by Angel Lawson
Of all the things I want, the ones I can’t have burn the brightest.
Getting off to Vandy broke a thousand rules, but here I am again, not just fantasizing about her but remembering her. That kiss was fucking electric. I can still feel her hitched breath when I deepened the kiss, and I’m no idiot. That wasn’t a gasp of surprise. It was pure sex.
I groan and adjust my boner. It was one thing to see Vandy from afar and think about her. It’s a whole other ballgame now that I know what she tastes like. How she feels under my hands. How, even though she’s innocent and inexperienced, it was hands down the hottest kiss of my life.
And what had I done about it?
Nothing. Gawked at her like a fucking moron. Too busy thinking that I’d just stolen her first kiss—mine now—to ease an awkward situation, unable to even offer some trite welcome into the world of face-sucking. Oh yeah, then I came home and beat off like a thirteen-year-old who just discovered his parental internet filter had a back door.
I knew I was playing with fire the minute she walked in that room at the party, looking all frail and vulnerable. I felt the panic rolling off of her. The urge to distract her, to protect her, was like second nature. Maybe I’m as bad as Emory.
Except Emory wouldn’t have taken advantage.
I scrub a hand over my face. That was the real crime. There I was telling her not to settle, not to just take whatever came along, and I basically led her right into settling on me.
The only thing that eases the gnawing guilt is that I didn’t kiss her. She kissed me. Of course, I kissed her back. I’m not made of stone here.
Well, my dick might be. None of this is making me less hard, but before I can do anything about it, my phone buzzes on the bedside table. The caller is unknown, but the message comes through loud and clear: a devil graphic followed by a time; 11 a.m.
I guess it’s time to get up and see what the powers that be want us to do next.
I arrive at the bell tower with a coffee in one hand and a breakfast burrito in the other. Campus is quiet. Most people are still asleep, or maybe over in the dining hall for breakfast if they live on campus. I look both ways before I slide in the door, eyes and ears alert as I try the handle to the basement stairs.
I wrench the knob when the door doesn’t give.
“The fuck?” I’d assumed this is where we’re meeting, even if the details on the message were vague. Wasn’t this supposed to be our base of operations, or… what had Vandy called it? Our dungeon?
“Try your key.”
I turn and see Caroline standing in the doorway. She’s wearing leggings and an oversized hoodie, and it’s weird. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her out of uniform. Her hair is in two long braids, and she pushes thick-framed glasses up the bridge of her nose. I stand there for a moment, trying to figure out what she’s talking about.
She rolls her eyes and exhales loudly, pulling a key similar to the one I’d found in my locker from her pocket. She makes a big production of shoving it in the keyhole, like I’m a complete idiot. A few jiggles later, it opens.
So I’m still half asleep, give me a break.
“Maybe you deserve that high score on the SAT after all,” I say, pushing the door wide and letting her go in first.
“For the record,” she says imperiously as she passes, “I did get a high SAT score. 1400 just wasn’t good enough for my mom. She didn’t even give me the chance to try for anything higher.”
I nod in understanding, because I can believe it. If there’s one unifier at Preston Prep, it’s that everyone has massive amounts of parental baggage.
We walk down the winding stairs and enter the bunker. Most of the initiates are here already, and I’d been preparing all morning for seeing Vandy here, but the sight of her on the couch still makes me vibrate with nerves. The plan had been to approach the situation as if last night had never happened. She’s sitting on the couch next to Tyson, and the flicker of emotion that sparks in me when I see her smile at him, friendly and open, isn’t something I want to examine very closely.
Emory’s standing by a table, scribbling on slips of paper. I was sort of torn on the prospect of telling Emory about the party. On one hand, I want him to know that I’d gotten her out of there safely. It’s a weak concession that doesn’t even come close to making up for what happened three years ago, but it still settles something inside of me. On the other hand, I’d have to skip over the whole kiss situation, which I figure sort of cancels out any ‘attaboy’ I’d be due.
