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

“A little help,” I grunt, feeling the weight pressing down on my chest. Emory moves quickly, grabbing the bar and lifting it back over the rack.

“Damn, son!” He looks impressed. “What the hell did they have you doing at that military school? I’ve been training my ass off all summer and I couldn’t bench that much.”

I lie flat for a few moments, my triceps stinging with exhaustion, before I get up to swap places. I wait until Emory’s settled in my spot to say, “Hey, can I ask you something?”

He keeps his eyes trained to the bar. “Sure.”

“What’s the deal with your sister?”

His eyes flick to mine, lips pressing into a thin line. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know.” I shrug. “I’ve just seen her around. She seems really quiet and introverted. Not like…well, you know.”

His eyes narrow a fraction. “Not like she used to be?”

I elaborate, “No, I mean, not like you. Not popular, or outgoing, or uh…” I feel my eyes tighten as I try to find the least insulting way of calling his sister a coddled outcast. “Just not like you.”

“Oh.” Emory grips the bar, jerking his chin. I lift it off the rack, making sure it’s steady in his hands. Emory tests the weight, voice strained as he explains, “Well, she had a hard time after the accident. You know, surgeries and stuff. Everyone just decided to give her a break. Make sure she had the space to heal.”

Surgeries.

Duh. Of course, she’d have surgeries. I don’t know why hearing about it makes something jagged rattle around in my chest, but it does. For some reason, I can’t help but imagine it—Vandy on some table in a well-lit operating room, all opened up like a gaping wound.

I swallow around the nausea and watch as he completes only a few bench presses, struggling through the last two. I help him re-rack the bar, and he slings his legs over the bench, sitting up.

He tugs off the Velcro straps on his workout gloves. “Why do you ask?”

“I guess she just seems kind of…” I tug off my own gloves, trying to find the right words. “Sheltered?”

“Look, I’m not trying to—” Emory’s eyes jump to mine briefly. “I don’t want to make you feel bad about this. But dude, the wreck fucked her up. And then, after everything, she got kind of weird, which is to be expected, I guess. I’m not going to deny that I went into protective mode, especially at school. Not with the jackals lurking around every corner.”

“Right.” I nod, running my towel over my face. “That makes sense.”

He frowns. “I know she feels a little stifled, but it’s for her own good.” He wipes the sweat off his own forehead with his shirt. When he meets my gaze again, his face is creased with a reserved, secret kind of concern. “Honestly? I’m worried about her being alone next year.”

Finally. Maybe if I understood this, I can talk him out of this secret society thing.

“Why?” I ask, even though I already know.

“Because people here are fucking vicious, bro. Vandy’s not like us. She’s good.” He looks down, fidgeting with his gloves. “She doesn’t have that hardness. It’s one of the best things about her, but it’s also...” He pulls a face.

“It could make her an easy target,” I guess. “If the wrong kind of people had the power here.”

“Pretty much.” Emory shrugs. “With me here, people know better. But after I leave? Who knows, you feel me?”

I change tacks. “She’s got friends, right?”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, Sydney, for one. That girl is a fucking train wreck, though. I don’t trust her as far as Vandy can throw her.” I slide a weight from one end of the bar as he takes the other.

I keep my eyes fixed firmly to the task as I inquire, “What about a boyfriend?”

There’s a long, tense silence as I rack the weight, but when I turn to get the other from Emory’s hands, he’s assessing me, eyes guarded. “Nah. She’s not into dating.” When I take the weight with nothing more than a mild nod, he seems to relax, letting out a laugh. “Thank god, right? We both know what all these guys around here want, and it’s not to show her their stamp collection. Last thing I need is a murder charge.”

“Wipes,” I interrupt, fanning out my hands.

Emory rushes to the other side of the room to mimic our game-winning throw from last Friday. We spend a few minutes cleaning up, running the cleaning wipes over the equipment, heeding the big lecture we’d gotten from the trainer on the first day about MRSA and other such plagues.

I can’t stop thinking about Vandy as we walk into the locker room. Is this my fault, too? Or would her brother and parents still have been this vigilant, regardless? She’d always been a little sheltered, truthfully, and Emory is right. Vandy doesn’t have a hardness about her, never has. Back when we were kids, it used to be an almost fun trait to play with. Teasing her. Coaxing her. Getting her to cover for us, because she was such an honest face and an easy mark. When Vandy lied, butter couldn’t fucking melt.