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

A bit of a disappointing haul.

I dump it all into the bottom drawer of my dresser with the rest of the things I’ve taken since being back. I push off my jeans and flop onto the bed in my boxers, chomping on the apple. The night had been a rollercoaster. First there was the game, which was aces. I fucking killed it. Emory and I clicked back together like pieces in a puzzle. Usually, other teams struggle with a good passing game, but us? We’re like magic.

Then, I relented and went to Devil’s Tower. What happened there was entirely unexpected. Worst case, I figured I was in for some kind of Red Devil hazing from the football team, and the thought was amusing. Best case, some girl wanted to be my welcome wagon, which worked out perfectly for me, considering that my molecular makeup at the moment must be something like fifty percent raging horniness and fifty percent crippling indecision.

It was neither of those.

When Carlton opened the door, I’d expected to go up the tower, because where else would we go? Instead, he’d taken a hard left toward an old wooden door. I didn’t even remember it being there, but that’s fair. It’d been a long time since I’d been to that place—the last time being accompanied by one very athletic Sheri Brown, the first semester of freshman year. It was the first time I’d successfully gotten under a girl’s bra. Naturally, that’s the only thing I remember about the place.

Behind the wooden door was a staircase that led down, winding under the one that led up to the bell. Carlton used a flashlight to light the way, and again, I wondered if I was about to get my ass beat in some good old-fashioned, Preston Prep hazing. I spent the whole way fighting a laugh, because seriously. As if whatever these spoiled little rich boys had in store could hold a candle to the hazing I’d endured at Mountain Point. Nevertheless, fight or flight began to kick in. My heart hammered, instinct driving me to look for an escape, and then toward fight when none could be found. I could take Carlton in a fight—no doubt about that. I was fast and strong. I was still plotting my preemptive attack when we reached the bottom of the stairs.

We came to another door, this one circular.

“What the hell is this?” I asked, frowning at the strange entryway. Carlton grinned and rapped a knock on the door. A moment later, it swung open, the hinges old and creaking. On the other side was a long room with a low ceiling. The walls and floor were made of concrete and it smelled a little musty, like old, dry dirt. Over a metal desk were some decorations—red felt Preston pennants, black and white photos, trophies. It was like the twisted basement version of Preston’s main hall, with all the display cases. It was dark, only lit by a few flickering camping lanterns. Emory stood in the middle of the room, slightly hunched, arms open wide. A few other guys I recognized as part of the defunct Devils stood behind him.

“What’s going on?” I asked, hoping I wasn’t about to get outright murdered. Kids at Mountain Point might be harder, more vicious, but I tend to forget that rich kids like these have a tendency toward the batshit insane.

“History, my friend,” Emory said, all dramatic and weird. “We’re making history and here’s your chance to get in on it.”

Over the next hour and a case of room-temperature beer, Emory explained that what he wanted to do was to reestablish a straight-up, elitist secret society. Apparently, the Devils didn’t start off as a bunch of jocks terrorizing underclassmen and scratching notches in the beam above the bell tower. It started a hundred years before the current incarnation; a group of high-powered individuals, male and female, who dominated the school academically, athletically, and socially. They had a strict initiation that went beyond drinking a gallon of vodka and screwing virgins. They had rituals, rites of passage, and—if Emory is to be believed—a civility lost on the current group of students.

How did Emory find out about this long-lost Preston Prep lore? Well, like he said, the Devils’ roots run deep. Alumni, current faculty, probably even some administration were in on it. When they heard about the current group getting disbanded, they stepped up, reaching out to the strongest Devil, and suggested he lead the remaining members a new direction—or really, an old direction. They showed him the bunker under the tower, gave him the book of Devil’s history, and ultimately gave him permission to restart the group.

I’d looked into the eye of his friends tonight—Carlton, Ben, and a few others I didn’t know—and I saw the gleam of power in their eyes. They wanted this. The cred. The legacy. The power that had been yanked from them last year. Them I understood, but Emory already had all that. I couldn’t figure out his angle, his motive.

But now I know for certain.

That’s why I snapped when I saw Baby V skulking around the yard, eavesdropping on me and her brother. She’ll blow this before Emory ever gets it off the ground. I’ll get tossed out of Preston before that.

From the dark, fearful look in her eyes, she’s probably already hoping I fail.

I turn the light off, slamming my fist into my pillow before rolling onto my side. I’m walking a tightrope here. One foot on the wire, holding myself above the fray. The other dangling, one bad move could send me tumbling. I do know one thing for certain; Vandy Hall is not going to be involved.

My body wakes like clockwork, still attuned after years of early morning PT even after having been here a while. Every day, I’m still up at the ass-crack of dawn. I feel like hell, my body sore from the game the night before. Sore, but also good, and sort of proud. We kicked ass on the field. Me and Emory make a good team. We always have.

I try to train myself to sleep a little longer, at least until the birds are awake, but it’s futile. Even if I could go back to sleep, my body craves a strong dose of caffeine and I feel the headache coming.

It’s obvious the moment I walk into the kitchen that my father has been here. Seemingly, not alone.

Apparently, making up for being married to my mom all these years includes a lot of sleeping around. Not that he was loyal back then or anything. It’s hard to tell with the way my parents always kept shit so tight behind closed doors, but if I had to guess, I’d say their biggest troubles started after the wreck. It was impossible not to notice the tension when they came to Mountain Point for visits. The strain on my mother’s face and the twenty pounds she gained, most likely from binge-drinking wine, were glaringly obvious. For my father, this was a perfect excuse to fuck around with one or more of the recent college graduates that worked in his office. The weight gain and affairs ultimately led her to the personal trainer, who apparently thought working out in

bed would be appropriate exercise. The night of the crash was like knocking over a domino, everything tipping over until there was nothing in this family left standing.

A bottle of wine is uncorked, ninety percent empty, on the counter along with two empty wine glasses. A black leather purse sits on the kitchen table—the table that, once upon a time, we sat at as a functional family.

The contents are painfully dull. Chapstick, tissues, keys, wallet, driver’s license. Tammy Killian, same birth month as me, but seven years older, one hundred and thirty pounds, five-seven, brown eyes, brown hair, not an organ donor.

She has a crisp fifty-dollar bill in her billfold. Like, obviously that’s…

Mine now.

I put it all away, eventually hearing the stirrings of an awkward morning-after occurring in the master bedroom down the hall. I snap alert and move to the counter, searching for the coffee. I didn’t drink coffee when I left home. I was fourteen. My prime sources of energy back then were candy, soda, and masturbation. But six a.m. mandatory runs at school had made coffee an integral part of my diet. I open cabinet after cabinet, increasingly aware that at least half the dishes and glasses and everything else is gone. Did my mom come here and split everything down the middle? Did that include the fucking coffee? I go to the pantry and stare at the empty shelves. Where the fuck is it?

“Check the freezer.”

Tension rolls up my spine, settling at the base of my neck. I close the pantry door and turn around. My father’s opening a cabinet, pulling out a bottle of pain meds. From the look on his face, I’m confident in calling it a hangover. His hair is disheveled—a darker shade than mine—a scattering of gray at the temples. I guess he’s what you’d call distinguished, although I can tell he’s had some work done on his face since I saw him a few months ago. The fine lines around his eyes are smoothed, as well as the deep lines on his forehead that developed after I got sent away. He’s fit, from hours spent at the gym or running. I get my athleticism from him—probably the lack of impulse control, too.

I go to the freezer and sure enough, among the mostly empty shelves is a container of coffee grounds. The frigid air feels good on my face, waking me up and cooling me off.