A Deal With the Devil

by Angel Lawson

  “I don’t know.” I should tell her to close her legs. Instead, I pull the tattoo design from my pocket. “You should choose for me, too.”

  That’s probably the most senseless thing about this. I couldn’t even choose which jeans to wear two hours ago, but apparently whatever’s messing with my executive function is completely immune to a choice between Vandy’s smooth, open thighs and literally anything. Maybe I could make that choice because there really wasn’t one.

  I watch as she chews on her lip for a moment, eyes roving over me. Finally, she swings her leg back around, hopping off the chair. I look at her thighs when she stands, just to make sure it’s really not visible.

  She approaches me, cheeks tinted pink, and pushes up my sleeve with a delicate touch, holding the tattoo against the curve of my bicep. Before the night at my house, I wouldn’t have let her touch me like that—afraid she’d see the scars—but that’s moot now.

  “You can get away with it,” she notes about the tentative location, “jocks always get leeway.” But she drops my sleeve, her eyes darting down to my stomach. “Can you lift up your shirt? Just a little.”

  I do as I’m asked, because if she touches my stomach, things are going to get out of control. This is very different from our ‘I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours’ scar exhibit the other night. That had been about revealing the painful secrets that only we share. This is very much about now, like there’s this charged, sex-fueled bubble surrounding us. I’m silently begging my body to behave, something I know is mostly futile. I’m already half-hard.

  I pull up my shirt and watch as she stares at my stomach, those blue eyes drinking me in. For once, I’m grateful for the years of mandatory sit-ups. I’m not stupid. I know exactly how I look.

  Her eyes dart to mine briefly, and there’s a question there. Like she wants permission. I look back at her, an answer in the curve of my brow. Whatever you want. Worshipping at the altar of Vandy’s thighs is the closest I’ll ever get to an organized religion. She has no idea how much power she has over me.

  She takes the permission for what it is, and two fingers bury themselves beneath my waist band, hooking into the denim. I gnash my teeth—stone stone stone—but there’s no calming down with this girl. That’s the problem. I knew it when I was fourteen. I knew it when she kissed me under the shadow of the tree house. I knew it when I woke up and found her asleep on my chest. All these things I feel for Vandy can’t just be locked away, and the more I try, the worse shit gets.

  She tugs at my pants, the waist loose enough to get over my hips. I bite my bottom lip as she explores the area. There is zero doubt about her inexperience, because she’s toying with all the hot zones like it’s nothing for her to ghost over the hair of my happy trail. Her thumb settles on my hip, just outside the cut of muscle I’ve worked so hard to possess. She rubs a small circle and says, “There.”

  I look down as she presses the paper to it, testing. It’s sort of halfway between my hip and stomach, easily hidden. I have to wet my lips before I rasp out a quiet, “Yeah?”

  “No one will ever know it’s there, and also…” Her fingers graze the muscle, eyes growing heavy when my stomach twitches. “This is your second hottest feature.”

  My eyebrows shoot up my forehead. “Really now?”

  Her face is flaming red, but she just meets my gaze and gives a casual shrug. “Absolutely.”

  I have to ask. “What’s the first?”

  Her grin is this slow, sort of wicked thing that I never really thought her capable of. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

  She reaches for the damp cloth and pours fresh water on it. I watch with my belly caved in and my cock hard as a motherfucking rock, as she carefully applies the tattoo right where she wants it. There’s no way she’s not seeing what she’s doing to me.

  We wait for it to take hold, her hand clamped around my hip, pressing the towel into my muscle. She’s looking at my abs again, and she’s so close that I can see the way her eyelashes flick and twitch as her gaze climbs and dips. She’s not particularly trying to hide it.

  This is totally an eye-fucking.

  She carefully peels the paper away, skimming her fingers around the Devil’s mark. She says, “All good,” and her voice is this breathy, trembling thing that makes me want to push her against something sturdy and vertical.

  She steps back, but my hand impulsively curls around her neck, fingers threading in her hair, keeping her close. She freezes, watching me, but my eyes zero in on the delicate patch of skin beneath her ear. I think about marking her there too, this time for all the world to see.

