A Deal With the Devil

by Angel Lawson

  “Are you scared?” Elana asks, turning to me. “Of the pain?”

  “No,” I reply. “I’ve handled my fair share of needles.”

  I expect a reaction, an apology about being insensitive, but Elana just fishes out her mascara wand and says, “It’s not as big a deal as it seems. Look at these things, they’re tiny. You could cover it up with something else, or hell, it’d probably take less than three sessions to have it lasered off. My cousin has three. She says it feels like a low-level burn.” She coats her already inch-long eyelashes in black. “She also says it’s kind of erotic. Like pleasurable pain. That’s why it’s so addictive.”

  Obviously, these girls are all in. Emory is all in. I’m the one who’s not because I got into this with ulterior motives. But just talking to the girls makes me reconsider. If I’m doing this, really doing it, I need to be all-in. Getting the tattoo will be proof that I went all the way, that I’m committed. Maybe Elana is right. Maybe I’m making too big a deal of it.

  I watch Elana apply her makeup as Afton’s feet swing against the counter, eyes fixed on the screen of her phone, and something occurs to me.

  I’m currently in the combined presence of more boy experience than Sydney’s ever had.

  My voice still comes out nervous and reluctant. “Can I…ask you two a question?”

  Elana’s curious eyes jump to mine through the reflection. “Shoot.”

  “I kind of need some advice about…guys.”

  Elana takes this in stride, casually listing off, “No matter what they say, boners don’t hurt, pulling out isn’t effective birth control, and it’s never just the tip.”

  “Good to know.” I say slowly.

  Afton says, “But I’m guessing you had something more specific than that.”

  I nod, dropping my bag with theirs, underneath the paper towel dispenser. “So…say there’s this guy.”

  In unison, they both slowly turn to me. “Isn’t there always?” Afton replies.

  I nod stiffly, suddenly unable to meet their eyes. “Say there’s this guy and you kissed, but then he said it was a mistake.”

  They both give twin ‘ughs'.

  “Those guys are the worst,” Elana mutters, fluffing her hair.

  But Afton tilts her head. “But it was, though. Emory would absolutely crush him.”

  Elana grimaces. “Yeah, good point.”

  “That’s exactly what I mean,” I groan. “How do I tell if he thought it was a mistake because of Em, or if it’s because he’s just not into me like that.”

  Afton’s looks at me thoughtfully. “Well, who kissed whom?”

  “I kissed him,” I admit, but hastily add, “he seemed really into it, though.”

  “Okay, wait.” Elana’s hands make a timeout signal. “We’re going to need details. Where were his hands?”

  I think. “On my face?” The same face that is now bright red.

  Afton perks. “That’s a good sign.”

  “It is?”

  Elana agrees, “Totally. How long did it last?”

  “Just like… I don’t know. A minute?” They both frown and I quickly amend, “Maybe two. Time kind of stopped.”

  Elana gives me a knowing grin. “That hot, huh?”

  Afton offers, “I think you’re free to test the waters,” and I remember that she’s with someone who had probably—hopefully—told her the same thing. That it was a mistake.

  “How do I do that?”

  Elana gives a slow smile. “This is a detail-oriented endeavor. You need to see how he acts around you.”

  Afton agrees, “See where he looks, how he stands, the way he treats you.”

  “I’m not really sure what to look for,” I admit, feeling embarrassed.

  “Well, we’ll start with how he treats you,” Elana begins. “If a guy is really into you, he’ll act like you’re the only one in the room when you’re around. His eyes will keep finding you, know what I mean? And speaking of eyes…” She smiles wisely. “Every guy loves tits and asses, so that’s a complete bust, but if he’s doing it a lot, you might be onto something. Some guys have a ‘thing’ though. You just have to find their kryptonite.”

  Afton pitches in, “Sebastian and lips.”

  Elana nods. “You can tell when he’s into someone because his eyes are totally glued to her mouth. A little strategic lip gloss could bring that guy to his knees.”