In the end, I decide that it doesn’t matter what I want. If Vandy wants him to know, she’ll tell him herself. She’s the one who has to live with him.
“So listen,” Emory says, drawing my attention. I can see the slips of paper, two names on each. He’s written Vandy’s name on one and holds the pen poised over the second space. “I know we talked about you teaming up with V for all this stuff, but I was thinking of putting her with Tyson tonight.”
Against my will, my eyes fly over to him. He’s telling Vandy some kind of story that apparently necessitates a lot of animated gesturing. She laughs at something he says—not a big, flashy laugh, just a quiet chuckle. It still makes my eyes narrow. Perfect, squeaky clean, nice, friendly, smart, and athletic Tyson, whose biggest flaw is lying about believing in God.
I look at Emory. “Why?”
“It’s like this,” he starts, and I can see the tension in his eyes. Whatever this is, it’s stressing him out. “This is going to require a few quick and dirty B&E’s, and you’re the only one here who can get into Thistle Cove. They’ve really upped the security since that girl went missing and their coach was fired for being a fucking pervert. You’ll have to pick a couple locks, probably. But Northridge is easy, and Tyson’s a transfer, so he knows that place like the back of his hand. He’ll be able to get in and out, no problem.”
I bristle at this. “I can get in and out of Thistle Cove.” In no fucking world is Tyson better than me at this. Maybe he’s better at being a ‘good guy’, and maybe he’s better at deceiving stupid girls, but breaking into places he doesn’t belong? In no world. “A couple locks aren’t going to stop me.”
“Here’s the thing…” He grimaces, and I know he’s holding something back. “Thistle Cove has a fence.”
Ah.
I shift my gaze back to Vandy, considering. I wonder if she’s ever going to make eye contact with me. I probably fucked things up last night. I mean, things were already tense between us, adding in another uncomfortable situation was piss-poor thinking. “What kind of fence?”
“Chain link,” he explains. “Maybe eight feet?”
“I can cut it.”
He shakes his head. “This has to be completely non-destructive.”
“So I can pick the padlock.”
“Can’t.” He shrugs. “Padlock’s out front, full view of the cameras. The only way in there is to jump it.”
I roll my eyes, thinking of Vandy scaling the tree house. “I don’t think you’re giving either of us enough credit.” It might be a little sketch, but I can feel it in my bones. She can handle an eight-foot fence.
He still looks doubtful. “Even if you can get her over the fence, she won’t be able to run if shit goes south.”
This would be a really great time to tell him about the successful party escape and inspire some confidence. Instead, I say, “Well either you trust me to get her out of there safe, or you leave her alone with some random dude who swears his biggest crime is atheism.”
Emory’s eyebrow arches skeptically, and I know it’s shitty, playing against his crazy-protective nature, but shit.
I promised her.
I said I’d help her get through this. Can Tyson run with her on his back for a mile? Fucking doubtful. He’s a diver. Not a sprinter. All that aside, Vandy’s clearly got a thing or two to prove to her brother, and she deserves the chance to do it.
He peers over at Tyson. “What, you think he’s suspect?”
“I thi
nk no one is that clean. And we both already know, for a fact, that he dupes innocent girls into getting with him.”
Yeah, that does it.
Emory’s jaw clenches. “Point.” But then he meets my gaze, eyes tight, and I realize that whatever’s coming next is the actual source of his stress. “It’s just that you’d have to drive her.”
My lungs constrict in an exhale that doesn’t seem to end. Well, what the fuck am I supposed to say to that? My, “Oh,” comes out flat.
Emory sighs. “It’s not that I don’t think you’d be careful or anything.”
“I get it.”
“No, you don’t,” he says, looking annoyed. “I know you’d be more careful with her than literally anyone else on Earth. I know that, Reyn. But it’d be putting both of you in a really fucked up position, and when I asked her, she said—”
I interrupt him, “If you already asked her, then why are we even having this conversation? If she wants to go with Tyson, then I get it.” And I do. Who could blame her?