  Mine now.

  It’s a seductive falsehood, but it doesn’t make me want it any less. I rest a thumb under her chin and lift it, searching her eyes to see what this is. Is she toying with me for the fun of it? I wouldn’t hold it against her. I’d play along, shrug it off. Or does she want to feel whatever this thing is between us spark and catch fire?

  The answer is clear in her eyes.

  The door swings open and skinny McTattoo-face strides in, focused on a tool in his hand. “Alright then, I think I’m all set up.” He looks up at Vandy. “You ready?”

  “I am,” she replies, steadier now. She pulls up her skirt, flashing the pale flesh of her inner thigh and the temporary tattoo at him. “This is what I want, where I want it.”

  McTattoo looks at her thigh and oh, fuck no. Hot, possessive fury boils under my skin at the sight of his eyes fixed there. I didn’t think this through.

  My flash of rage is instantly soothed when Vandy slips her hand into mine. She doesn’t let go as she sits in the chair, the artist gently positioning her legs apart. I take a deep breath and try to loosen my grip on her hand. The last thing I need is to crush her bones with my irrational jealousy.

  She jolts when he tests the gun, giving it a few rapid buzzes.

  “It’s important you don’t move,” McTattoo says calmly. His fingers hover over her thigh and I consider breaking each and every one.

  “How bad is it going to hurt?” Vandy asks, but she sounds more curious than scared.

  He shrugs. “On the scale? Not that bad, but I’m not sure what your tolerance for pain is.”

  “High,” she admits.

  “Then you’ll be okay. But if you’re worried about it, don’t watch.” He looks at me. “And you—distract your girl.”

  My girl.

  “I’m about to start. Is everyone ready?”

  Vandy nods, and I watch as her teeth press down on her bottom lip. The ink gun turns on, buzzing with life, and her eyes meet mine. All my life I’ve taken what I’ve wanted, and right now, all I want is to make her feel safe. I bend until I’m inches away from her face, eye to eye, breath mingling with breath, and I know when the needle makes impact, because she gasps. I watch as her eyes tighten with the pain of it and my chest clenches.

  I mutter, “Fuck it,” and capture her lips in a kiss. She freezes at first, but then slowly relaxes. I lick her lips apart, and her tongue meets mine. She needs to be still for the ink, and she’s got some random guy messing around between her legs, so I keep the kiss gentle, slow, but it barely matters—at least, for me. The harsh buzzing is washed away by the warmth of her breath, and I hope she feels this too. This feeling that nothing else exists besides the point where our mouths meet.

  More than once she sucks in air, a sign that the needle hurts, but I do my best to soothe it with sucking pecks at her lips, wet sweeps against her tongue.

  It’s over so fast that I could almost be disappointed.

  Almost, if not for her sigh of relief that it’s over. “That wasn’t so bad,” she says, glassy eyes darting down to the tattoo. If she’s feeling regretful about it, she doesn’t show it. She just nods along to his care instructions, glazed eyes watching him cover it up.

  “You’re next, Romeo.” The artist rips off his gloves for a new pair, running an astringent-smelling wipe over the chair once Vandy slides off it.

&
nbsp; She watches me take her place, eyes widening when I unbutton my jeans and fold them out of the way.

  “You’re the one who wanted it there,” I remind her, grinning at her pink cheeks.

  Vandy is right, the pain isn’t so bad. At least I don’t have to worry about sporting wood as the artist inks my skin, because pain has never done it for me. Nevertheless, when she takes my hand in hers, holding it in her lap as she cringes along to the harsh sound of the gun, I don’t say anything.

  Freshly inked and armed with written instructions on how to take care of our new tattoos, Vandy and I walk out of the parlor into the cool night. My Jeep is the only vehicle in the lot.

  “Do you need a ride?”

  “Actually, yeah,” she says, gripping the strap of her bag. “I’m supposed to call Emory, but that’s probably out of his way.”

  This time, when I open the door for her, she accepts it. She also takes my hand, which sends another wave of electricity across my skin.