  “And then there’s Carlton and his hair thing,” Afton adds, twirling a lock of hair around her finger. “Tyson has a fixation with necks, you can tell whenever you wear your hair up. And then there’s Reynolds.” Afton and Elana lock gazes before their eyes roll.

  In unison, they say, “Legs.”

  “Wait,” I say, heart skipping a beat. “What?”

  “Don’t you notice?” Elana asks. “He’s constantly looking at girls’ thighs.”

  “Constantly,” Afton stresses. “I swear, my salon should throw that boy a bonus. All the girls around here scurrying to get waxed and exfoliated just to catch his eye? They’re having a good fiscal quarter.”

  I turn that over in my mind, trying to remember if he’s looked at my legs, but instead I’m just wondering if any of those other legs have ‘caught his eye’. Legs? Why haven’t I been paying attention to this stuff? I’ve totally thrown away weeks of important analytics. I guess, “So you just wait and see if the guy focuses on that thing when he’s with you?”

  Afton tosses her head back, laughing. “Oh, my sweet summer child.”

  Elana grins wickedly. “No, Vandy. You flaunt it in front of him.”

  “Mercilessly,” Afton adds.

  The bell rings just then and Afton slides from the counter as Elana packs her purse.

  I pick up my bag, my head still flooded with this knowledge. “It probably goes without saying, but can you—”

  “Not tell your psycho over-protective brother?” Elana says, smirking. “It does go without saying.”

  I exhale in relief. “Thanks.”

  Now I just have to figure how to mercilessly flaunt my thighs in front of Reyn without making a complete fool of myself.

  Truthfully, the tattoo seems less painful.

  My stomach erupts in feral flutters when I arrive at Cain’s Ink and see Reyn’s Jeep in the parking lot. I linger a bit before going inside, finding him curled over the reception desk, flipping through a binder. His head turns just enough to peek over his shoulder, eyes locking with mine. The flutters turn into wild twisting when he gives me a small grin.

  He turns back to the binder, finger tapping against the counter. “I see we’re paired up again.” He sounds perfectly neutral about it, neither approving nor disapproving.

  “I thought you had practice.” I’d come straight from school, still in my uniform. I’d had to catch a ride with Elana since Emory was tied up in football duties, and I was half expecting to find someone else here waiting for me.

  “I got the afternoon off to let my injury heal,” he explains.

  “My brother’s work, I suspect.” I know Emory. He’d flip out if he knew how close Reyn and I had become, but he also trusts his best friend to keep an eye on me more than any of the other guys.

  I’m relieved.

  He nods and I watch him closely, prepared to mentally document where his eyes go. But he’s not looking at me anymore. “Any fallout from the other night?”

  We hadn’t really spoken since our accidental sleepover. It’s weird, but sometimes it’s like Reyn is everywhere, and other times, he seems to just be nowhere. This week has been one of those instances where I didn’t see him around the quad or in the driveway. My furtive peeks through my curtains have been met with an empty room, as well.

  “Not really,” I reply, grabbing another of the binders and opening it. I flip through it unseeingly. “Mom and Em are a little more hovery, but that’s just business as usual.”

  Quietly, he asks, “And the sleeping pills?”

  I glance at him in confusion before I remember
my mom’s comment that night. My face heats. “My mom’s just obsessed with fixing every little thing wrong with me.” I roll my eyes and mirror his pose, elbow propped on the counter. “But no, I don’t need that.”

  He nods again, muttering, “Good,” and that has to be a sign, doesn’t it? Someone who didn’t care wouldn’t give my addiction that much thought. It’s a weak concession, admittedly.

  I flip through the images in the book; peace signs, half-naked women riding tigers, daisies and snakes. I barely process any of it. Instead, my ears slowly and intensely fixate on the buzzing coming from the other room. Suddenly, all my musing about whether or not Reynolds likes me seems completely idiotic. It hits me why I’m actually here.

  I push away from the counter. “This is a bad idea.”

  Reyn eases his binder closed. “What’s a bad idea?”

  “This. The tattoo. I thought I could do it, but I can’t.”

  He finally looks at me, languidly twisting to watch me pace by the door. “Freaking out, huh?”

