A Deal With the Devil

by Angel Lawson

  Emory levels his dark grin at Reyn. These two are always on the same page, with the same goal; stirring up as much trouble as they can and getting away with it.

  I just hope they can pull it off, because we all know what can happen if they fail.

  The rest of the week passes quickly. Academics are replaced by spirit week. Theme days allow us a break from our uniforms, which is something that’s embraced with a truly telling amount of enthusiasm from the student body. There’s College Day, which turns the hallways into a veritable sea of ivy league sweaters—an easy choice for me and Emory. Then there’s Iconic Preston day, where you dress up as your favorite founder, teacher, or headmaster. Then there’s Red Devil Day, which I’m pretty convinced is just a ploy for the office to sling school spirit merchandise. It all goes smoothly, other than ‘Twin Day’.

  Twin Day is something I’ve participated in before. Every year, Sydney talks me into wearing a matching outfit. But this year, since we’re not really speaking, that’s off the table. That doesn’t mean I don’t have someone to match with—or someones. Afton and Elana got together and decided the Playthings needed to match.

  I know that morning, as I look at myself in my bedroom mirror, that walking into school like this, with these girls is going to be a seismic shift in the social framework of Preston Prep. Sure, things have already changed in small ways—the lunch table, the hallway greetings, even the way people treat me in the hall. People at Preston seem aware that I’ve suddenly leveled up on the popularity scale, but Emory is my brother. Why wouldn’t I climb a few rungs?

  But this…?

  I stare at the tight black T-shirt with a winking Devil on the back, eyes descending to the skin-tight, painted-on jeans that are leaving none of my curves to the imagination. Aubrey dug through my closet last night and pulled them out herself. I’ve knotted the shirt as she directed, which shows part of my stomach, including a small sliver of my scar. It’s something I never show. Ever. But the only person I care about has already seen it.

  Kissed it.

  Somehow, it just doesn’t feel as ugly as it used to.

  I tie a red, glittery ribbon in my ponytail and slide on a pair of red sneakers. It’s a concession I know the rest of girls made for me. Red, ultra-high-heeled boots were floated briefly as an idea, but instantly shot down in favor of something flat, comfortable, and easy to walk in. Afton barely gave me time to feel bad about it, explaining that it’d look amazing, but none of them want to lug ten pounds of books across campus in heels all day, anyway.

  She probably has a point.

  The self-consciousness doesn’t kick in until Emory does a double take as I walk across the driveway. “What the hell are you wearing?"

  I cross my arms over my stomach, but then drop them awkwardly at my sides. “It’s twin day. This is how all the Playthings are dressing.” I fight the urge to run back inside. “Aubrey picked out the jeans herself.”

  “That’s not—” He stares at me like I’m an alien. “That’s not appropriate!”

  “Oh, really.” I prop my hands on my hips, forgetting my shyness. “Would you tell Aubrey that? Or Afton? Any of the other girls?”

  “The other girls aren’t my sister!”

  We stare obstinately at one another, caught in a power struggle.

  A door slams from Reyn’s house.

  “What’s up?” Reyn asks, rounding the bed of the truck. When I look up, he’s frozen in place, those green eyes drinking me in. Swallowing thickly, his Adam’s apple bobs. “Oh, uh.”

  “Emory is horrified at my outfit.” I raise my arms, challenging, “What do you think?”

  “I think, uh,” His eyes dart to my brother’s and he rubs the back of his neck. He shrugs off his letterman’s jacket and holds it out. “I think that maybe you should wear this. As a compromise.”

  The jacket is new and smells strongly of leather. There’s a hint of Reyn in there too—something soapy, clean. His fingers graze my neck as he helps me drape it over my shoulders and I fight a shiver.

  Emory shakes his head, cranks the engine, and barks out, “AIS, V. I need to go by Coach’s office before school.”

  “Chill out,” I mutter to my brother, struggling worse than ever to get in the front seat with the skin-tight jeans and oversized jacket. I’m about to topple backwards when strong hands cinch around my waist and push me inside. The sensation of Reyn’s hands on me isn’t surprising. By now, it’s familiar. One look at my brother makes me think he knows it. “Thanks,” I say to Reyn and he quickly shuts the door.

  Emory stares out the window at his retreating form for a moment longer.

  “I thought you were in a hurry,” I say, buckling my seat belt.

  “I don’t like the way he looks at you.”

  “How, exactly,” I ask, tired of this game, “does he look at me, Em? Like I’m a girl? Like I’m a real person? Like I’m not broken?”