  “So, listen,” I start, rocking back on my heels. I have no clue how to handle this moment. How do I tell the girl who’s off-limits, who’s a one-way-ticket back to military school, who will destroy my relationship with her brother, that my brain isn’t going to start working until I kiss the shit out of her again? Repeatedly. “I think—"

  “I’m hungry,” she blurts, cutting me off. “Starving, actually. Do you want to get something to eat?”

  I assess her quietly. “Like, at a restaurant?”

  “Do you have any food at home?”

  The image of a bare refrigerator comes to mind.

  “No.” I run my hand through my hair. “Sorry.”

  “I could go for a hamburger. Actually, the bacon avocado cheeseburger at The Nerd would be amazing right now.” She looks at me expectantly, normally, like we hadn’t just gotten secret society tattoos and made out while doing it.

  “Yeah,” I say slowly, trying to find my footing and failing miserably. “I could eat. I mean, I can always eat.”

  The hum of electricity continues to crackle between us as I drive across town. I want to hold her hand. I want to reach out and touch that strip of leg again. I want to look at her and have her look at me. I have this policy, though. Whenever Vandy is in my car, my attention is on the road, hands fixed at ten-and-two.

  I take a left, into the abandoned K-Mart building that’s a few miles from The Nerd. The parking lot is enormous and bare, and when I roll into a spot and put the Jeep in park, I have to sit there for a second, hands clenching tight around the steering wheel.

  The cabin is quiet enough that I can hear her soft inhale right before she speaks. “What’s wrong?”

  I look at her, too many answers swirling in my head—none of which I can give her. That my insides feel like they're magnetized. That my blood feels like lava right now. That my balls ache, and my chest hurts, and I’m not safe to drive, because I have this gorgeous girl in my car and all I can think about is burying literally any part of myself between her thighs, and that all of that is the easy part. Because being horny is one thing, but whatever I’m feeling right now is some crazy mess of nervous want that I have no idea what to do with.

  There’s no doubt the tension rises the longer I stay silent. I’m just not sure what the tension means. Regret? Fear? Want?

  I know what it means for me. I feel it every fucking day, the impulsive urge to take what isn’t mine, an urge I rarely push back against. I didn’t resist at the tattoo parlor, and I can’t resist now.

  The faint shred of control doesn’t slip away so much as it plummets.

  The kiss is borderline embarrassing. We’re flying at each other over the console, lips meeting hungrily, but our seatbelts are straining against us, pulling us back. It takes me three tries before I have it unlatched, but once I do, my hand is in her hair, tugging her closer. If I’d taken that kiss back at Thistle Cove, it probably would have been ice in comparison to this—the way I fuck my tongue into her mouth with greedy kisses.

  She makes a sound deep in her throat, this quiet little whine that has me pushing closer so I can swallow it, keep it for myself. Mine now. I know I’m being too rough, that I’m pulling her hair, and she probably can’t even breathe with how desperate my mouth is against hers, but instead of pushing me away, she grabs back, hand fisted tightly into my sleeve.

  I break away to suck at her neck, only just barely cognizant enough to not leave any marks. She tastes so sweet here, this little patch of skin under her jaw, and I can feel the thrum of her pulse beneath it, frenetic and alive. She gulps in these big inhales, and there’s a soft, unspoken approval in the way her fingers wind into my hair, holding me there.

  When I plunge back in for a kiss, she meets me readily, like she’d been expecting it, hoping for it, and I can’t help myself. I want everything right now, all at once. I want to mark and have and consume, so badly that I’m shaking with it.

  I push my hand up her skirt, wedging it between her thighs.

  She gasps into my mouth, and the sound is so gentle—such a stark contrast to the way I’m kissing and groping her—that it shakes something loose inside of me.

  I pull away, crashing back into my seat. Hands at ten-and-two. Eyes closed. Chest heaving. Deep breaths.

  Fuck.

  After a long moment of our harsh breathing, Vandy’s reluctant voice breaks the silence. “Reyn?”

  I suck in a long inhale. “I just need a minute.”

  She answers with a soft, “Okay,” and my eyes are still closed, but I can practically feel her chewing on that lip, and it’s not helping my situation much.

