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

It’s energized and excited.

Emory says, “Press down on the brake.”

“Okay,” Vandy says, glancing down. After a beat of silence, she asks, “Which one is the brake?”

Emory and I both look at her, wide-eyed.

Emory opens his door. “Okay, get out.”

I grab his arm. “No, just—it’s the one on the left, V. The bigger one.”

She shoots her brother a glare, but he sinks back into his seat, closing his door. He shoots me a nervous look over his shoulder. “Maybe we should have given her a strictly stationary primer first.”

Deadpan, I say, “Gas makes it go, brake makes it stop.”

“What now?” she asks, foot planted firmly on the brake pedal.

“Now, you put it in drive.”

I watch as Emory points out the gear selector, instructing her to press in the button. She plants both hands back on the steering wheel, waiting.

“Okay, ready to move it?” he asks. “Just ease your foot off the brake. Don’t press the gas, just coast for a bit.”

I’d taken us back to the Kmart parking lot, which is awkward as fuck—V and I had shared a glance when I pulled in that had made me half hard—but it’s deserted and perfect for the task.

She lets her foot off the brake and the car slowly begins rolling forward. “Oh,” she breathes, and I can see her fingers easing up on the steering wheel. “This isn’t so bad.”

I suggest, “Try braking again, get a feel for the—” but before I can finish, she has her foot on the brake, jerking us to a sudden stop. “—sensitivity.”

Her hands clench back around the steering wheel, throat bobbing with a swallow. I can tell that made her anxious, panicky, and it isn’t helped when the car suddenly fires off a rapid bout of dings. Her eyes widen in alarm, hands flying off the wheel. “What’s wrong? What’d I do?”

I snake a hand around the driver’s seat to touch her hip where Emory can’t see. “It’s fine, relax. It’s just doing that because Em isn’t wearing his seatbelt.”

She whips her head around. “You’re not wearing a seatbelt?!”

Emory gestures out the windshield. “We’re in an empty parking lot.”

“Emory!” Then she peers back at me, shrieking, “Reynolds!”

We both sigh, pulling on our seatbelts.

She coasts for a bit longer, getting more and more used to the tension of the brakes. Every time she pushes the pedal too hard, jerking the car to a stop, her shoulders get higher and tighter, chest hitching to a still.

I say, “Breathe, baby,” and tack on a hasty, “V.”

Shit.

I jerk my eyes toward Emory, but he doesn’t notice anything. “Ready to try the gas?” He looks nervous too, but he’s doing a better job of hiding it than Vandy is.

My hand, still wedged between her seat at the driver’s side door, grazes her hip. “You’ve got this. Remember the fence? And the roof?”

“The fence?” Em looks at me. “The roof?”

I pause, wondering if it’ll piss him off to know how she got out of the house for the fourth rite.

Vandy just breezes out, “Yeah, I jumped off the roof and Reyn caught me.”

Emory gapes, gaze pinging between us. “When was this?”