  “No.” His jaw tightens and he shifts the truck into gear. “Like you’re a shiny object and he can’t wait to steal you.”

  “Vandy, I wanted to talk to you.”

  I pause, fork halfway to my mouth, and look at my mother. The worry lines run deep across her forehead. It’s just the two of us eating dinner tonight. Dad’s at the hospital and Emory is at a late practice. Coach Morris is hardcore about winning tomorrow night.

  I hedge, “About…?”

  “A few concerns,” she starts, abandoning her fork. “Dr. Cordell says you cancelled your last two appointments. I noticed your grades are slipping in Bio and French. You’re hiding in your room a lot, and well,” her eyes sweep over my outfit, “you just seem different.”

  “Anything else?” I ask, spine going rigid under her scrutiny. “Is my period off schedule? Is my bra size too small? Maybe my baths are too hot?”

  She looks taken aback, but quickly schools her expression. “I just want to make sure you’re okay. Things have been different this year. You’re more independent. Your brother says you’ve been fitting in better with the kids at school, which I know involves certain types of pressures you haven’t experienced before.”

  What? I want to ask. Like drugs? Now you’re worried I’m going to be a stoner?

  That ship has fucking sailed.

  “And,” she continues over my silence, “there’s Reyn.”

  My eyes snap up. “What about him?”

  “Just that he’s back. He’s around quite a lot. I know you and your brother have both been spending more time with him. Is that awkward for you? Does it make you uncomfortable?”

  I force—no, plead—with my body to not react to her questions about Reyn. But just his name makes me flush hot. It makes me remember what his mouth feels like and his fingers. What I did to him at the Alumni house. What he did in the Stairway. My cheeks burn so hot that I can feel them, and there’s no way my mom doesn’t notice.

  I look at her, willing her to see me for once, to see the truth about her daughter. To see that I’m more than the weak, injured girl she’s protected and sheltered for so long. To see that I’m strong, brave, and occasionally a little bad-ass, if only I have the space to try. I want her to know that I’m good at driving, and I like it. I like the freedom, the taste of independence, the feel of Reyn and Emory at my side, there to catch me if I need it, but just as fine with watching me figure it out on my own. I want to tell her I can climb a fence. I can pick a very rudimentary lock. This whole journalism thing? I’m into it, and I could be really, really good at it, too.

  And yes, I’m in the middle of falling head over heels for the boy next door.

  Our eyes meet for a long moment and I’m about to tell her everything—well almost everything—when she frowns.

  “Are you feverish?” she asks, leaning over the table, the back of her hand poised to check for a temperature. I twist away, but she’s already up, searching for the thermometer. “You know that’s the first sign of infection. Any aches? Pains?”

  I sigh. “I’m not feverish, Mom.”
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  “Sometimes it’s hard to tell, especially if you’re run down from other things. I know you’re dedicated to the newspaper, which thrills me, but I also know adding in any kind of extra-curricular activity can be a burden on a compromised system. You’re just not used to—”

  “Mom, stop.” She shoves the thermometer toward me. I push it away. “Stop!”

  She blinks. “Vandy, stop fighting me. You’re flushed and agitated, something’s wrong!”

  I lurch from the table, chair clattering over behind me. “Nothing’s wrong, Mom! For once in my life, everything is right! I’ve got friends. I’m involved at school. My grades are slipping because I’m not sitting around with nothing to do!” My voice echoes off the vaulted ceilings. “And Reyn doesn’t make me uncomfortable. He makes me…” Her eyebrows knit anxiously, but I keep going, “He makes me feel right, Mom. He makes me feel good about myself. He’s the only person who makes me feel strong!”

  “What are you talking about?” She shakes her head, exasperated. “We’ve given you every support you’ve ever needed. Every resource!”

  “You have.” I nod, laughing bitterly. “And each and every one of those is built to enable and keep me under control. But Reyn? He’s the only one who doesn’t treat me like an infant.”

  Her mouth purses angrily. “Because he’s careless.”

  “No,” I say, backing away.

  She insists, “He’s a careless, angry, confused boy.”

  “That’s not true! You don’t know anything about him.”

  Her eyes narrow. “How much are you seeing of him? Because it’s one thing for him to be Emory’s friend, it’s another for him—”

  I know then and there that I can’t tell her the truth, and it hurts. Any other girl my age could talk to her mother about this feeling growing inside of her chest, so big that it can’t be contained. She’d be able to be happy about it, to share that joy.

  Reyn and I are alone in this.

  My mom and Emory will never understand what we are to one another.

