A Deal With the Devil

by Angel Lawson

  She rolls her eyes, and I love it. I love that she doesn’t put up with bullshit.

  We don’t linger, hopping in the Jeep and heading out to the school. I’m less nervous driving her now—less anxious in general, I suppose. Maybe it’s the better quality of sleep, or the fact that Vandy keeps leaving me food in my car, or maybe it’s just her. Things are going really well with Vandy. The rituals are almost over, and homecoming is around the corner. In a perfect world, I’d ask her to go as my date, but my world isn’t perfect.

  I’ll take what I can get.

  Finding the pills was pretty fucked up, though. She looked so panicked when she saw them in my hand, like her whole world was crashing down. I hate being judged on shit from my past and I’m not going to do it with her. Jesus, if she looked in the drawer in my room at all the shit I’ve nicked since I’ve been home? I don’t want to be on the other side of that judgment. My girl may not be perfect, but she’s perfect for me and that’s all I care about.

  “Did you bring your stamp?” she asks, pulling the small box and the little card that came with it out of her hoodie pocket.

  “Yeah.” I gesture toward the storage area behind the gear shift. “So, miss investigative journalist. Any leads on who’s leaving this shit in our lockers?”

  “Or even making them up.” She turns the stamp around in her hand. It came with a small inkpad and instructions about where we were specifically supposed to leave it. For us, that’s on the back of a framed photograph of Martha Preston, the founder’s wife, which is located in the Langford room. “It seems like all of this would take a fair amount of organization. And work. And influence.”

  “Someone is definitely committed to the Devil legacy.”

  “Yeah,” she says, but she’s shifting uncomfortably, not looking my way. “I actually have to talk to you about something.”

  I give a quick flick of my eyes. “Sounds ominous.”

  “No, it’s not—” She pushes out this huge sigh that isn’t very reassuring. “This place is on the historical register or whatever, and the things inside are artifacts. Like, super rare, well documented. If something goes missing…” She trails off, but I don’t exactly need a billboard to pick up what she’s putting down.

  “You think I’m going to take something,” I slowly realize. “I can control myself, you know.”

  “No, I know that,” she argues, and I can see her head shake in my periphery. “I actually read this article about kleptomaniacs, and it said if there’s a chance of you getting caught, then the likelihood of you—”

  I bite out a sharp, “I’m not a fucking maniac.”

  Her mouth snaps closed and the car goes quiet, my hands tightly clenched around the steering wheel. Well, I was right about one thing. Being on the other side of that judgment shit really does suck.

  Christ.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…” Her voice is small and low, and I hate it. It makes my fingers flex around the leather. “I just wanted to understand what it was like for you. Why you do it. I thought maybe if I did, I could help you. You know, like how you help me?”

  I roll to a stop at a deserted red light a few blocks from the school. It casts her face in a worrying glow when I finally turn to meet her eyes. “You do help me, V. Trust me, it’s been days since I took something. And it’s not…it’s not simple, okay? It’s not something that can be summed up in some fancy term and written down in an article by someone who’s never met me. Yours couldn’t, could it? The way you feel about the pills?”

  Her eyes are wide and so guileless that it makes me want to take her back home. “Probably not.”

  The light turns green, but I idle there, trying to find the words. “There isn’t one reason. Just sometimes, the only thing that makes me feel good is taking something and getting away with it. I know it’s stupid.”

  She puts her hand on my leg. “It’s not stupid.”

  “Yes, it is,” I argue. “It feels good for a few hours—maybe even a whole day—but the trouble it causes for me and everyone else? It lasts a hell of a lot longer than that.” I give her a significant look. “I’m trying, V.”

  She studies me closely, and I can tell from the sadness in her eyes that she gets it. My family is in pieces. My future is up for debate. I can’t take a jog without being watched. But what happened to her is the worst consequence of all.

  The fucked-up part is that, even despite all of those perfectly valid reasons, resentment burns hot at the thought of giving it up. Why should I? Aside from Vandy, it’s not like I have much else going for me. Why can’t I have something that makes me feel good? The idea of a life without that rush seems like nothing more than a dull expanse of tedium. Sometimes I wonder what the point would be.

