A Deal With the Devil

by Angel Lawson

  “Did you see the picture on ChattySnap from Thistle Cove?” I ask, getting two glasses out of the cabinet.

  “Yep.” He straightens, holding an armful of food. “Gotta hand it to you, V. You guys killed it.”

  It’s almost embarrassing how much pride I feel in getting his approval. “Any word from the others?”

  “As far as I know, everyone pulled it off.” He shrugs. “I think Georgia and Tyson may have had a hang up at Northridge, but since Tyson used to go there, they smoothed it out.”

  “Good.” I fill the cups with sparkling water. “Sydney’s in my room. She already speculated that this had the Devils' ‘hoofprints’ all over it.”

  He laughs. “I dare her to prove it.”

  “I’m just saying.” I return the water bottle to the refrigerator and grab the glasses. “People are going to ask questions.”

  “Let them, V.” He rolls his eyes, propping his arms on the counter. “You know I don’t care, and you shouldn’t either. If no one squeals—and they won’t, because then we’ll be forced to reveal the secrets they recorded—then we’re fine.”

  I have no doubt that the threat is real. There’s someone else pulling these strings—someone I’d love to find out the name of—who is obviously mega-invested in the Devils' reinstatement at Preston Prep. Whoever that person is, I wouldn’t put it past them to ruin a life or two along the way.

  Back upstairs, I walk into my room. I look for Sydney on the bed, but she’s over by my computer instead. My first thought is a frantic attempt to remember whether or not I’d left up the exposé file.

  “Hey,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. “Here’s your drink.”

  “Thanks,” she says, stepping away from the desk. “I was just trying to check my email real quick. My stupid phone has stopped loading emails. I think it’s because I have like sixty-thousand that need to be deleted.”

  “Sure,” I say, assessing her expression to see if she saw something. There’s nothing there, and she just takes a sip from her drink, but I’m not altogether settled. “Anything else show up about the prank?”

  “A bunch of comments. Everyone’s dying over it and trying to speculate who’s behind it. Apparently, whoever got the Viking helmet had to break into the school, because there wasn’t a single thing out of place. No sign of forced entry. Not an easy feat.” With her eyes glued to her phone, she sits back on my bed and crosses her legs. “Oh damn, see? Now they’re dragging me into it! I swear they can never leave me alone.” She shakes her head, sighing long-sufferingly. “See Vandy, this is why it’s good that you don’t go out. Now I’m going to have to prove where I was last night.”

  I slide back over to my desk, discreetly clicking the screen over from Sydney’s email account to the Devils file. When I open it, I’m happy to see that the file itself is closed. I slouch back in my seat, marveling over the fact that while Sydney is trying to insert herself into the current drama at Preston, for once I actually am part of something big at the school.

  It feels better to be included, even secretly, than I’d ever imagined.

  16

  Reyn

  Before this weekend, the hottest thing I’d ever seen was Kaylee Killian laying on a pool chair at The Club, spreading her thighs open for me. Underneath her yellow sundress, Kaylee hadn’t been wearing her bikini bottom. To be fair, I was fourteen that summer, and Kaylee Killian was the sixteen-year-old goddess of the Junior class, so it was like the height of eroticism. That moment has taken up some prime real estate in my fantasies for almost four years now. Like any other memory, however, the allure of it started to fade after so long, like a photograph that’s been handled a few too many times. It’s only natural that my libido is looking to step shit up.

  Why it’s decided to laser-focus on Vandy Hall is beyond me.

  Only that’s not so true, is it?

  I look across our driveway as I dump my school bag into my backseat. She’s standing over there, waiting for Emory at his truck. The thing about Vandy is that she’s just so fucking cute. Always was, honestly. Really sweet-looking. Pretty. V looks like the type of girl you take out on a date only after impressing her parents. She is no Kaylee Killian. She looks like the kind of girl who doesn’t put out until she finds ‘the one’.

  She doesn’t look like the kind of girl who can pick a furniture lock in four minutes flat, either.

  That’s the real stain on my sheets.