But Emory just gives me a look, and maybe it’s the subtle thread of guilt within it that tips me off, but either way, I know.
I know. “She chose me.”
“The thing about V,” he slowly adds, “is that sometimes she bites off more than she can chew. I was just kind of hoping to ease her into something like that.”
I bite back an irritated reply. “Maybe you should let her make some of her own choices, Em. She’s seventeen, not seven.” Okay, maybe I don’t bite back an irritated reply, because his face goes a touch stony. Also, maybe I just got that line from my dad and I want to hit my own face a little bit. Still stands. “Come on, man, have some faith.” I bury a playful punch into his shoulder, trying to dissolve the tension. “You know I work best under pressure. It’ll probably just make it go smoother. If she thinks she can handle it, then give her a chance.”
Emory looks at me for a long moment. “You really think it’ll be fine?”
“Yes.” No hesitation.
After a minute of nervous shifting and overly dramatic sighs, he nods slowly, like he’s warming to the idea. “Well, if you’re both really sure you can pull it off, then maybe…” He glances back at Vandy. “Maybe it can be a good thing. Maybe you two can work out some of your shit. Things are tense enough around here, you know?” He rubs a hand over his drawn face. “I mean, fuck, I don’t exactly enjoy staying up until four in the morning stressing over this shit.”
“Right, that’s what I’m thinking.”
Lie.
What I’m really thinking about is that she had a choice between me and Tyson, and she didn’t choose pretty-boy Tyson.
She chose me.
He scribbles my name on the piece of paper and finishes up the rest. By this point, everyone has arrived. Apparently, no one else had a problem figuring out how to unlock the door. I sit on a musty armchair and take another bite of my breakfast, assessing the group.
Sebastian, who looks about as tired and stressed as Emory, has a new shiner swelling under his eye. Afton is next to him, studying her nails like she’s bored, and maybe she is. This is probably kid’s stuff to her. Georgia is sitting with Ben, talking about the game last night, and Elana’s animatedly telling Carlton about the cops showing up at the party the night before.
In the middle of Elana’s summation of events, it finally happens.
Vandy’s gaze flicks to mine.
She doesn’t look nervous, but her cheeks instantly begin blooming a soft, warm pink. If she were any other girl I’d just kissed, I’d be smirking at her, or winking, playing it up, putting it on to build the promise of more. But because it’s Vandy, I just dip my chin in a nod and lift my cup of coffee to my lips.
I don’t miss that her eyes follow it.
We both look away when Emory gathers everyone’s attention.
“Tonight is the second ritual,” he says, reading from a slip of paper. “Now that we’ve had to entrust everyone with our deepest, darkest secrets, it’s time to prove our loyalty to the Devils and our school.” He starts handing out the slips of paper. Vandy looks at hers, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and peeks at me quickly before looking away. “Each slip of paper has your partner’s name on it, along with a rival school on the back. Each school has their thing, like how the Devils have the pitchfork over the stadium entrance that everyone touches for luck. Sparrowood has the crest that hangs by the gymnasium wall that they bring to each game. You catch my drift. You’ll each have until tomorrow at dawn to complete your assignment and prove your loyalty to Preston Prep.”
It takes a moment for everyone to find their partners. I’ve got a mouthful of egg and bacon when she stands over me, holding up the slip of paper. “Looks like we meet again.” She narrows her eyes at her brother. “Though I’m sure he tried to stick me at the kids’ table.”
“Northridge is the kids’ table?”
“Absolutely,” she says, eyes rolling. “But I told him to ask you, just in case…” She’s wearing a purple cardigan, and she tugs the sleeves of it over her fists, expression uncertain. “I know I’ll probably slow you down.”