  I say my ABCs backward in my head, and it takes more than a minute, but eventually I can let go of the steering wheel and rake a hand through my hair. “Sorry, that got a little out of hand.”

  Her mouth is red when she smiles, but her eyes are soft. “Yeah, I was about three seconds away from coming over that gear shift.”

  A rough chuckle escapes my chest. “I won’t even say what I was three seconds from doing.” She laughs in response, and her eyes look so bright—so calm—that I almost feel dumb for asking, “Are you okay? Did I freak you out?” With my massive, throbbing libido.

  Some of that radiance dims a bit. “Of course. I’m not made of spun glass, Reyn.”

  I want to tell her that I know she’s never done this before, that I don’t want to be the scary front-seat groping-guy she tells her friends about at some college sharing circle in four years. I want to be that other guy, the kind of guy who takes her out and treats her right and doesn’t push his hand up her skirt in an abandoned K-Mart parking lot, even though I am apparently totally that fucking guy.

  Instead, I drive.

  Like most nights, The Nerd is packed. Familiar cars with Preston Prep stickers on the back windows line the parking lot. Emory’s truck is, unfortunately, right by the door. I grip the wheel, staring at the neon sign. She sits quietly for a minute, her forehead creased in thought.

  “Maybe we should get takeout,” she suggests, shifting in her seat. Her skirt rises, giving me a view of the edge of her tattoo, kick-starting my heart. I tamp it down, not wanting another demonic boner possession situation on my hands.

  “Yeah, I think that’s a better idea.”

  The food doesn’t take long, Vandy waiting in the car while I dip inside to order it. When I return to the Jeep and get back on the road, we’re both quiet. I know from the drive to Thistle Cove that she doesn’t like for the windows to be rolled down. She knows from the same trip that I don’t like music playing when I’m driving. In other words, by the time I park at the clearing overlooking the lake, the silence has grown into something charged and uncertain.

  “Reyn?” she asks quietly, eyes looking over the lake. “What is this?”

  I turn to look at her, the way the lights play against the soft curves of her face, the delicate bow of her lip, the fan of her lashes. I reach across the center of the car and gently cup my hand behind her neck. “That kiss wasn�
�t just to distract you,” I admit. “I want this.” Quieter, I add, “I want you.”

  She swallows and eases the bag of greasy food onto the floorboard. “Wanting what isn’t yours is kind of your thing, Reynolds McAllister.” Her voice is soft. “Just promise you won’t toss me into a drawer or leave me on the side of the road when you’re done.”

  I sigh, thumbing that patch of skin below her ear. “That’s the problem, Baby V, I haven’t been done with you a day in my life.” What she doesn’t understand is that it’s different with her. It’s easy to steal, but so much harder to take something willingly given, because those things are more than conquests or shiny trinkets. They’re precious, a responsibility.

  “I’m not the kid I used to be, Reyn.” Her eyes flutter closed, and if I look hard enough, I can see the shadow of that girl who used to look at me like I hung the moon. But she’s right. She’s not that kid anymore.

  “Neither am I.”

  The kiss that follows is slow and quiet, like a secret.

  19

  Vandy

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Huh?”

  Sydney points her fork at me and swirls it in front of my face. “You’ve been a space-cadet for two days.”

  Well, she’s not wrong. I haven’t found myself alone with Reyn since that night in the Jeep, after the tattoo, so I keep running over the memory to sate my thirst. It’s not like it was anything earth-shattering. We kissed, we ate, we kissed some more, and then he drove me home.

  Still, it was the perfect date.

  And now I keep finding myself wondering if that’s what it even was—a date. There was kissing and food and scenery, and that all seems pretty date-like. There was also Reyn’s hand around my neck, thumb rubbing into the spot behind my ear as he licked lazily into my mouth. It’s like now that I know I can have it, it’s all I can think about. Reyn’s mouth. Reyn’s hands. Reyn’s rough fingertips skating across my jaw. The sound of his breath every time we pulled apart. The way his eyes looked, glazed and yet sharp, like he was drunk and sort of frustrated about it.