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

Afton nods. “Especially a group that would probably never hang around one another if we weren’t in a secret club together.”

Even though no one is looking at me, I feel like that comment was a direct hit.

“We’re supporting him,” Elana says, defensively, “and no one gets to determine who we hang out with.”

“Yeah,” Ben says, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a roll of cash, “and some of us are here for other reasons. I’m betting on Sebastian to win.”

Caroline asks, “What are the odds?” and the two of them start off toward the dirt path, trading numbers. Carlton removes a cooler from the trunk of his car. He opens it and Elana and Afton both take a beer. Emory grabs the other side of the cooler and they carry it down the path.

“What is this place anyway?” I ask. We’re in a wooded area off one of the city parks. Lights glow through the trees, but there’s not a lot of traffic in the distance. This place is deserted and quiet—or would be, if not for the couple dozen cars that litter the lot.

“You’ve never been here?” Tyson asks. I shake my head. “It’s the old water-works building. It’s been abandoned for decades. Now all that’s left are the derelict remains.”

“Everyone comes here,” Georgia declares, which makes it only that much more obvious how sheltered I am. “There’s a bunch of walls to graffiti, people build bonfires, smoke a lot of weed.”

“Skateboarders,” Carlton adds. “All those empty pools.”

“Come on,” Tyson says, nodding toward the path. “It’s pretty cool.”

Apparently, he had to lie to his girlfriend to get here tonight. I know the feeling. I told Sydney I had a headache and wanted to just crash early. We’re technically speaking again, but it’s awkward and strained. It’s hard to forget the way she called me delusional, and even harder to tolerate all of her slavering over Reyn.

If nothing else, at least I have his promise.

As everyone walks toward the building, the object of my thoughts appears in my periphery.

I spot his Jeep and turn to Tyson. “Yeah, I’ll be there in a second. I just remembered that I need to put something in the car.”

Tyson waves and he and Georgia walk off toward the others. I hold back, eyeing Reyn, who’s leaning against the side of his car. He’s wearing a black leather jacket and a clean pair of jeans, and I can’t help but think, Damn. I was on that. He watches the others get a few feet away before pushing off the car and walking over.

He looks in a better mood than he had after the Jerry incident, at least. His features still have a touch of that stony darkness, but his eyes are soft as they take me in. “Hey.”

“Hi,” I reply, wanting to reach out and touch literally any part of him. We’re in uncharted territory. Public, but not public. My brother approves of us being Devils together, but beyond that…

Emory’s distant shout shatters our stare. “Are you two coming?” We both turn to the sound. He’s waving a hand in the air, suspending it there in the universal gesture for ‘what gives?’

Reyn takes in a slow breath, muttering, “Fuck, I thought people keeping tabs on me was bad. He has a gorgeous girl right there and he’s worrying about you.”

“Welcome to my world,” I reply with a smile. I can’t get mad. I’m here and he’s here. It’s not like I’m a big fan of PDA anyway. Yuck. I’ve had to sit through too much of that in my life with both Sydney and Emory.

I start down the hill, following the others who are already in a line at a makeshift entrance. Absurdly, there’s a fee to get in, ten dollars a head.

“Who gets the money?” I wonder.

Over his shoulder, Tyson says, “The winner, duh.”

“So basically, we’re giving this guy money, and it’s entirely possible that it’ll go to the person who kicks Sebastian’s ass. That doesn’t seem very supportive.” Not that a Wilcox of all people particularly need money.

Emory hands the burly guy a stack of twenties and points down the line of us. “These ten are with me.”

He nods and waves us past. The scene unfolds as we get closer. Lanterns light up the shells of old buildings that co-mingle with nature, roots and vines growing over the cement walls. Spray-paint covers everything, and I feel like I’ve entered a magical, secret world. It even smells different here, musty and astringent, kind of like gasoline and cigarette smoke. It’s also a bit crowded, which is the worst environment for someone with a leg like mine. When I was first hurt and having all the surgeries, people were really nice. I got free tickets to the Taylor Swift concert and the Atlanta United games, but I didn’t have to walk. I was still in a wheelchair back then. Here, I have to fight against the uneven terrain. With the dubious exception of Preston’s dining hall on pizza day, it’s been a long time since I’ve been to something with this kind of crowd, and I feel panic tightening in my chest. What happens if we need to get out of here quickly? What if someone gets pissed I’m taking too long?

From the tattoos and piercings and dyed hair, the whole group looks a little temperamental. These kids are not from Preston Prep. I doubt they’re even from Northridge. These are the kinds of kids who just go wherever they can find trouble.

I fight to take a breath and absently feel my pockets for a stray pill. I know I didn’t bring any, but maybe? I pat for back pockets that aren’t even there—this is a skirt, duh—and feel fingers hooking over my waistband. I look over my shoulder and Reyn is there, warm against my back. My anxiety instantly dissipates. I’m not here alone.

“Sorry I’m holding us up.”

He touches my hand. “Never apologize for that.”