A Deal With the Devil (Boys of Preston Prep 2) - Page 39

The person is dressed from head-to-toe in black, including the ski mask covering his face. It’s a guy, I can tell that much from the broad shoulders and height. He literally looks like he’s playing the part of a kidnapper in a thriller movie. He looks like a criminal. A goon. A Devil.

In conclusion, he looks scary as hell.

He docks the boat and cuts the motor, looping the tie around the post to keep it in place. He does this all in an easy, casual display of competence. I stare at that mask, the clothes, and am suddenly overcome by the insanity of this moment.

This is crazy. Crazy! I’m out here past curfew getting picked up on a boat by some large guy wearing a ski mask, and no one knows where I am. God, I can see my mom delivering the story in complete clarity. Seventeen-year-old Vandy Hall was last seen in her own home on the night of September 15th. My hands are shaking so badly that I’m almost positive Masked Goon Dude can see it, even in the dark. Why did I think this was a good idea?

I don’t do things like this. Impulsive, brash, scary behavior isn’t me. I stay home. I read books. I binge-watch ridiculous teen dramas on Netflix. I get stoned, but I don’t do this—whatever the hell this is.

But…

That electric thrum of exhilaration keeps ratcheting up and up, and it’s not the same—it’s not the dullness and numbness of the pills—but I know a high when I feel it, and if this doesn’t qualify as one, then nothing does.

The guy steps easily off the boat, takes a few paces in my direction, and extends a large, gloved hand. “Let me see your envelope.” The tremors in my hands are all the more apparent when I reluctantly comply, handing it over to him. If he notices, he at least does me the courtesy of ignoring it. He skims the paper and tucks it in his back pocket.

Note to self: take photographic evidence of everything.

“Before we go anywhere, you need to know that there’s no turning back. Once you step on that boat, you’re in.” I strain to recognize the voice, deep and gruff, but I can’t. It isn’t Emory or Reyn, of that much I’m sure. “You can’t tell anyone what’s about to happen. If you do—”

“I won’t,” I finally speak up, dusting my hands on my thighs. “Whatever this is, I’m in.”

It’s too dark to see the eyes of the boy standing in front of me, but I can tell he’s assessing me closely, silently. Whoever he is, I’m sure he’s wondering what the hell Vandy Hall is doing here. Who would invite this poor, broken, goody-goody girl to be a part of whatever this is?

He must come to some conclusion, because he pulls out another mask. This mask isn’t like his. It’s more like a bag—no eye holes—obviously meant to keep me blindfolded. He spreads it with both hands and holds it aloft, waiting. Every nerve in my body is screaming like an alarm, but I step forward, letting him slip the bag over my head anyway.

It’s scratchy and a little too big, and if I thought the lake at night was dark, then I was sorely mistaken. This is pitch-blackness, and I’m unable to make out anything but the sound of his feet against the weathered wood beneath us. His hand closes around my elbow, guiding me to the boat, but with the lack of any visibility and my dumb foot catching on an uneven board, I stumble, having to hop a bit to keep my balance. I don’t miss my kidnapper’s deep sigh at this, his hand tightening on my arm as he escorts me forward. I jerk away, determined to make it on my own. He lets me walk with only a hand on my shoulder to guide me, until I reach the edge of the dock. With surprisingly gentle hands, he helps me over the edge of the boat and into a seat.

A moment later, the motor cranks. He pushes the throttle so that the boat flies over the water, gliding over the smooth surface. I hold onto my hood with one hand and my seat with the other, and it doesn’t matter that I can’t see anything, because I can feel it all. The crickets as they wake. The wind across my face, damp and ripe. The tree limbs waving as we pass, leaves rustling in grim celebration. I can’t see the moon overhead, but I can feel the pull of it, loud in its magnetism.

You are alive, it’s screaming. You are free.

If I thought standing on a dark dock was exhilarating, then zooming over the onyx lake, blindfolded, in the dead of night, is on another level entirely.

I have too much time to think and feel as we buzz across the water. I wonder if my parents have discovered I’m gone yet. If they found my phone tucked under the pillow in my bedroom. I wonder what my brother’s involvement in all this is. I wonder how desperate Reyn must be to agree to this arrangement, and if whatever is happening is worth the information I’m hoping to get. Both Emory and Reyn have a history filled with bad decisions and epic fuck-ups. Yet here I am, once again, willingly following them into the fray.

Yes, I’m an idiot.

My lips curl into a smile as the wind whips my hair around my arms, fluttering about me like an excited puppy who’s missed its owner.

Well. At least I’m an idiot who’s having fun.

There’s more of that ratcheting thrill when the boat begins slowing, the sound of the motor decreasing to a hum before cutting off altogether. After the roar of the motor, the sudden silence is jarring in its loudness.

It doesn’t last long.

“Get up,” my captor says, and now that I’m listening more than looking at him, I can tell he’s chewing gum—a subtle smack punctuating his words. I can also hear his feet as he exits the boat, so I struggle to follow, holding onto the back of the seat for balance.

Suddenly, a hand clenche

s around my upper arm. A low, velvety voice rushes against my ear, “I’ve got you.”

A shiver runs down my spine.

I was wrong. I do know who’s hiding under that mask. There’s no doubt who that voice belongs to; Reyn.

My body should relax, knowing who’s actually helping me off the boat and onto the dock, but it doesn’t. I’m caught in a twist of emotions. Excitement, nerves, confusion, frustration. It’s not like I didn’t know he was involved. I mean, I’d even been looking for him at the boat ramp.

I guess it’s the fact that he has the upper hand—again.

Tags: Angel Lawson Boys of Preston Prep Romance
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