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

“Because you were locked up for three years,” Carlton replies, shrugging. “Desperate times, my friend.”

Aubrey shrugs. “I don’t think you have bad taste, Reyn.” Her lips curve and her eyes dart toward me. “In fact, you probably have pretty outstanding taste in women.”

“Alright, that’s enough,” he says, pushing his chair back. He grabs his trash and backpack. “I’ll see you later.”

But inside, I am freaking out. Aubrey knows.

Aubrey knows!

I meet her knowing gaze with my own panicked eyes, but she just mimes zipping her lips and goes back to eating. I’m hoping that means she won’t tell Emory. She obviously hasn’t yet. I can tell by the lack of Reynolds being all dead on the lunch table.

The bell rings, saving us all from further dance conversation, but Aubrey grabs me on the way out of the room.

She clutches her hands together, begging, “Seriously, please come by tomorrow? Let me help you pick out a dress.” She grins. “I have something I think Reyn will like.”

My shoulders tense and I glance around. Maybe I can just deny. “Why would I care about what Reyn will like?” My laugh is halfhearted and full of dread. “We’re not going together.”

She gives me a look that says just how much she isn’t buying this. “Yeah, well once he sees you in this dress, he’s going to wish he staked a claim on you. Publicly.”

“Aubrey,” I start, stomach flipping anxiously.

She must sense the doom in my voice, because she puts a gentle hand on my arm. “Hey, it’s fine. I’m not going to tell Emory, okay? That’s your business.”

I release a hard breath and don’t ask her how she knows. It’s more of a mystery to me how anyone could not know. “Thank you,” I say instead.

Armed with a newspaper camera, I enter the gym a few minutes before the pep rally starts. Mr. Lee gave me a pass to get excused from class early, and so far, the room is filled with athletes, spirit teams, and a section of the marching band already mid-rehearsal. The drumbeat echoes off the high, metal ceiling. It’s one of those environments that a short time ago would have sent me running—or well, limping—away. It’s too noisy and over-stimulating. Now, behind the shield of my camera, I scope out the room, determining the best spot to get photos of the event. I know from past rallies that the coaches and team will be up on the stage, and the cheerleaders just below them. The dance team will perform on the gym floor and the band will stick to their corner of the bleachers.

I move backwards, camera in position, toward the stacked steps to see if I can get a decent shot of the stage and floor from this angle. I bump into something hard and steady.

“Hey,” Reyn says from behind me. “Got a minute?”

I don’t, not really, and neither does he. But I don’t fight him when he pulls me under the bleachers, fingers laced with mine as we traverse the narrow space. He stops and pushes my back against the wall. I notice his expression is tense.

“What’s up?” I ask, running a hand over his black jersey.

“George?” he blurts.

I blink, trying to follow his non-sequitur. Then I see the answer on his face. Jealousy.

“Seriously?” I ask, fighting the urge to laugh.

But Reyn’s face is stormy and hard. “He’s been sniffing around for weeks now. I mean, he already made one move on you.”

“Which I rejected,” I calmly remind him. “Full Heisman.”

He barks an abrupt laugh, eyes softening. “You know what a Heisman is?”

I roll my eyes and hold my hand out to his chest, blocking him, like on the coveted Heisman trophy. “I live in the south with a football-loving family. Of course, I know what a Heisman is. But that’s not the point. Why are you being weird?”

He swallows, fingers coming up to fidget with my hair. “I just don’t like it—him. George.”

I watch him brush my hair over my shoulder, and he does it so carefully. “Saying no is all I can do, Reyn. Plus, it’s not like…” I trail off.

“Like what?”

“Like I can say I have a…” Again, the words don’t fully form, but this time I clamp my mouth shut.

He eyes me. “A what?”