  At the time, I was just thinking that thirty minutes in that gym was probably going to be boring. I was not thinking of her crouched down in the dark, diligently following my instruction, and deftly breaking a lock. I wasn’t thinking of the way she looked, with her lip between her teeth, nibbling. I definitely wasn’t thinking that the way she looked at my mouth, eyes all hooded, cheeks blooming red, would make my dick rock hard.

  Suddenly, that moment in the gym, corrupting cute Baby V and knowing for a fact that she was down for it—ready to get messy and anything but sweet—had overtaken Kaylee’s spread legs by a landslide. Isn’t even close.

  Vandy meets my eyes then, over the distance. Her smile is a slow, knowing thing, and it’s doing nothing to help the issue currently coming up in my pants. The thing is, I could have taken it. She wanted me to kiss her. No experiment this time, just two people in the same place, high off adrenaline, falling into place like a clicked pin. I can see it so clearly, the way I would have taken it—mine now—grabbed her by the back of her head and thrust my tongue into her willing mouth. It would have been scorching fucking hot, so much better than the first one.

  I give her a nod and wrench my door open, because that’s the real problem here. It was just the heat of the moment, and it’d be too easy to push something on her that she’d regret. I’ve never been on a date in my life, I’ll certainly never impress her parents, and I’m not ‘the one’.

  To V, I’m nothing more than the bright allure of danger.

  Rebellion might be hot, but I know better than anyone how badly it can burn.

  The photo from Thistle Cove was just the first. Next came Sparrowood, then Northridge, and then every other school we hit. The timing was tightly coordinated, no one was caught, and after a few days, the delighted chatter dies down into a sort of collective awe. We’d pulled off something epic.

  If I were some normal fucker who was doing this for normal reasons, then I would have felt an acute sense of pride as I walked down the halls, knowing that some of that collective awe was meant for me. Instead, I feel it for Vandy. None of these idiots even realize. Their wincing eyes watch as she limps across campus. Their gossip, little more than a long string of pedestrian clichés, follows in her wake. They all part when she passes. They see some poor, pretty, innocent girl who they’d never suspect.

  If I feel any pride at all, it’s that I’m possibly the only one in this school who knows the true Vandy Hall.

  I stop at my locker between second and third period, shoving my math book inside and searching for my bio lab notes. A shadow crosses over me and leans against the next locker.

  “Did you hear about the assembly?” Sebastian says, looking forward.

  “What assembly?”

  “After lunch. I was in the nurse's office earlier. Apparently, the admin is pissed about the pranks.” Sebastian smiles wolfishly. “Collins is prepping a stern lecture.”

  A coil of tension winds in my stomach. “Do they know anything?”

  He sniffs. “Nah, it feels pretty CYA. After the Devils went down for making fun of that middle-schooler last year, they want to present a united front. Too bad they’ve got jack shit for suspects.”

  I find the notes, but when I shut the door, Sebastian is already gone, sucked into a crowd of passing students. At lunch, the rumor is confirmed when Dean Dewey’s voice crackles over the intercom. “All students report to the auditorium immediately following lunch for an assembly about recent events that involve the Preston Pep community.”

  I look across the table at Emory, who
’s sitting next to Aubrey, their feet intertwined under the table. Down at the other end, picking at salads with a few other cheerleaders, Afton and Georgia exchange a look before shifting their gaze down the table at us.

  “They know nothing,” Emory says in a low voice, ignoring everyone. Aubrey nods in agreement and they gather their things. “Just be calm.”

  I know he’s right. If any of us had been busted, they’d have dragged all our asses straight out of class. Preston isn’t the type to make a big show. The term ‘handled quietly’ is probably in the disciplinary guidebook. Unfortunately, it only takes a quick look across the dining hall to see that one of us doesn’t get that.

  Vandy was obviously sitting with that Sydney chick at one point, but abruptly stands, her chair making an obnoxious screech across the linoleum floor as she lurches to her feet. Her movements are jerky, nervous, eyes flickering anxiously around the room. Luckily, her friend is turned, cluelessly flirting with a guy at the table behind her, else she’d be seeing the worry plain as day on Vandy’s ashen face. I glance back for Emory, hoping he’s witnessing this, but he’s already filtered out the back door with Aubrey.

