by Angel Lawson
“What?” His eyes widen and he starts toward the door. “That fucking prick.”
I grab him. “No, it’s fine. I vouched for him and Jerry let it go.”
“You did?”
“Sure,” I say, my stomach twisting anxiously. “Isn’t that what you do for another Devil?”
“Yeah, actually, it is.” His expression smoothes. “I’m not saying Reyn never did anything wrong, but it’s hard for him, you know? He just has this need to take things that aren’t his.”
I fight a smile. “Yeah, I do know.”
“Well, I needed to talk to you, too. I just found out Sebastian is in a fight tonight. Seems semi-organized. Some dick from Northridge is starting a bunch of shit with the Preston crowd, so I thought maybe we could go as a group. Watch that kid get his ass handed to him.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Go to an illegal fight?”
He shrugs. “It’s not like any of us have clean hands these days. I know it’s not something you’d normally do, so you don’t have to. I just thought it’d be cool for all of us to have his back.”
“It is,” I say. “I think it’s a cool idea.”
“Awesome.” He gives me a grin. This is new for us, doing things together—as equals, not just Emory looking out for me. “Let me go find Reyn and tell him.” He jerks his thumb toward the main room. “You go figure out how to ditch Sydney, because this shit is for Devils only.”
I nod, and watch my brother head out the side door. There’s a swell in my chest at the words, Devils only, a foreign feeling of finally belonging somewhere, with other people. I glance at my friend across the room. It sucks I have to cut her out of this. She’d absolutely flip over it. But there have been too many times she’s left me out, and like Emory said, this is for Devils only.
And I, like the tattoo on my leg says, am a Devil.
“How did you find out about this?” Afton asks when we meet up in the dark, gravel parking lot on the other side of town. She’s wearing jeans with a wide leg and a tank with lots of straps. She looks like a bad ass. I check out the other girls—they’re also dressed appropriately for the night. Jeans. Boots. Sexy tops. They all look like fashion models.
I glance down at my sweater and skirt—different from the one earlier today, but just as prim and proper—and immediately feel out of place. See? This is why I need Sydney. She wouldn’t have let me go to an underground fight looking like a massive dork.
“I keep up with Heston,” Emory says, tugging on his jacket. He stretches his arm over Aubrey’s shoulder and pulls her close. “He told me he’d be here tonight, and since it was actually planned ahead of time, that I should come.”
“What about the rest of us?” Carlton asks. “Is it going to be a problem for a whole contingent from Preston to show up?”
Afton nods. “Especially a group that would probably never hang around one another if we weren’t in a secret club together.”
Even though no one is looking at me, I feel like that comment was a direct hit.
“We’re supporting him,” Elana says, defensively, “and no one gets to determine who we hang out with.”
“Yeah,” Ben says, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a roll of cash, “and some of us are here for other reasons. I’m betting on Sebastian to win.”
Caroline asks, “What are the odds?” and the two of them start off toward the dirt path, trading numbers. Carlton removes a cooler from the trunk of his car. He opens it and Elana and Afton both take a beer. Emory grabs the other side of the cooler and they carry it down the path.
“What is this place anyway?” I ask. We’re in a wooded area off one of the city parks. Lights glow through the trees, but there’s not a lot of traffic in the distance. This place is deserted and quiet—or would be, if not for the couple dozen cars that litter the lot.
“You’ve never been here?” Tyson asks. I shake my head. “It’s the old water-works building. It’s been abandoned for decades. Now all that’s left are the derelict remains.”
“Everyone comes here,” Georgia declares, which makes it only that much more obvious how sheltered I am. “There’s a bunch of walls to graffiti, people build bonfires, smoke a lot of weed.”
“Skateboarders,” Carlton adds. “All those empty pools.”
“Come on,” Tyson says, nodding toward the path. “It’s pretty cool.”
Apparently, he had to lie to his girlfriend to get here tonight. I know the feeling. I told Sydney I had a headache and wanted to just crash early. We’re technically speaking again, but it’s awkward and strained. It’s hard to forget the way she called me delusional, and even harder to tolerate all of her slavering over Reyn.
