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

“I’m not saying she doesn’t, I’m just saying there are circumstances, and even though I don’t agree with him, I understand why he’s—”

She barks out a sharp, “Ugh. I can’t believe you’re Team Emory. Even Carlton’s Team Reyn.”

“I’m not choosing teams,” Ben replies.

“Shocker there,” Caroline says. “Football and band. Guys and girls. V and Em. You don’t commit, Shackleford.”

“I commit!” he hisses. “I might commit to everything, but trust me. I fucking follow through.”

Caroline doesn’t seem to have anything to say to this. “Well, all the Playthings are Team V.”

I calmly cut in, “I’m Team ‘shut the fuck up so I can pick this lock and not get busted’. Feel me?” There’s a long, contrite silence. I take advantage of it, getting lost in the repetitive movements. The longer it takes, the more I can hear them shifting impatiently, checking the clocks on their phones, biting their nails.

When the last pin is in, I pause, wrench still in the tumbler.

This is the point I’d ask my girl to choose a direction—left or right.

I could ask Caroline or Ben, but strangely, the thought of choosing doesn’t make my throat all tight and constricted like it used to. It’s stupid, because I should be feeling it now more than ever. It’ll take me for-fucking-ever if these pins get reset.

Without hesitating, I turn it right.

The lock opens.

I stand, popping the knob and waving them inside. I barely pay attention to what they’re doing once they are. I drop into the same desk I’d sat in that day, weeks ago, when Vandy had driven a figurative knife through my gut. I’m thinking of how I haven’t had that chest-clutching anxiety in a long time. I’m thinking of how I probably will let Emory kick my ass. I’m thinking of how love is so fucking stupid, and yet also fully badass.

Whatever they’re doing, it doesn’t take nearly as long as getting through that lock had.

“We’re good,” Caroline says, stuffing cords into her bag.

Ben closes the laptop and nervously darts to the door, checking both ends of the hallways before nodding us out.

Buoyed by the feeling of success, we retrace our steps, going in reverse. Relocking the doors, double checking our blin

d spots. Caroline giggles nervously behind me, giddy with her own duplicity, and Ben keeps taking his phone out of his pocket, checking and re-checking the time.

Once we get out the door, none of us linger. As planned, we split up, each of us taking different routes back to the gym. Most of my excitement is about getting to Vandy, though. I’m fucking dying to lock eyes on her. I want her to see me in this stupid suit, ridiculous bowtie and all. More than anything, I want to drag her onto the dance floor and show the whole fucking school—Emory included—that for better or for worse, she’s my girl. I know I can’t, but it’s a nice dream.

“Decided to come after all, huh?”

I skid to a stop, turning to see Sydney leaning against the Devil’s Tower. She’s wearing a red, skin-tight dress, and might even look nice if not for the smudged eye makeup and the lazy, bitter smirk on her face. I can smell the liquor on her from over here. “Guess I decided to see what all the fuss is about.”

Her lean against the tower is slumped and awkward, and I don’t really like the way this all looks. Some drunk girl propped against the entrance to the Stairway to Hell doesn’t give me the most fun and consensual vibes.

“Are you… waiting for someone?” I reluctantly ask.

She looks at the door, and then up, as if someone might be up there. She gives the stonework a little pat. “Nope. Just little old me.” Her smile is overly bright, sloppy. “Getting stood up, as one does.”

I pull a face, craning my neck to look toward the gym. “Uh, sorry to hear that.” I can see now her makeup isn’t smudged, so much as running tracks down her cheeks. This girl is a complete mess.

I nod my chin, gesturing to where her foot is at an odd angle. “Something wrong?”

Her eyes follow mine, and she must be pretty wasted, because she almost looks surprised. “I twisted my ankle on the grass.” She extends her leg, giving me a view of her long legs and the sharp, pointed heel of her shoes. “That’s what I get for trying to look fabulous for guys who don’t show up.”

I glance down at my phone. The clock is literally ticking. I need to get into that gym. “Do you need me to call someone, or…”

She sniffs. “Maybe a little help getting to the gym? Once I’m there, I can take my shoes off.”

I’m not exactly sure why she can’t walk across campus barefoot, but the last things I understand are the fine intricacies of drunk girl logic. I run my hand through my hair and glance around like someone else will magically appear to help. They don’t.