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

I don’t bother trying to sleep.

The holding cell is over-warm, bright, and too quiet, even with the two other guys in here with me. There aren’t bunks anyway, just two long, low benches. Against the wall opposite me is a sink and a urinal. There’s a drain in the middle of the grungy floor and the whole place smells like old piss and armpit funk. One of the guys is older, maybe mid-thirties, and I’ve been calling him Big Ben in my head. The other guy looks around my age, surly and quiet. He’s absolutely covered in paint.

There are two payphones on the wall, but I’ve already called my dad. No point calling anyone else, even if I did have their numbers memorized. Which, I don’t.

Instead of sleeping, I try to make myself still. This used to be something I was good at—passing long lengths of useless time being still as a statue, avoiding any trouble. Now I keep getting there, into that frozen headspace, and then finding some part of me slowly fidgeting out of it.

I look down at my bouncing knee, forcefully stilling it for the hundredth time.

Big Ben keeps walking to the reinforced glass that neighbors the heavy door and banging on it, angrily pounding his fist. No bars here, just cinder block walls, glass, and that steel door. The sound breaks my concentration, penetrating my brain fog and making my knee bounce in agitation.

“Do you mind?” Paint Guy sneers. He’s laying along one of the benches, arm thrown over his eyes.

Big Ben keeps banging. He was already here when I arrived, but Paint Guy was brought in five hours ago, twitchy and radiating energy. Drugs, for sure. Whatever he was on has clearly worn off.

“I’ve been here sixteen hours!” Bang bang bang. “This is unconstitutional!” Bang bang bang.

Paint Guy and I ignore this. We get regular updates like these from Big Ben. That’s why I call him Big Ben—because he informs us of every hour that passes. Like clockwork.

I finally snap, “They have twenty-four hours to arraign you!”

This doesn’t slow him down. “Hey! You can’t hold me without a charge!”

Paint Guy’s arm falls away from his face and he gives me a look. It’s full of exasperation and annoyance. “You want to shank him, or should I?”

I jerk my chin toward the camera in the corner. “You shouldn’t joke. Anything can and will be used you.”

I know how I look. I’m still wearing this grungy, blood-stained suit. My face has graduated from swollen bruising to deep, dark, tender patches. My lip is throbbing. I try again to get into my stillness, closing my eyes and thinking of the way Vandy looked before I left. Laying there in the bed, all nestled in beneath her covers. Eyes bright and soft. Safe. Warm.

My come probably dripping down her thighs.

My knee starts bouncing again.

I better keep that memory close, because the chances of me seeing Vandy again are pretty much nil. Even if my dad bails me out, Mr. and Mrs. Hall think I broke into their house and did God knows what. I’m sure Emory knows by now. My probation officer knows, so the school probably knows. Expulsion is a given. Mountain Point would be too, but I’ll be a bit busy, what with the being in prison and all.

They take Big Ben at four in the morning, right after the shift change. No one is as happy as me and Paint Guy, who are finally left in silence. Paint Guy sleeps and I go over it again and again—just how fucked I am.

Mom’s going to give up on me. That much, I know. I was already skirting the fringe of her scant tolerance. Coach, the team. They’ll be disappointed. The Devils will be one man short. I wonder who they’ll recruit to fill my place. Someone better at academics and worse at breaking and entering, no doubt.

When the door opens again, I figure they’re taking Paint Guy. Instead, the officer says, “McAllister, your lawyer’s here.”

“I don’t have a lawyer.” I’d specifically asked my dad to not call Steven. The guy doesn’t give a fuck about me and we can’t afford him anyway.

The officer looks at me impassively. “Well, you do now. Let’s go.”

Reluctantly, I stand, following him out the holding cell and down a brightly-lit corridor, past the booking desk, past the medical office where I’d been seen after being brought in. He leads me into a cold room with a Formica table in the center.

There are no chairs.

I stand behind the table and wait.

The woman who walks in is completely unfamiliar to me, but she’s dressed smartly, hair pulled back into a long braid. There’s a stack of folders shoved under one arm and a plastic shopping bag clutched in her hand.

“Reynolds,” she greets me, holding out a hand. “Nice to meet you, my name is Becca.” I reluctantly take her hand. She looks around, noting the lack of chairs, and just shrugs, setting the folders and bag on the table. “I believe you know my daughter, Gwen?”

I watch her, feeling absolutely lost. “I don’t think so.”

She looks surprised. “Oh, well maybe my twins. You go to school with them. Michaela and Micha Adams?”