If nothing else, at least I have his promise.
As everyone walks toward the building, the object of my thoughts appears in my periphery.
I spot his Jeep and turn to Tyson. “Yeah, I’ll be there in a second. I just remembered that I need to put something in the car.”
Tyson waves and he and Georgia walk off toward the others. I hold back, eyeing Reyn, who’s leaning against the side of his car. He’s wearing a black leather jacket and a clean pair of jeans, and I can’t help but think, Damn. I was on that. He watches the others get a few feet away before pushing off the car and walking over.
He looks in a better mood than he had after the Jerry incident, at least. His features still have a touch of that stony darkness, but his eyes are soft as they take me in. “Hey.”
“Hi,” I reply, wanting to reach out and touch literally any part of him. We’re in uncharted territory. Public, but not public. My brother approves of us being Devils together, but beyond that…
Emory’s distant shout shatters our stare. “Are you two coming?” We both turn to the sound. He’s waving a hand in the air, suspending it there in the universal gesture for ‘what gives?’
Reyn takes in a slow breath, muttering, “Fuck, I thought people keeping tabs on me was bad. He has a gorgeous girl right there and he’s worrying about you.”
“Welcome to my world,” I reply with a smile. I can’t get mad. I’m here and he’s here. It’s not like I’m a big fan of PDA anyway. Yuck. I’ve had to sit through too much of that in my life with both Sydney and Emory.
I start down the hill, following the others who are already in a line at a makeshift entrance. Absurdly, there’s a fee to get in, ten dollars a head.
“Who gets the money?” I wonder.
Over his shoulder, Tyson says, “The winner, duh.”
“So basically, we’re giving this guy money, and it’s entirely possible that it’ll go to the person who kicks Sebastian’s ass. That doesn’t seem very supportive.” Not that a Wilcox of all people particularly need money.
Emory hands the burly guy a stack of twenties and points down the line of us. “These ten are with me.”
He nods and waves us past. The scene unfolds as we get closer. Lanterns light up the shells of old buildings that co-mingle with nature, roots and vines growing over the cement walls. Spray-paint covers everything, and I feel like I’ve entered a magical, secret world. It even smells different here, musty and astringent, kind of like gasoline and cigarette smoke. It’s also a bit crowded, which is the worst environment for someone with a leg like mine. When I was first hurt and having all the surgeries, people were really nice. I got free tickets to the Taylor Swift concert and the Atlanta United games, but I didn’t have to walk. I was still in a wheelchair back then. Here, I have to fight against the uneven terrain. With the dubious exception of Preston’s dining hall on pizza day, it’s been a long time since I’ve been to something with this kind of crowd, and I feel panic tightening in my chest. What happens if we need to get out of here quickly? What if someone gets pissed I’m taking too long?
From the tattoos and piercings and dyed hair, the whole group looks a little temperamental. These kids are not from Preston Prep. I doubt they’re even from Northridge. These are the kinds of kids who just go wherever they can find trouble.
I fight to take a breath and absently feel my pockets for a stray pill. I know I didn’t bring any, but maybe? I pat for back pockets that aren’t even there—this is a skirt, duh—and feel fingers hooking over my waistband. I look over my shoulder and Reyn is there, warm against my back. My anxiety instantly dissipates. I’m not here alone.
“Sorry I’m holding us up.”
He touches my hand. “Never apologize for that.”
It’s empowering to hear him say that. “I won’t.”
“Also?” his fingers graze the back of my thighs, mouth moving close to my ear. “Keep wearing these skirts. They’re making me crazy, in a very, very good way.”
I shiver at the feel of his breath against the shell of my ear. “Oh, I know.”
His expression morphs, from sexy and in-control, to stunned. Suddenly, I’m less regretful about this outfit.
We arrive at a clearing, the grass tamped down. The foundation of an old building marks the ring, a large, open expanse of concrete framed by a low retaining wall. We find the others staked out close to the edge, sipping beer and huddled together. Talking. Laughing. I sidle up to the group and Reyn takes his place beside me, propping his elbows on the wall. Unlike me, he looks totally in his element here, the line of his long, lean body curved almost lazily. I notice the other people—the non-Preston people—eying him.
