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

Reyn

“Dude, talk to me.”

Emory stops midway down the row of lockers, his shoulders as tense as his fists, which are notably balled tight. Without turning, he says in a low, apocalyptically angry voice, “Reyn, if I even look at you right now, I will kick your motherfucking ass, and I can’t do that. Not with this game on the line. But tomorrow?” His jaw locks tight, neck cracking. “Tomorrow, you better watch your fucking back.”

He continues through the empty locker room, flinging the metal door open so that it slams hard against the one next to it. The rest of the team is still eating the pre-game, pot-luck dinner brought to us by the booster club. Emory made an appearance—he’s captain after all. That had been a blast, trying to get him alone, only to be met with a red-hot, dagger-glare. If looks could kill, I’d be dead. But if looks could nuke this town, we’d all be dust right now.

The second he could leave, he bolted. Stubbornly, I followed.

Now I’m standing between the banks of lockers, the scent of sweaty jockstrap in the air, trying to figure out how to fix this. How to salvage what I can of our friendship. I broke a cardinal rule. The only rule.

“Well, if you won’t talk,” I reason, “you can at least listen.”

He yanks his gear out of the locker, slamming it on the bench. His voice is sharp through gritted teeth. “Don’t fucking test me, McAllister.”

Stupidly, I push. “Whatever you’re thinking is going on is worse than reality.”

“You can have any girl in this school. Any fucking girl. Could have just taken your pick, but no. That’s not good enough for you, is it? It’s so typical Reyn, I don’t know how I’m even surprised. You saw her, shiny and clean and innocent, and you thought to yourself ‘I’m going to take that’.” The anger rolls off him in waves. “I trusted you! I really fucking trusted you, with the most important thing in my life. Do you even understand that? Do you even fucking care?”

He still won’t look at me and I’m not sure I want him to. Guilt bubbles in my gut, hot like acid. “If you’ll let me explain—”

He snaps his face in my direction. “Fuck no. You don’t get to explain or manipulate your way out of this one, Reyn.” When he finally meets my eyes, I wish he hadn’t. The anger was one thing, but this is something new. This is hurt. “Did you set this up? Was it all a scam? Did you talk me into letting Vandy into the Devils so that you could get close to her and try to fu—” the word stumbles on his tongue.

“That’s not how this started. I was looking out for her, just like you were. But—”

Fuck. Shit. I can’t tell him the but.

But she knew we were up to something and was going to narc.

But she was tired of being treated like a baby and I told her I would help.

But she was drowning and needed something—someone—and that person, against all fucking odds, was me.

Good thing Emory doesn’t even want to hear my ‘but’. “But then you decided to use her?”

“I’m not using her!” I insist. “See, you’re already twisting this into something—”

He slams his fist into the locker, the sound reverberating harshly in the room. “I know my sister, Reyn! I know how she felt about you, and I saw the way you always fucking played on that. You made a promise!”

It takes me so long to understand what promise he’s referring to that by the time it dawns on me, he already has his shirt ripped off. I gape at him. “You can’t actually be serious.”

His eyes bug out, fists clenching. “Ask me again how serious I am. I dare you.”

“We were ten!” I laugh in amazement, remembering a promise made on a balmy Halloween night, eight years ago. “We didn’t even have pubes yet, Em. You think maybe shit’s a little different now?”

“I think maybe you’re a little different now.” He doesn’t want to hear a word I have to say. He walks up to me, chest heaving with restrained anger. “If you go near her again, I will fucking end you, Reyn. You’re never fucking my sister, so I’m telling you now, if you know what’s good for you? You’ll move the fuck on.” I’m not sure what my face is saying, but it seems to be broadcasting loud and clear, because Emory suddenly lurches back, face slack. “You already did,” he realizes.

“Em, wait,” I try.

“You fucked her? You fucked her. You fucked her!” Every time he says it, his eyes get a little wider, voice a little louder. There’s this vein in his forehead that bulges with each sentence, like it keeps feeding this feral, apoplectic rage into his bloodstream, and I’m powerless to stop the freight train behind it. He lunges at me, fist balled tight, swinging at my face. He pulls it before it can make contact, fist shaking with the force. “You’re so lucky there’s a game tonight.”

I never even flinched.

“When was it?” His voice is being pushed through his clenched teeth like a sieve. “Was it that night, when you said you’d walk her home? Keep her safe?” He spits the word like venom. “Was it at Thistle Cove? Huh? Or did you just have no self-control and fuck her the day after you got back?” His raging eyes ping back and forth between mine. “Answer me, pussy!”

“Last night,” I answer honestly.

“Bullshit!”