  My response is instinctive, although tightly controlled. I stand and gather my trash, quickly dumping it in the bin. I keep an eye on Vandy every step of the way, careful to keep my distance. At school, she’s still completely off limits, but we have a secret together—several secrets—and neither of us can afford some Vandyesque wave of morality. Part of doing shady shit is being able to withstand the pressure of scrutiny. I’m not convinced Baby V is ready for that.

  Allowing a few people between us, I follow her out the door. She starts down the main hall toward the administrative offices. That particular hallway is barren, quiet, free of the dining hall bustle. I furtively scan the doorways, quickly locating one labeled ‘Tech Storage’, and close the gap. I thread my fingers through hers and she looks up with a gasp, eyes wide when she realizes who has her hand. Pushing open the door, I pull her inside and shut it quickly.

  My heart pounds erratically, because fuck. This could get me in so much trouble. George’s words float through my head, unbidden, and I wonder if it counts as kidnapping to pull a girl into a room without asking.

  Vandy looks up at me with questioning eyes, voice a half-whisper. “What are you doing?” Now that she’s only a few inches away, I realize that she doesn’t seem as upset as I thought. Her cheeks have color and her eyes, though suspicious, lack all of that frantic energy I’d seen before. She also smells really good, but in that nebulous way pretty girls often do. Something chemically floral and delicate, clean.

  “I, uh…” I scratch my neck, feeling stupid now. “You left abruptly after Dewey’s announcement. Just making sure you’re okay.”

  Her blue eyes watch me, searching. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “I don’t know, because…” Fuck, her eyes totally just looked at my mouth. “Because you looked nervous, and I know nervous people sometimes have the tendency to…” I can’t find a delicate way to accuse her.

  I don’t need to. “You’re afraid I’ll squeal,” she realizes, eyes wide with disbelief. “You’re handling me.”

  “What?” I try to play it off. “No, it’s not—I know you won’t narc on us. I mean, you also broke in and picked a lock, so that’d sort of be suicide, but I just know how—”

  Her expression shifts into something so shuttered and cold that I almost take a step back. She breathes out a low, “Fuck you,” and it somehow sounds worse than her rigid posture and icy expression.

  It sounds like she just got slapped in the face.

  Whatever just happened, I try futilely to fix it. “Hey, come on. I just know you’re not usually in this kind of situation because you’re…”

  “A good girl? Sweet? Innocent?” Her eyes are like ice. “I stole, hid, and kept a drug habit secret for years, Reynolds. I know you think I’m some baby who needs to be handled, but I’m not. I can handle myself.”

  I recoil at the way she said my name there. Not Reyn, but Reynolds, all dripping disdain. I watch her, confused. “Why are you so mad?”

  Her gaze is so full of razor blades that it takes me too long to realize how wet her eyes are becoming. “Next time you want to trick some idiot girl into committing a crime with you, do me a favor and just take Afton. She doesn’t know you yet, so her legs still work fine.” Before I can respond, she’s out the door.

  Not that it’d matter.

  Any words I might have had are trapped by something dark and heavy, wedged into the pit where my lungs used to be. I move fluidly to a seat and carefully lower myself, shifting my gaze to the window.

  I sit there for an hour.

  It’s quiet and peaceful, and it’s almost a relief now to know. It was too easy, everyone forgiving me, acting like I was just coming home from summer camp or something. It’s worse now than it might have been that first day, seeing the sharp, bitter resentment in Vandy’s eyes. But it also feels so necessary, the inevitability of her hatred.

  Still hurts like a bitch.

  I spend the rest of the day going through the motions, trying to make myself stone. Essay for English. Worksheet for Bio. Problems for Trig. It’s one seat after another, just waiting, even though I don’t know what for. Everything feels too loud, too bright, and I’m caught in a chasm between wanting the day to end and not wanting to go home, either.

  Speculation continues during football practice, mostly because it was obvious our biggest rivals had been targeted.

  “Hey.” Emory corners me on the line of scrimmage. “What’s up with you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Bullshit,” he says, giving me a look. “Are you worried about what he said at the assembly?”

  “I skipped it.”

  His forehead creases. “Well, it was nothing. Like I said, they don’t have anything. It was just a bunch of posturing about school reputation and the obligation of the student body to uphold it.”