  “You think?!” I try to keep my voice low. “I’m becoming a Plaything to get access for my article, but I didn’t think I’d have to…” I wave spastically.

  He studies me for a minute, tongue swiping out across that bottom lip. Every time I look at his mouth, my stomach bottoms out. If he’s watching me for signs, then they have to be clear as day. “Is it about the pain?” I give him a look and the corners of his eyes crease. “No, we’ve both been through way worse than this. It’s about the permanence.”

  I wring my hands. “I know it’s good proof. Like, indisputable. It’ll be great for the piece, but god. It’s forever.” Even if I cover it up, even if I laser it off, it’ll still be a part of me, flesh and blood. “Aren’t our scars enough?”

  He gives a lazy shrug. “You’re looking at this all wrong.”

  My eyebrows fly up. “How do you figure?”

  “The scars are...” He goes still in that odd way of his, looking away. “They remind us of a mistake. There’s no making them into something pretty. But maybe in ten years, you’ll look at this tattoo, and you won’t even remember all this stupid Devil stuff. You’ll just remember why you did it. The people you did it for.” When he meets my gaze again, there’s something heavy and significant in his eyes. “If you think of it like that, it’s not a such a scary thing to immortalize, right?”

  I chew on my lip as I try to see it from that angle. Can I do that? Can I make this tattoo less about being bribed by some shadowy cabal, and more about the reason I did it? The more I think about it, the more it grows on me. I don’t want to be forcibly branded like a piece of cattle. But the memory of being able to protect Emory for once, of feeling passionate about something—about justice and truth—for the first time in my life, of doing all this with Reyn at my side, becoming two people who are more than just the product of a terrible accident?

  Suddenly, I need this damn tattoo.

  I cut my eyes at Reyn. “Oh, you’re good.”

  A slow smile dimples his cheeks. “Am I?” His eyes drop. It’s only for a split second. If I hadn’t been watching him so closely, I probably would have missed it, the way his gaze locks on the bare skin just below my skirt hem. I watch his gaze flick away just as fast, and now I’m flooded with all kinds of memories of him doing that. At the party, when I first closed myself in that room. In the bunker, when he asked me to wear jeans. That time in the driveway, the moment that started all this, when he accused me of eavesdropping.

  Reynolds McAllister has been looking at my thighs.

  Before I can formulate a response, a skinny guy walks out from a back room, arms covered in tattoos, a series of earrings glinting off the shell of his ear. “I’m finishing up with my other client,” he says, “but if one of you wants to wait in the other room, I’ll be with you shortly.”

  “I’m ready,” I blurt, walking in the direction of the room. I enter the small space, the walls covered in a mix of colorful and black and white art. In the middle of the room, there’s a long chair-slash-table convertible combo, a lot like the deck chairs at the pool, except this one is padded and sturdy. Next to it stands a stainless-steel table filled with supplies. My eyes linger on the containers of ink, the small squeeze bottle of water, and the clean cloths. The nervous flutter sparks in my belly again, but it’s a different kind of anticipation than it had been before. When I turn around, Reyn is in the doorway, leaning against the frame, arms folded over his chest. He looks tired, but there’s a softness to his eyes as he watches me that I’m not quite used to.

  “Where did you decide to put it?” he asks.

  “I haven’t,” I admit, taking the temporary tattoo from my bag. “Somewhere bulletproof invisible, that’s for sure.” When I look up from the paper bearing the pitchfork, I catch it again—his eyes rapidly flicking away from my thighs.

  “I haven’t decided, either,” he offers.

  I rub my thumb over the ink on the paper, mind blooming with an idea. Just thinking about it makes my skin feel a little too hot, but I can hear Afton and Elana in my head, flaunt it. But I’m not someone who flaunts, mercilessly or otherwise, and I’m already certain that I’m about to make a fool out of myself.

  “I was thinking,” I begin, backing myself up to the chair. “I could do it here.” I watch him as I lift the side of my shirt, tapping the soft patch of skin over my ribs. His eyes follow the motion. “It’s above my scar, so I already have a whole wardrobe built around hiding it.”

