unhealthy, and is causing me more trouble now that I’d like to admit, but at least it’s mine. With the pills, I can create my own world—one that’s void of pain or sharp, harsh emotions. A world where I’m always okay and comfortable, and even if it can’t give me happiness or the thrill of late Friday nights and their regretful morning-afters, it can at least dull the deep, aching sense of disappointment.

It’s just really hard to care about being left out when you’re high as a kite.

That being said, a few invites, even if I said no to them, would have been nice. Especially from my best friend.

“Hey,” I say, tapping Syd on the arm. “Was Emory at that party last night?”

She cracks one eye. “No. Unfortunately. That would have made the night way more interesting.” Her mouth pulls into a loose pout. “Why?”

“I heard him and…uh, Reyn,” I look away, tripping over the shape of his name on my tongue, “getting home late last night. I was just wondering.”

Her nose wrinkles. “Who knows. They were probably at some football circle-jerk. Wanking off to their win.” Sydney makes a crude gesture with her fist, pumping it in her lap.

I snort. “Gross.”

Sydney laughs quietly, wincing like it hurts to do so. “Sorry, I know he’s your brother, but still. You know how tight those guys are. You can take the Devils out of the school, but you can’t take the Devil out of the boy.”

“That literally makes no sense.”

She shrugs. “You know what I mean.”

I do, which is why I’m suspicious of whatever it is those two were up to last night. Not only was their conversation a little cryptic and strange, but Reynolds’ reaction to catching me out there? Jesus. Talk about intense.

You nosing around like this? It’s just going to get you hurt again.

I still don’t know if it was a threat. The truth is, I don’t know this version of Reyn. I don’t know the meaning behind his stillness, or his quiet, or the hard edges of his face. But I know he’s trying to ‘stay away’ from me, and I know he feels my unhappiness at him being back is fair—“I deserve that.”—and I know there’s always something tight at the corner of his eyes when he looks at me. But I don’t know him enough to recognize it as anything distinct.

I know what he smells like, my brain annoyingly reminds me. And it’s true. I know the shape of his body against me, solid and strong. I know the warmth of his breath as it gusted against my hair. I know how it made me feel, like my skin was being stretched tight around a suddenly liquefied middle.

I know that I spent all night banging angrily against the sensations, willing them to leave.

The woman doing my pedicure sits on the little stool in front of me, gently lifting my foot out of the water. She starts the process of cleaning up my toes. From here, you’d never know I had a limp. It’s not like it used to be, last year, back when I still wore a brace. Gait training has brought me a long way from that horrified thirteen-year-old girl who couldn’t walk at all. Incomplete spinal cord injury, they called it. They said I was lucky. They said sometimes, bad things just happen to good people. They said if I worked hard and kept the faith, I could walk again—that I could be normal.

They said it wasn’t my fault.

The truth is that I do carry my own blame for getting hurt that night. I’d followed the boys to stop them from doing something stupid. All it took was one smile from Reynolds, one peek at those dimples, and I happily went along for the ride. The sick truth of the matter is that I’d been elated for him to hold my hand instead of focusing on driving—a suspended moment of shiny girlhood glee that overrode all sense.

So, yes. I know what he smells like. I know the shape of his body against mine. I know the way it makes me feel. But I’m not the same girl who was sitting in that passenger seat. The image of his two dimples sitting on my memory card at home will not make me pliable, and neither will his words—threat or otherwise.

This time, I’ll stop them before it goes too far.

It takes me until Tuesday to find an opportunity.