Carlton offers him a beer, but he shakes his head. “I’m driving.”
Carlton shrugs at this and pops the top to drink it himself.
I confess, “I’ve never seen two guys really fight before,” and Reyn turns to look at me. “I mean, on TV, sure. But not in real life.” Even when we were younger, back when they’d get into scraps with the other neighborhood boys, Emory would send me away before anything physical happened.
“I’ve never been to one of these,” Reyn says, nodding into the ‘ring’. “But it’s all the same, probably. Testosterone overload. Posturing. A bunch of circling. Only like three actual blows before someone comes to break it up.”
Elana adds, “And they take off their shirts.”
“Yeah, what’s with that, anyway?” Georgia asks, squinting into the distance. “Have you noticed that guys always start undressing when they fight?”
Reyn gives her a blank look. “It’s so the other guy will have less to grab onto.”
“Yeah,” Ben adds, “you want to be uncatchable.”
“Sweaty and slippery,” Afton laughs.
Emory leans over the wall, clearly having heard the debate. “It’s like when girls fight. They always put their hair up and take out their earrings.”
“I don’t know.” Georgia shrugs. “Seems kind of sexy to me.” She looks instantly embarrassed about voicing this though, face going pink.
Aubrey raises her beer in agreement. “Hell yeah, it is!” Elana bumps the necks of their bottles together in solidarity.
“Well, well, well,” comes a voice from behind us. We all turn in tandem to see Heston Wilcox ambling up to our little group, tall and handsome, cigarette between his fingers. “All the degenerates are here, I see.” He and his brother favor one another, sort of. They both have strong, striking features. But where Heston oozes privilege, Sebastian gives off a darker, more frenetic vibe.
Elana makes a disgusted sound. “If you’re here, I know that’s true.”
“Just coming to watch my little bro besmirch our fine family name.”
Emory snorts. “I think you do that enough for the both of you.”
Heston doesn’t seem bothered by this, running his gaze over all of us. “This is a weird little group. Aren’t you that mathlete nerd?” Caroline flicks a pigtail over her shoulder and ignores him, but he’s already moved on. “Shackleford. Wade. Riggins. Holt shit.” His eyes stutter when they reach Reyn. “Sticky-fingers McAllister? I thought you were in prison or something.”
Reyn gives him a look that’s dripping with disdain. “Military school.”
Heston lets the chill of Reyn’s voice pass without mention. “Didn’t realize they’d released you back into society.”
“How’s college?” Afton asks pointedly, and I use the veil of my hair to hide a grin. It really is pretty pathetic of him, still hanging around the high school crowd.
“Good,” he says a little stiffly. If anyone thought Heston would suffer real consequences for what he’d done, they didn’t understand the power of his family. He pulls out a notebook and a bag, and asks, “Okay, who’s putting money down? The bets so far are on first blood, KO, and winner. Street fight rules, first one down loses.”
“You’re the one taking bets?” Ben asks, looking about as uncomfortable as I feel. It seems like Heston isn’t just taking bets. It seems like he’s the one organizing it.
“Yep.” Heston taps the notebook. “Personally, I’ve got three grand on the Northridge kid to win, but a grand on Bass drawing first blood. Kid’s all temper, no strategy.”
Emory gapes at him. “You’re betting against your own brother?”
Heston shrugs. “Why not?”
“Because he’s your brother!”
“So?” Heston takes some money from Carlton, who glares as he puts it on Sebastian to win. “Doesn’t mean he’s not a twat.”
Emory shakes his head. “Dude, that’s fucked up.”
It’s beyond fucked up. Heston doesn’t think Sebastian can win, but he’s still willing to make sure he fights?
Heston’s eyes suddenly land on me. “Not all of us can have a sweet little thing like Vandy as a sibling. Finally let the princess out of the castle, huh? Who’d you let down your hair for, sweetheart?” He reaches out, like he’s going to touch my hair, and I can feel Reyn stiffening beside me, radiating tension. I duck out of the way before his fingers make contact and he clucks. “Aw, don’t be like that.”