  “I meant what I said before. You can tell me if it gets bad, if you feel like you need to do it. I won’t think any less of you.” She echoes my words from the other night, “I won’t bail.”

  “Seriously, I can handle it.” I finally press the gas, rolling over the intersection.

  I drive past the main campus entrance to the service road that runs behind the dining hall. It’s darker back there and easier access to the Alumni house, which is settled on a hill at the back of the property. Although everyone on campus is familiar with the house, it’s not frequented by students. It’s strictly for guests and donors.

  I park the car and grab my stamp, then walk around to open the door for Vandy. I help her out, not because she needs it, but because she’s my girl. It also gives me a chance to kiss her in apology, soothing the tension from earlier, before taking her hand and slipping into the dark shadows of the campus.

  “The Preston House was built by Gerard Preston for his wife, Martha,” Vandy whispers. I’ve conditioned myself to walk at her slower pace. “They bought the property to build a school and lived in the house. The first headmasters lived here, but eventually they turned it into a guest house.”

  “You sound like a Preston history textbook.”

  “Well,” she looks away, “it’s a required mini-semester in tenth grade. You kind of missed it.”

  I tighten my grip on her hand. “Good thing I have you to give me a primer.”

  She grins and veers us slightly off course. “You’re right about that, because we learned that there’s an entrance to Preston through an old tunnel that starts in the old water-well shed behind the building. All of these tunnels go back to the Civil War. Like the one that leads from the lake to the bunker.”

  We go to the small brick building that I don’t think I’ve ever noticed before. She extracts her key and slides it into the lock, twisting it to the side. The door opens and cool, musty air rolls past.

  “Creepy.” I take a look back to make sure no one notices us, and then duck inside. Vandy shines her phone’s light and I notice fresh footprints on the dirt floor. “Guess we weren’t the first ones here.”

  Vandy uses her key to unlock a second, barely noticeable door and then, hand in hand, we enter the tunnel and walk the stretch underground toward the house. It’s cool and damp, and the ceiling is low enough that I have to duck not to hit it. It’s a little claustrophobic and I’m glad when we get to a staircase that leads up. The air is cooler up here and at the top is another door. This one leads inside the house—to a dark storage pantry. I push open the swinging door to the hallway and see a dozen frames mounted to the wall.

  My eyes scan them tiredly.

  Shit. Needle in a haystack.

  “Did your class happen to tell you where the Langford room is?” I whisper. The caretaker is in the house somewhere. Asleep, probably. And it’s possible some of the other Devils are here as well. I’m not sure what would happen to any of them if they got caught, but my own fate might as well be spun on an elaborate wheel of misfortune: swift expulsion, arrest, hard time, you name it.

  “I’m not sure,” she says, chewing on her lip. “But I think that the guest rooms are named after former Headmasters, and Langford was a headmaster. So pr
obably upstairs?”

  “What about the caretaker? Where are her rooms?”

  “Off the kitchen.” She snorts. “Like they let the help sleep upstairs.”

  She’s right about that, so I start down the hall, away from the faint light of the kitchen, toward the staircase. We pass a formal living room and adjacent dining room. I keep my eyes diverted from the shiny trinkets and collectibles in the antique furniture. It’d be a lie to say I’m not tempted as we pass it all.

  Together we climb the narrow stairs, my hand settling on Vandy’s lower back, fingers slipping under her shirt to touch her skin. This need to touch her all the time, it’s even more intense than my compulsion to take. The only thing I want to take from Vandy is something she wants to give—and that has to be on her terms.

  I thought it was going to happen in her room the other night. It felt right, but then fucking Em had to barge in and interrupt us. He’d probably be proud of his cockblocking efforts if he knew about it. Right after he skinned me alive, that is.

  I’ve sneaked into her room twice since then, but aside from some heavy kissing, I’ve managed to keep things PG-13. Pretty easy thing to do with the possibility of Emory knocking on her door again hanging like an axe over my libido.