  My quiet scoff feels like the first expression I’ve made since Vandy left the tech room. I’m not sure the administration really understands the true reputation of Preston Prep, which is that a bunch of spoiled rich kids are going to do whatever the hell they want.

  Em calls the play, an easy one we’ve performed dozens of times this week alone, but I’m slow. My arms don’t cooperate. My legs drag and as Emory’s perfect spiral sails into the stands, my error gives the defense an opening and they jump on me like a loose ball. The feeling of being crushed beneath seven football players is almost negligible, seeing as how I haven’t been able to reliably breathe for at least four hours now, anyway. The sharp, crushing pressure on my shoulder as they all clamor to their feet is another story.

  I lay there for a moment, wincing, wallowing in some seriously pathetic self-pity, until Emory’s hand comes into view. I take it, but lift myself carefully, unable to hide the pain.

  He calls the medic over, but I wave him off. “It’s fine.”

  Nevertheless, I walk stiffly off the field, feeling completely done with the entire fucking day. I’m walking past the bleachers when I see her, sitting four rows up. I only look at her for a split-second, but I can tell she’s halfway out of her seat, like she’s about to come down.

  I hurry past.

  I get home just before dark, relieved my dad’s car isn’t in the garage. Sometimes, him being home is almost worse than him not being here. Every now and then, I half-expect him to charge me rent, because we’re more like roommates than father and son. When he’s present, we orbit one another suspiciously, simultaneously hoping for and dreading the silence being broken.

  I have a good view of the Hall house. It’s clear that Mr. and Mrs. Hall’s vehicles are gone, but Emory’s truck is in the driveway. I’m only standing by my car, but I can still smell the mouthwatering scent of a home-cooked meal wafting over from their house. My stomach growls and I can’t help a surge of envy, knowing that even when their parents aren’t home, Mrs. Hall make
s sure they’re fed.

  Must be real nice.

  Inside, I grab a container of leftover Thai out of the refrigerator, along with an ice pack for my back. I don’t bother flipping on any lights. I just flop down on the couch in the dark of the living room and feel for the remote control. I’ve just marginally managed to lose myself in a basketball documentary when the doorbell rings.

  I heave a loud sigh.

  I guess that cold Thai won’t get any colder.

  Adjusting the ice pack, I lumber to the door, thinking that Fucking Jerry better not be interrupting my dinner with some contrived bullshit. It’d be the second time this week. I school my face and swing open the door.

  I freeze at the sight of Vandy on the doorstep, a foil-covered plate in her hands.

  She chews on her lip as our gazes lock. “I brought you some dinner.”

  “Thought we weren’t supposed to be seen together.” To compound the point, I look over her head toward the driveway and street, making sure that no one is watching.

  She frowns and looks back herself. “Can I come in?”

  I should say no, because she was right before. About all of it. The one who’s going to get in trouble here is me. I step back though, holding the door open, and try to stand still as stone as she walks past me into the kitchen.

  “Where are your parents?” I ask. “Emory?”

  “Dad’s at the hospital. Mom’s covering a town council meeting. Emory is up in his room, eating his dinner and video chatting someone. Campbell, Aubrey, take your pick.” She stands in front of me, looking small in a pair of cotton shorts and an oversized Vanderbilt T-shirt. The Halls named their kids after their college alma maters, Emory and Vanderbilt University. It’s fucking ridiculous, but it’s been ridiculous for so long that I couldn’t imagine the two of them being named anything else.

  She cradles the plate against her chest, eyes dropping. “I wanted to say that I’m sorry for all that stuff I said before. I was…harsh, and unfair.” She sighs, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. Her eyes look red-rimmed. “Honestly? I was a little nervous.” Her eyes fly up to mine, and I can see the conviction in them. “Not nervous enough to snitch about it, though. I just needed to get away from Sydney, who cannot stop talking about it. I’ll lie to her—I can—but I don’t enjoy it.” She swallows, eyes going tight when she adds, “And then you said all that stuff, and it seemed like maybe that whole lockpicking lesson was just to make sure I was as culpable as you, and it brought back some bad mem—”