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

“Making stuff up.”

“Lying, you mean?” He gives me a tight grin. “I guess. I don’t get off on it or anything. It just gets easier after a while to make up a story and stick to it.”

“Yeah, I get that.” I lean my elbows on the table. “I did a lot of lying when I was using.”

He appraises me. “But you’re better now, right?”

I nod confidently. “I am. I was just… in a bad place, and I wanted an escape. But things are better now. I don’t need to escape anything.” It’d be a lie to say I don’t miss it, in some deep-down, strange way. It’s not like I look back on it with fondness, and I have other ways of feeling good. Better highs. The kind that don’t hurt me. But the pull never fully disappeared. Sometimes I wonder if it ever will. “The whole thing just got so out of control.”

He mirrors me, forearms propped on the table. “I feel the same way. I really do love Presley, you know. And I think she loves me.” His face falls. “Or at least the person I’m pretending to be. You’re lucky, actually. This thing you have with Reyn? It’s—”

I blurt, “You know about that?”

He slants his eyes. “Kind of hard to miss with the warpath your brother’s on, isn’t it? I’m just saying, I know it’s supposed to be a secret. But the two of you are keeping everyone else out. Not each other. You really know him, and he really knows you.” He slumps, eyes sad. “I wish I had that with Presley instead of what we’re doing now. It kind of makes me want to come clean with her.”

I carefully suggest, “Maybe you should,” but inside, I’m rippling with the comfort of his words. I’ve spent so long hiding myself away that, until Reyn, there was no one who knew the real me.

At that moment, the lobby door flings open and in walks the object of my thoughts. It’s so cheesy and cliché, but it really is like slow-motion, the way he swaggers through the doors. My breath catches in my throat at the sight of him, and I have to do a double take, because Reyn…

Reyn is in a tux.

I knew he’d dress up like the rest of us. That’s not a surprise. I was just somehow harboring this vision of him at the age of twelve, dressed in a wrinkled, navy suit at my parents’ anniversary party at the club. That was the last time I saw Reyn dressed up at all. But this?

This is not that grumpy twelve-year-old boy who wouldn’t stop yanking off his tie.

Reyn is clean-shaven, hand stuffed casually into one pocket while the other rakes his hair back. He looks like James Dean met James Bond and decided to knick his style. My stomach flips in the best of ways. I’m taken by the sudden and completely obvious thought:

Oh my god, that’s mine.

He is. That guy there. Yes, the sex-on-legs, well-fitted pants, sharp-featured Adonis who just strutted in here. That’s my boyfriend.

It’s surreal.

When his green eyes find me, they skitter past and then lurch back. I have a fleeting notion that if he busts out the dimples right now, I might actually die, but before the thought can fully form, he does it.

The dimples.

“Well?” Tyson whispers, bumping his knee against mine. “Go on.”

“Huh?” My brain isn’t really operating at maximum capacity when Reyn looks at me like that.

Tyson leans in to quietly explain, “He can’t see your nice dress when you’re trapped behind this table. Go give him a sticker.”

“Right.” I push my chair out and stand. “Good idea.”

Reyn watches me with heavy eyes as I round the table, gaze descending to take in my dress. His eyes climb back up, only to fasten on the charm hanging around my neck. I watch as his throat bobs.

“You look…” His mouth works around several aborted replies before settling on, “Fucking amazing.”

My laugh is all breathy and embarrassing. “You, too.” I emphasize, “Really, really.” Shaking myself out of the stupor, I grab a sticker out of the basket and pull off the back, placing it neatly on his lapel. Getting close, I catch the scent of a fragrance on his jacket.

“That’s a strong choice,” I say.

“What?” He seems distracted but it’s understandable. We’re minutes from either pulling off something epic or going down in flames. Either way, we’ll make history.

“Your cologne,” I elaborate. “Interesting choice.”