Emory barks a sharp, “Back the fuck off, Heston,” but he just smiles at me.
“Don’t sweat it. Baby V and I have a whole rapport.”
I recoil, snapping, “No, we don’t. And don’t ever call me that.” My neck prickles in sudden, scorching anger. Only one person here is allowed to call me Baby V, and it’s certainly not Heston Wilcox. I’ve always hated him most, and not just on account of our ‘rapport’. Reynolds might have gotten Emory in trouble, but friends like Heston? They made Emory mean. I know Heston was the one behind the vandalism about Micha last year. Well, everyone knows, because Hamilton Bates beat the shit out of him for it. Too bad I couldn’t have been a spectator to that fight.
Heston’s grin turns predatory. “Sure, we do. Remember? The Christmas party?”
Emory’s eyes shift suspiciously between us. “What the fuck does that mean?”
God, what an ass.
He thinks he has something over me, is the thing. He thinks I’m scared, that I’ll stand here and let him look at me like that. He thinks I’ll back down.
I don’t.
I look Heston right in the eye when I tell Emory, “It means that he sold me a bottle Oxy last year.” Heston’s face goes slack at my easy admission.
Emory pushes off the wall, face hard and stormy. “Did he now?”
Heston recovers quickly, giving a casual shrug. “She was basically begging me, bro. You know what they say about friends in need. I was just doing her a solid.”
“By selling my little sister narcotics?”
He gestures to my leg. “She said she was hurting.”
Emory looks at me, but I can’t lie. That’s all true. “Your scene’s gotten real old, Heston.”
“And what’s your scene now, exactly?” Heston gestures to the lot of us. “Sluts, nerds, druggies, jocks, and delinquents?”
Reyn steps in front me. “You say that like it’s any different from before.”
Heston’s eyes move to Reyn, giving him a slow, aggressive onceover. “Hey, at least the Devils were good at what we did.”
We all share a quick look, and in that moment, I know we’re thinking the same thing.
We still a
re.
Emory pushes a stack of money into Heston’s chest. “Put that on your brother to win. Unlike you, he can actually hold his own in a fight.” Ben throws in a couple hundreds, Caroline tosses in her own stack, and even Afton manages to produce some money from the inside of her bra. Suddenly, the new Devils are in for a pretty penny on Sebastian winning this thing.
Reyn flings his own wad at Heston. “Northridge kid for first blood.” Some of the others frown at this, but I understand instantly what he’s doing.
“Your daddies’ loss,” Heston says before walking away.
Emory meets my gaze, something firm and annoyed in his eyes, and I know what it looks like—like I’ve been accosting his friends for drugs. But that’s not really how it went down. Heston had approached me, offering me one. I just asked for more.
“Em—”
He shakes his head at me. “Later.”
My stomach churns uneasily at the brush-off and I turn away, back to the ring.
Reyn assumes his earlier position, but ducks his head, trying to meet my eyes. “Hey.”
“It’s not like how he made it sound,” I insist.
Reyn just says, “I know,” and bumps me with his shoulder. “Want to watch him lose a grand?”
I look at him, something unwinding in my chest at the sight of his dimpled grin. “Definitely.”
Sebastian looks different when he walks up and takes off his shirt—to Elana’s delight. He’s still handsome, but his face is blank and hard as he tucks the shirt into his back pocket, letting it hang there. He keeps shifting his shoulders, wiry muscles rippling beneath his tanned flesh. He’s restless and agitated, but most of all he looks scary as hell.
I can see the pitchfork tattoo placed neatly on his chest.
The Northridge guy is bigger, without a doubt. His arms are huge and he looks a couple inches taller. I chew nervously on my lip as they watch each other, and it starts exactly like Reyn had said. Posturing, circling.
People are pressing closer now, and it’s louder. The whole crowd is charged with adrenaline, pushing and pressing closer to the ring. I don’t know if it’s some kind of blood lust, or something more feral, but it’s triggered my biggest fear; not being able to move quickly if I need to. I can feel the crowd up against my back and it makes me feel like Sebastian looks—twitchy and sweaty.