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

I watch the way his face changes, realizing, “You really like her, huh?”

“Yeah, I guess I do,” he says, straightening his Vanderbilt-gold oxford. “She’s way less complicated than Campbell.”

I remind him, “That’s a pretty low bar, considering Campbell is a controlling bitch.”

“She is.” He laughs. “Actually, that’s one of the things I liked most about her, but I won’t lie. It’s nice to be around someone who’s not scheming world domination all the time.”

He claps me on the shoulder and walks through the patio doors and into the kitchen. Aubrey beams when she sees him—seems like everything there is mutual—and he slips his hand around her waist. A spike of bitterness runs through me. What I’d give to walk up to Vandy right now and kiss her hello, mark my territory while everyone watches. God. Her parents would flip out. My father would send me back to military school. And Emory? He wants his sister to have a babysitter, not a boyfriend.

I know my place here. The troublemaker. The criminal. The one who isn’t good enough. I’m welcome in this house, under supervision. What would they say if they knew I’d spent the night upst

airs with their daughter? That she’d had her warm body pressed up against mine? That I’d woken up that morning to her soft thigh thrown over my morning wood?

They’d call Fucking Jerry, that’s what they'd do, and it would be the last time I’d see her.

My instinct is to swipe something, quell the impulsive urges that heighten when I’m feeling shitty, but if something goes missing, I’ll be the first one they question. Vandy seems semi-tolerant of my habit, but not necessarily in her own home.

Plus, it’s not an expensive object I want in my hands.

It’s her.

I walk back inside, skirting the crowd forming around the TV. Kick-off just started and Mr. Hall corners me, beer in his hand. His other hand looks like it wants to ruffle my hair, but I’m probably an inch taller than him now. Instead, it lands on my shoulder, heavy and loud in that aggressive way old guys always like. “Little Reyn McAllister! I’m glad you could come. I know you’re not a Vandy fan, but it should be a good game.”

I give him a smile. “You know, I think as I’ve gotten older, Vandy has started to grow on me.”

He gives a surprised laugh. “Denise will be excited to hear about that.”

As he continues to talk, asking me a little about school, some about Mountain Point, and a lot about football, I keep tabs on his daughter across the room. She’s standing behind the couch, where Sydney is trying to engage Aubrey in conversation. My girl looks so fucking good in that sweater and skirt, it’s killing me to know how close we’d been just six hours ago. That I’d had my hands on those legs, that skin, my mouth on that neck. From here, I can see that she’s wearing little black boots with a raised heel, and I’m starting to think she knows how much I love her legs. And fuck, now my dick is getting hard and I’m talking to her dad and, “Excuse me, sir. I, uh, need to use the restroom.”

“Go ahead. I need to get focused on the game. I have quite the wager with Mark Bradshaw over the point spread. You know where it is, right?”

I nod and toss my soda can into the recycling bin, but I’m diverted by my dad, who takes to parading me around the circle of clean-cut adults gathered in the family room. It’s all artificial, small-talk bullshit that makes me want to punch myself in the face. Everyone here already knows me, but you wouldn’t know it by the way my dad keeps gesturing at me with his beer, rattling on about my rushing yards. It’s not like he can be genuine, anyway.

Allow me to reintroduce you to my son! Yes, he is a criminal. We have his juvenile detention release papers framed, right next to his sixth-grade perfect attendance certificate, isn’t he swell? Yes, he stole your watch. And your wife’s garden gnome. And your daughter’s phone—twice, because she’s incredibly fucking stupid. He also hasn’t spoken to his mother in three weeks. No, she didn’t want him. But he’s tidy and quiet, and isn’t a massive cockblock, so I let him sleep in my house. Don’t we look so much alike? If you ever get locked out of your house or car, you should totally give him a call.

Mark Bradshaw asks, “So what schools are you applying to?”

Way to lead with the easy questions there, Mark. I vaguely remember him falling victim to my middle school hood-ornament spree. I’d managed to collect six Mercedes, thee Jags, and my crowning achievement, one off a classic Rolls Royce belonging to a state senator. Never got caught. They’re still buried in a box at the back of my closet.

I answer, “I don’t think I’m going to apply this year.”

My dad whips his head toward me. “What’s that mean?”

Duh. It means that I have no idea what I’m doing next week, let alone the rest of my life. “I’ll probably just take a year.”

My dad barks a cold laugh. “Take a year for what?” I give him a look. Do you really want to do this in front of all your rich buddies? Apparently not. “Well, there’s still a lot of time. Why don’t you go check out the spread in the dining room?” The words sound perfectly casual, but I can tell from the sharpness of his eyes that this conversation has only just begun. Nice selective parental tendencies.

A quick look around tells me Vandy is no longer by the couch, but Sydney, who’s standing between me and that dining room spread, catches my eye, and gives me a wink. So that’s a no on the food, then.

A few moments later, my phone buzzes with a text from Vandy. It’s nothing but two emojis; a tree and a house.

I can’t get away from this place fast enough.

It’s a little cooler outside, less stifling, and the path into the tree line stretches out before me like a lifeline. I feel around in my pocket as I walk, fingers finding the money clip—sadly empty—I’d swiped from Mark Bradshaw’s pocket, easy as pie.

Mine now.

When I reach the treehouse, I climb the ladder and pop my head through the door, searching.