“Nah,” I say easily, looking around. “No more than any of these other people.”
She gives me a doubtful look. “I’m kind of surprised he’s letting me do it, honestly.”
I swallow my breakfast and crumple up the foil. “Maybe he just wants his best friend and his sister to get along.”
“Or he wants to keep me away from every other guy here.” Her blush, which had begun to fade, comes back with a vivid, red vengeance, and I know exactly what she’s thinking.
I’m the only guy here she’s kissed.
“What’s the assignment,” I ask, hoping to distract her from the ugly truth of that.
“Thistle Cove,” she says, smoothing the paper. “We have to replace their Viking helmet with devil horns. The helmet’s in their trophy case just inside the gym, so we just have to get in there and take it. Sounds like he picked the perfect task for you.”
I take the slip and read it for myself. “To be fair it says ‘replace’, not ‘steal’, but if we have to break into something, I’m your man.”
We strategize for a bit, coming up with the supplies we’ll need to pull it off. Thistle Cove is an hour away, which means we’ll need to leave early enough to scope it out before dark. We spend a while pulling up photos of the school on our phones. She points out to me where the cameras will be, but doesn’t know the interior of the school well enough to guess which doors we should take. A PDF classroom map, internet aerial view, and a trip down a few of the students’ ChattySnaps reveals enough photos and videos to make a crude estimate. We huddle over the slip of paper and I grid it out, mapping the way.
While we talk and plan, my gaze keeps being drawn to her mouth, like a magnet. Her lips are pink and only marginally glossy, like she’s wearing Chapstick. They look as soft as they’d felt last night, and if I allow myself to really sink into the memory, I can still recall the texture of her tongue when it greeted mine, the way she tasted like that bad grain alcohol and something so warm that it ignited my spine.
I spend just as much time fighting the urge to look down at her bare legs.
By the time we’ve roughed out a general path, I’m half hard and most everyone else is gone. Only Emory and Aubrey remain, still jotting down notes across the room. There’s no doubt he specifically chose her as his partner.
“Do me a favor?” I say, slipping my phone into my pocket. She looks at me questioningly, openly, but I can’t help it when my gaze finally travels down to her bare legs. She probably catches it. “Wear some jeans tonight, okay?”
“Oh.” She blinks, following my gaze to her shorts. “Yeah, sure.”
“Because of the fence,” I explain.
Yes, because of the fence. Not because your thighs are hardcore distracting.
“My parents are going to have questions,” she says, casually slipping the paper into her back pocket. “I’m
not sure how I’m going to get out of there.”
I think on this for a moment. “Tell them you’re going to cover something for the paper. Football isn’t the only sport that’s in-season, right?”
“True,” she replies. “Softball and water polo.”
“Just pick one and tell them it’s at another school. Emory can cover for you and say he’s driving. He’ll be gone all night anyway.” She gives me an odd look. “What?”
“It comes so easy for you, doesn’t it?”
“What comes easy?” Because nothing in my life feels easy right now.
“The lying, I guess.” She ducks her head, fidgeting with the volume on her phone. “I feel really bad whenever I do it.”
“Like with the drugs?”
Her expression shifts and she straightens. “It didn’t feel good hiding that from them, but they were so worried about everything. I couldn’t add something else to the list.”
I try to choose my words carefully. I’m not trying to sound like an after-school special or anything, but it nags at me. “Opioids are serious shit, V. It’s not like with weed or something where you can just do it casually on the weekend.” Way too many of the kids at Mountain Point were in there because of that crap.
“You think I don’t know that?” she says, eyes flashing. “Like I said before, I’m clean now. It’s not a problem.”
“I’m just saying, I’ve seen people kick it, and I’ve seen people ‘kick it’, and then I’ve seen people kick it.”
“What’s it to you?” She’s awfully defensive for someone claiming it’s no big deal. She stands, signaling that she’s ready to go—or rather, ready to get away from me and this conversation.