  The truth is that I need to slow down, anyway. Vandy is more into all this than I really expected her to be, but sex is a big step. You don’t get that back. There are too many ways for her to get hurt.

  The stairs spill into a wide landing, decorated in more antiques. She turns left, heading down a hall with thick, carpeted runners that muffle our footsteps. Vandy reaches the first door and peers at the small sign next to it. “Hamilton,” it says. Clearly, this room was named after the headmaster, Bates’ great-grandfather. Her fingers are paused against the crystal doorknob and she lifts them, ready to walk on, but a thud comes from inside and she jumps back, slamming into me. Over the sound of my heartbeat I hear a giggle, followed by a too-loud, “Shhhh.”

  I reach past Vandy and slowly open the door. Two figures stand by a dresser. The light of the flashlight reveals Caroline and Tyson. Caroline’s eyes widen when she sees us, and Tyson shrinks back a little. “Fuck,” he mutters, “you scared the hell out of us.”

  “Maybe don’t make so much noise?” Vandy hisses, echoing my thoughts. These idiots in here are going to get us caught.

  Caroline’s gaze darts down, and I realize she sees our clasped hands. Instinctively, we both drop one another’s hand and step away. Stupid. So fucking obvious. “This isn’t the room we’re looking for.”

  I forge ahead, flashing my phone light on the sign by each door. Langford is at the end and I open it quickly, stepping inside. The room is big, with a massive four poster bed in the center. Marble-topped tables sit on either side of the bed, and I don’t hesitate to search the frames for the one we’re looking for. Hearing the soft click of the door closing behind me, I glance up and see Vandy’s eyes looking everywhere but at me.

  “Do you think they saw?”

  I sigh, trying to shove down the wild anxiety at knowing they did. “We can probably play it off.” Maybe I was just helping her up the stairs. Maybe it could be like that night at the lake—just brotherly.

  She says, “I wish…” but trails off, eyes wistful and averted.

  “Yeah,” I agree, knowing what she’s thinking.

  “Are we just going to keep this a secret forever?” When she finally meets my gaze, she doesn’t look angry. She just looks disappointed. “If this is real—”

  “It’s real,” I assure her, tilting her chin so I can brush my lips across hers. “Very real.” There’s a long silence where we watch each other, the air heavy and charged with all the things we won’t say. I try to get us back on track. “It’s probably one of these.” I flash my phone over the photos by the bed. “Any chance that history lesson told you what Martha looked—”

  The words die on my tongue when my light flashes over something hazy and solid. It’s sitting on the antique dresser, angled just-so, a crystal devil a lot like the one on Headmaster Collins’ desk. Only now that I’m seeing this one—old, veined, flawed—I’m realizing that his is a lackluster replica.

  I want it so bad, I’m fucking shaking with it.

  “What?” she asks, sensing my shift.

  I clear my throat. “Nothing. I was just wondering what she looked like.”

  But her eyes follow the beam of light before I can jerk it away. “Oh.”

  “I wasn’t going to take it,” I burst, my shoulders feeling tight and tense with the defense.

  “But you want to.” She studies me carefully, curiously. “It’d make you feel… better. Good.”

  I give a shrug that looks looser than I feel. “Yeah, sure. It’s not a big deal.”

  “Does that mean something to you? Like, symbolically?”

  “No,” I scoff, but deep down, I know that’s not the whole truth. I’m just not sure how I’d explain seeing it on the headmaster’s desk that day, and the way I’d felt then—wild and uncertain and sick inside with all the change happening.

  Softly, she says, “Reyn,” and I deflate.

  “Fuck, V, I don’t know.” I drag a hand roughly down my face. “Maybe, okay?”

  “Okay,” she replies, like that’s enough of an answer. “But you know that’s not the only thing, right?” She steps in front of me, the backs of her knuckles grazing over the front of my pants. “It’s not the only thing that can make you feel good.”

  And then she kisses me. It’s one of those slow, deep, sexual things that fuzzes my mind out enough that it takes me an absurdly long time to understand why she’s suddenly trying to unbutton my fly.

  “What?” I breathe, grabbing her wrists.

  Her throat bobs with a swallow. “It’ll make you feel good,” she explains.