  He meets my gaze again. “Looks good.”

  “Or…” I scoot myself up, onto the chair, and plant one of my feet in the middle of it. “… I could get it here.” I have no idea how the hell I manage to keep my voice even as I hike up the hem of my skirt and spread myself open, exposing my inner thigh.

  His eyes drop to the spot, face going slack. I watch as he stuffs his hands into his pockets, piercing green eyes taking it all in.

  I wet my lips, explaining, “Because no one ever sees this.” It isn’t like the other times, where his eyes immediately dart away. He takes two steps into the room and freezes there, lips parting. “What do you think?”

  “Me?” he asks, eyes flying up to mine before snapping right back down. His voice is husky, rough. “I don’t know.”

  His eyelids are heavy now, and my thighs erupt in vicious tingles at the weight of his stare, this awareness of what I’m doing to him. I pull my hem up a little more, ignited by the way his jaw tightens. “You choose.”

  His breath escapes in a loud exhale, eyes lurching away. “This is about you, V. You really shouldn’t let me choose.”

  Softly, I ask, “Why?”

  “Because.” From my periphery, I can see his fists clenching inside his pockets. His voice is quiet, accusing. “You know what I’ll choose.”

  I drag my lip through my teeth. “Choose.”

  We both know what I’m asking, and it has little to do with the tattoo. I’m completely twisted up inside as I watch him go still, eyes darting from the paper to my thigh, to my eyes, to the table.

  He knows exactly what I’m asking. “Hand it over.”

  I give him the paper, and although I’m preparing for him to approach my leg with the wet towel he’s preparing, I’m equally as prepared for him to tell me to lift my shirt. So when he turns to me, reluctantly approaching the chair, and rests a hand on my knee, I shudder out an exhale.

  “Here?” he asks, pressing the paper to my skin.

  It’s all I can do to stop myself from squirming under the light pressure. “Higher.”

  He looks at me through his lashes, skittering the paper up an inch. “Here?”

  I swallow and reach down, fingers loose around his wrist as I tug it higher. “There.”

  His eyes watch this, and the way he’s clenching his teeth makes his features sharper, severe. “You’re sure.”

  “Yes.”

  He presses the towel to the paper and holds it there, thumb pushing it into my thigh. I lean back on m
y hands as we wait, watching him watch me. His eyes are all over them, crawling up one thigh and then the other. It’s killing me, the way the air is practically humming around us, charged with something heady and electric. I’m hoping he doesn’t notice how shallow my breath is, how heavy my own eyelids have gotten, but inside, I’m a complete mess of molten hot want. The way he looks, leaning over me, hand clamped around my thigh? I’ve never been so wet in my entire life.

  We both exhale when he eases the towel away, peeling the paper back. A droplet of water glides down my leg and he wipes it away with his finger. I take a break from watching him to look down and see it for myself—a perfect little pitchfork pressed onto my inner thigh, six inches above my knee.

  I don’t have to wonder how I’ll be able to look at this for the rest of my life. It’ll be a reminder of all the things I’d thought about before, but now it’s a reminder of this thing that passes between Reyn and I when our gazes meet.

  I don’t think I’ll have any problem immortalizing the heat in his eyes.

  18

  Reyn

  If this girl doesn’t close her legs right now, I might have to just walk out, or find a bathroom, or close myself up in the car and lose myself in some seriously deep breathing.

  She looks like absolute sex, sitting there with her foot kicked up on the table and her skirt hiked so far up that a little sliver of panties is actually visible. In like five seconds, Vandy Hall took my top ten erotic moments and just swept them all into the trash can. I’m sure part of it is that I’ve been ragingly horny since stepping off the bus from Mountain Point, but the big picture is a high-resolution shot of her legs parting, those blue eyes watching me hawk-like.

  She knows just what she’s doing.

  My eyes zero in on this stray drop of water from the towel, running down her inner thigh, and look. I’m trying really hard to be stone here. Inside, I’m fucking losing it. I rub at the damp sweat springing up on the back of my neck.

  “What about you?” she asks, her other foot swinging casually. “Where are you going to put it.”