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

“Right.” I do my best to tamp down the sudden sick feeling. Kind of shitty, if I’m being honest, wanting her to be open and honest, and then not being able to handle it. “Sorry.”

She grins. “As long as we keep doing things like that, I’ll give you a pass.”

A surprised laugh bursts from my chest and I right her bra, fingers lingering. “You’re fucking gorgeous, you know.”

Now, she gets bashful, exhaling a dubious, “Pshhh.”

“Really,” I insist, fingers dragging down her chest, stomach, landing on the scars there. “All of you.” If I were in that Devil confession circle right now, my biggest sin, my darkest secret, would be how touching that scar makes me feel. Because there’s anger and shame, a regret so acute that it burns the back of my throat, but there’s something else, too. It’s possessive and unsettling, looking at this mark I’ve made on her. No one else would understand, but Vandy probably would. It’s not that I’ve marked her with this pain, it’s that no one but the two of us really gets it. No one else can ever know what it was like, that night on that road, waiting for help. Something like that—those moments are what define you. Shape you.

And I was a part of hers.

I know it’s fucked up. It’s something I try not to look too closely at.

I watch as she finds her sweater, pulling it over her head. I help her tug it down, covering up all that skin. I just came my brains out, but when she tugs my shirt down, her knuckles grazing low on my belly, my dick is thinking that it’s already down for another go.

Never done until it goes twice.

“Oh, I brought this,” she says, clambering off my lap. I reach out to steady her waist when she wobbles, but she waves me away. “It didn’t look like you were able to eat.” She pulls a plate from the shelf, setting it on my lap.

It’s a little hard to ignore the mess happening inside my boxers, but when I pull the towel off the plate, it’s a near thing. “Fuck.” Yes.

“I remember how much you used to like cornbread,” she says simply, dropping beside me. She looks blissed out, the good sort of tired. “Mom was totally laughing at me because it didn’t gel with the spread, like there’s ever a bad time for cornbread.”

I already have a mouthful of it when I realize, “You made this for me?”

She blushes, eyes narrowing playfully. “I made it because cornbread is good. B

ut knowing how much you liked it may have provided some of the motivation.” She lets out this airy, carefree laugh as I shove it into my face. “Plus, it was nice waking up with some energy.”

I admit, “I ran like four miles more this morning.” Part of it was that Fucking Jerry was nowhere to be seen—must be on the afternoon shift today—but a bigger part of it was just waking up well-rested.

“I may have seen some of those,” she says, eyes sliding to mine.

Christ, a few more looks like that and I might start adding to the mess in my boxers. I keep eating instead, watching Vandy extend her leg, stretching. She reaches out to grab her toes, exhaling as her leg flexes.

I swallow painfully. “Are you—”

“Yes, I’m okay.” She huffs, eyes rolling. “It’s just like this sometimes. After PT, or a long day of walking at school, it gets a little weaker. It doesn’t hurt, I just want to make sure I have range of motion for when I climb down the ladder. Stop freaking out.”

“I’m not,” I lie, eyes tracking as she massages the back of her thigh. “Can I help?”

“Reyn.” Her voice is sharp with frustration, but when our gazes lock, her face softens. “Sure.” I set the plate aside when she puts her foot on my knee, propped back on her hands. “Just push against my toes, make it flat, okay?”

I nod, clutching the bottom of her boot in one hand, and the toe in the other, flexing it. She pushes against the resistance. I watch her for signs of pain, but there aren’t any. She does this for a few minutes, alternating between reclining back and bending over her knee, stretching the muscles. After a few of these passes, she goes to take her foot away, but I stop her, running my hands up her leg.

She sighs when I reluctantly dig my fingers into the muscles of her calf, doesn’t protest when I sweep them up to her thigh. “That’s good,” she says, face going slack. I go higher and then back, to the place she was massaging before, and she groans, “God. Right there.”

When she opens her eyes and meets my gaze, I think maybe she understands what it means to me, being able to do this. I can’t fix what I did. I can’t fix her. But making it better, even in this tiny, inconsequential way, is like a balm to the burn of that truth.

“Reyn?” The dread pooling in her eyes makes me go still. “Can you promise me something?”

I don’t even need to think. “Anything.”

She watches me watch her, and I don’t know what this is, the heaviness here, but I know that this is important. “Whatever this is or isn’t, just… Not Sydney, okay?” Her voice is a small, quiet thing. “Never Sydney.”

My head snaps back when I realize what she’s saying. “I’m not interested in Sydney.”

She looks away. “I don’t think she cares.”