  “So will a milkshake from The Nerd.”

  She quirks an eyebrow. “Call me ambitious, but I’m sort of hoping getting a blowjob from me is better than a milkshake.”

  My eyes scan the room. I feel like I’ve missed about twenty very integral parts of this discussion. Dumbly, I repeat, “What?”

  She backs up to the bed, perching on the foot of it and dragging me along. “There’s a link to sexual impulsivity that I won’t go into, but mainly? There’s this whole thing where you’ve never let me actually touch you, and it’s driving me crazy.”

  I gape down at her, at the way she brings me between her knees, eyes shining up at me, so hopeful. So trusting. I argue, “You can’t just give me head in Martha Langford’s bedroom,” but it’s a weak rebuff.

  She tilts her head. “Why not?”

  “Because we’re in the middle of committing criminal trespassing.” I watch as she stares up at me, tipping forward to mouth at the button on my jeans. I swallow thickly. “And because other people are here.” Her mouth moves lower, grazing closer to the obscene bulge pressing against my pants. “Because it’s not—” She presses her mouth to my cock, her hands holding my hips steady when I buck into it.

  I completely forget what it’s not, because mostly all I’m thinking of are her red lips and the way my dick would look disappearing between them.

  Apparently, she totally can give me head in Martha Langford’s bedroom, because when she unbuttons my fly, I don’t stop her. Couldn’t, really.

  I mean, fuck.

  I’m just one man with well-documented weak impulse control.

  Her hand is warm and soft when it dips into the waistband of my boxers. I inhale a slow hiss at the contact, stealing a quick glance over my shoulder at the door. This is fucked. There were already about thirty ways this night could have gone wrong. Adding some impromptu head in the mix is probably way up there on my list of poor executive decisions.

  She obviously wants it and god knows I want it. This just isn’t the kind of thing you ask a respectable girl—a girl like Vandy—to do. But, as she pulls me out of my shorts and looks at my cock, her red tongue slowly peeking out to wet her lip
s, I’m not asking her to do a damn thing. Her choice.

  All this thought is moot, because if I thought I couldn’t get any harder than when she pressed her mouth to it over my jeans, then I didn’t fully actualize the feel of her hand around me, the sight of her mouth right fucking there. I’m throbbing.

  She sinks her teeth into her lip, thumb coming up to caress the tattoo on my hip. She licks the mark and my hips jerk forward. God damn. Her eyes flick up to mine, and I know what this expression means now. Glazed. Heavy. Horny. “I’ve never done this before, so tell me if I do something stupid, okay?”

  Little late for that, but, “Just…” Hurry, I want to say, as if that’ll be a problem—but the words get swallowed when she sinks her mouth down around the tip of my cock. My teeth click shut, jaw grinding at the sensation of her soft, wet mouth. God, how many times have I thought about this? Too many to be acceptable.

  My breath feels like it’s being yanked from my lungs when she pushes forward, her tongue slicking the way. I try to find something to do with my clenching hands, settling one loosely on her shoulder while the other ducks beneath her hair, gently cupping her neck. Her heavy eyes raise up to mine and there’s a question in them—a need for criticism or praise.

  All I can offer is a surprised, “Oh, fuck,” as the blood rushes from my brain. She’s looking up at me so sweetly, but what’s happening with her mouth is anything but. She sets an unhurried rhythm that feels more about being indecisive than trying to draw it out. If we were somewhere else, I’d let her hear all the tortured noises I’m trapping in the back of my throat. Since we’re not, I just rub her neck, hoping that’s enough encouragement.

  It’s not long before I begin feeling the telltale tug of my orgasm approaching. The room is filled with my hard breaths and the sucking, wet sounds that make my toes curl. Vandy’s got a hand fisted into my jeans and she never lets up. Not once.

  I wind my fingers into her hair, trying to ease her off. I feel her disagreement more than I hear it, high and desperate-sounding in the back of her throat, and I know it’d be better to just let her swallow. Less mess. No fuss. But I need her to know, so I manage to grind out a low, “Baby, I’m gonna...”