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

I have to let go of her then, because I definitely can’t take her consoling me. Fuck. As if I don’t feel sick enough. I jam the heels of my palms into my eyes, just as much to hide the redness of them as to not see her crying. I’d used up my tears for that night years ago, in the scant privacy of my hospital room, dark bunks, and shower stalls. It’s not fair that she still has some left.

Her voice sounds close enough that I can feel the heat of her breath on my knuckles. “I shouldn’t have said that, about Afton and everything. I didn’t mean it, I just wanted to hurt you. But the thing is…I knew it would.” When my hands drop, I realize she’s kneeling down in front of me, mere inches away from my face. “I knew it would hurt you, because I already knew you were sorry.”

Vandy tips forward and our mouths slot together too easily. This isn’t the tentative kiss of experimentation beneath the tree house, nor is it the searing, rebellious tongue-fuck that the kiss at Thistle Cove might have been. The way our lips eagerly part, tongues sweeping wetly together, is a sigh of reprieve. The way her hands fist my jeans, pressing closer, is a frantic kind of mercy. When I reach up to grasp her face in my hands, it’s a grief so acute that it’d choke me if she weren’t giving me her own breath.

This kiss is solace.

It’s also frantic and too hard, teeth and noses clashing. The room is full of the sounds of our harsh breaths, and my blood feels electrified with the way she surges into me, seeking. She tastes like summer and sadness and life.

It hurts like hell to break away.

I grab her shoulders and push, though. She’s flushed all the way down to her chest, which is heaving just as much as my own. I hold her there for a moment, heedless of her stricken eyes, trying to shake the unexpected fog of sex-sex-sex from my brain.

My throat feels full of everything I want to say, but all that emerges is a hoarse, “That was a mistake.”

She’s not crying anymore, but the wet tracks are still on her cheeks. I give in to the impulse to lift a hand and brush my thumb over the wetness there.

Her eyes flutter closed. “Why?”

I sigh, letting my hand fall away. “You know why.”

Just then, my stomach decides that it’s done with all this. A loud rumble breaks the stillness and Vandy’s eyes fly open. We stare at each other for a moment, and maybe it’s the shattered moment, the overload of emotion, but a peal of abrupt laughter bursts from her throat. She immediately looks horrified, clamping a hand to her mouth and falling back on her heels.

“Sorry.”

I fall back too, grateful for the space between us. “Don’t be.” I idly wonder if my smile looks as tired as I feel. “I think my stomach is smelling your mom’s food.”

“Oh, she didn’t make it. I did.” She looks around for her shirt, quickly pulling it over her head. Her cheeks are red and she’s not meeting my gaze, and I don’t know how to tell her that it’s okay. She looks like she’s about to bolt.

“Hey, no.” I grab her wrist before that spark of flight realizes itself. “You can stay.” She finally looks at me then, mouth pinched into something awkward and uncertain. Gently, I add, “Please?”

I’m pretty sure she’s going to say no. She should. But when she agrees, the rush of adrenaline feels like sheer relief. Nevertheless, she still looks deflated as she settles next to me again. “It’s probably cold now,” she says of the plate.

I lean over to reach for the plate, and any other time I might feel horrified that she’s probably getting an eyeful of my back again. But I’m so sapped of everything. It feels like I’ve been hollowed out and then packed back together messily, like shit’s just rattling around inside, looking for a place to settle.

I peel back the foil and look down at the meal, the careful way it’s been prepared. There’s thick layers of pasta, and salad with little pieces of nuts and some dried fruit. I’m not even sure when the last time I had a home-cooked meal was, but knowing that Vandy prepared it for me makes my stomach twist in an unfamiliar way.

“You cooked this?”

“Yeah.” She’s sitting with her limbs all tucked in close, like she’s afraid of leaving a mark on anything. “When everyone’s out of the house in the afternoons, I like to cook.”

I extract the fork from my discarded box of Thai and try a bite of the lasagna. I instantly know this is going to be embarrassing, because once I taste it, it’s like one of those rattling pieces inside of me finds its place.

My appetite returns with a vengeance.

“Don’t judge me,” I mutter to Vandy, shooting her a glance. “What you’re about to witness won’t be pretty.”

Briefly, she looks confused.

And then, I eat.

“Oh my god, you’re going to choke.” But it works. She watches me and laughs, and even if her eyes are still sad, it’s such a relief that I almost do choke. “I can see that we’re going to have to adopt your cause. These are some serious Oliver Twist vibes you’re putting out.”

“I’ll eat you out of house and home,” I warn.

She rolls her eyes. “I live with Emory, okay. We’re familiar with the bottomless pit known as teenage boys.”

I spear my fork into the salad, making sure to get some of the goat cheese. “Maybe you can teach me how to cook something. Probably not this, though. It looks a little beyond my microwaving skills.”