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

It doesn’t matter.

Among all those maybes is one certainty: Vandy’s biggest sin is just another sick repercussion of my own.

One more thing I’m responsible for.

When the camera turns off, moments later, no one looks relieved.

11

Vandy

The ride home is quiet, filled with tension. Emory and I don’t even look at one another. I remember a time, when we were kids, that Emory didn’t always treat me this way—like something made of thin, fragile porcelain. We’d fight. We’d play together. We’d fight some more. We were always close, but we were still siblings at the end of the day.

Now, we barely seem to know each other.

When we get home, the house is dark and silent. I don’t need to worry if our parents have discovered I was missing. Were that the case, things would look far more lively.

Emory just walks right into the house, because he can do this. He can stay out late. He can go to secret meetings, parties, get-togethers, without being asked much about it. I sneak, however. He jogs up the staircase with ease, and I tiptoe, avoiding the creaks. Worn out and exhausted from the night, I’m hoping he’ll be locked in his room before I even get to the landing.

Unfortunately, my brother has other plans. His silhouette is framed by my door. I limp past him and kick off my shoes. The door clicks behind me.

His voice is quiet. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

I don’t want to face him, but I do. He looks weirdly hurt. “There was nothing to tell. I’m fine.”

“Are you?”

“Do I look different than I did this morning? Yesterday or the day before?” I hold out my arms. “Why wouldn’t I be fine?”

“I don’t know, V.” His jaw locks, nostrils flaring out. “Maybe because you just admitted that you’re a fucking addict!”

I hiss back, “And you’re a sex offender!” We both glare at one another, a silent agreement passing between us that we’re waiting to see if our parents heard us shouting.

When it’s clear no one is coming, he sighs, head dropping. “How did I not know about this? Mom and Dad—”

“Will never hear a word about it. I’m not using anymore.” The lie feels heavy on my tongue. “And just like how I’m sure you won’t be involved in anymore sex crimes, it’s not fair for you to bring this up at home. You told Georgia that whatever was said in the dungeon stays in the dungeon. What happened to that?”

“It’s not a dungeon,” he mutters, thrusting a hand into his hair. “This is hard—having you in the group, treating you like—”

“An equal?” I bite out. “Like more than your innocent, crippled, loser sister?”

His face falls. “Come on, V, you know that’s not—”

“Yes, it is.” I snatch my pajamas from my dresser. “And maybe it’s time you stopped looking at me like a broken little thirteen-year-old, and started seeing that I’m like any other girl at Preston Prep.” I sarcastically elaborate, “Entitled, and filled with shit-loads of baggage.”

“You could have told me.”

I bury a groan into my hands. “You’re not hearing anything I’m saying. I couldn’t tell you, because you have this completely unrealistic view of me.” I look him in the eye when I say, “You want me to be this quiet, innocent girl who’s locked away, and I—” My voice cracks, and I shake my head. “I’m sick of being quiet for all of you, Em. I can’t always be innocent, and I don’t want to be locked away. I want to live my life, and that’s not always going to be sunshine and rainbows, sorry to break it to you.” I look down at my hands, feeling another wave of exhaustion. “None of you will even give me room to do anything right, let alone mess up every now and then. Are you really surprised?”

Emory certainly looks surprised. He also looks sad. “We’re just trying to make things easier for you.”

“Well, you aren’t.” I shuffle my feet, hiding a wince. It makes me breathe a strangled laugh. “All you’re doing is ensuring that I hide every bad thing from you. My leg is so damn stiff right now, but I know if I let you see it, you’ll just baby me for the next week. It’s not easier, Em. It makes everything harder.”

His eyes drop to my leg, and I can see him wanting to tell me to sit down. Instead, he rolls his eyes. “God, we’re pretty messed up, aren’t we?”

“Us?” I give him a sly look. “I mean, did you hear all that? Maybe we’re not as fucked up as I thought.”

“Or just as fucked up,” he admits.