  “I’m not,” I say quietly, voice flat. “Just… just with Em. I just wanted to make it clear that he’s not bothering me.”

  She blinks, the cognitive dissonance, the false reality she’s created where I’m happy being alone and protected, shifts back into place. And with the same ease, I do the same thing. “You know, maybe I do feel a little worn out. I think I’ll head to bed.”

  “Good idea,” she says with a tight, approving grin. My mother may want to dig out the truth in her reporting, but she definitely doesn’t want it at home.

  I go to my room like a good girl, but that’s not me anymore. Honestly it never was me, but the last few weeks have made that simple fact real. Concrete. I try to think back to that nervous girl who started the school year, but it’s as fuzzy as back when I was using. It’s lost to the life I lead now, the one filled with shine, excitement, and a touch of danger.

  The one that gives me the courage to sneak out of my room on a Thursday night and break into my neighbor’s house.

  I’m a pro now, grabbing the letterman jacket, locking my bedroom door, and then slipping out the window to the small overhang. My heart pounds as I ease off the edge and I drop to the ground, but even though my landing is stumbling and sloppy, I still have both my feet beneath me. There are so many things I didn’t think I could do—or would ever do—yet here I am, creeping across the space between our houses, digging the McAllisters' spare key out of the wilted, potted fern beside the door.

  Fall is officially here and the night air is cold. I tug Reyn’s jacket around my shoulders. I’d worn it all day, feeling bold in my outfit that matched the other girls. It’s an antiquated notion, but it still holds up. Wearing the jacket is a visible sign of Reyn marking me as his own. People definitely noticed. Emory waved off questions at the lunch table, grumbling about my outfit and Reyn doing me a service, but I think almost everyone, save my brother, knows what’s going on. Sydney’s eyes followed me across the cafeteria. She was dying to know why I was wearing it, but her bitterness is what drove us apart. Let her keep guessing.

  Suddenly I’m out of fucks to give.

  I enter the side door, into the dimly lit house. I know I could have just called, and Reyn would have happily invited me in, but as it turns out, like him and my brother, I have a thing for risk. Maybe that’s why I got into the car all those years ago. I’d wanted to taste what they tasted. I wanted to feel that thrill.

  Crossing the kitchen, I see a suit jacket on the back of a kitchen chair and a woman’s purse. Reyn’s father must be here—with a date. I’ve seen the cars come and go, the women entering in the evening and out the next day. My pulse quickens, knowing there are other people in the house. For a minute, I consider backing out and running back home, but stop myself.

  Laughter floats in off the back patio and I notice the flicker of the fire pit. I stay away from the windows and sneak up the stairs. At the landing, I orient myself, figuring out which closed door would match up with my own bedroom. I pick the one at the end and try the knob. It opens, and I step into Reyn’s room.

  It’s the first time I’ve been here, and a wildly different view from my window across the way. The room is smaller than mine, but he also has a bigger bed, one more suited to his long arms and legs. I’m a little surprised to see the bed covers straight, the pillows flat and smooth. His shoes are lined up against the wall next to this closet and the open door shows me a clean line of shirts hanging in a row.

  I guess those military school habits are hard to break.

  Shutting the door behind me, I notice that the bathroom door is closed and hear the sound of the shower running. I sit on the bed, feeling the adrenaline from the altercation with my mom waning, and wonder if showing up here was the dumb thing to do.

  The shower cuts off and yeah, this was a mistake. What am I doing? Sitting in his room, wearing his jacket. Desperate much?

  The door swings open. Steam spills out, billowing forth until it clears, and then there he is. Reyn stands in the doorway, towel slung low around his hips. Water drips down his neck, traveling over his chest and torso. His hair is a wild tangle of damp chaos, still being rubbed with the towel he’s holding in his hand.

  When he sees me, he goes still. Eyes boring into mine, his mouth parts in surprise, but he doesn’t speak.

  I wait for him to ask why I’m here—to ask what’s wrong.

  He doesn’t. His mouth pulls into that sexy, dimpled smirk, and he doesn’t look confused to see me sitting on his bed. He just looks pleased.

  Maybe this wasn’t a mistake after all.

  30

  Reyn

  It’s worse when I’m bored.

  I spend all evening kicking around the house, restless and full of too much energy. Even though he’s busy getting ready to ‘entertain’ a guest, I can tell it’s driving my dad nuts.

  “Can’t you go take a run or something?”

  I stare at him blankly. “It’s dark.”

  He gives me this look like I’m the idiot here. “So?”

  “So…” I say it really slowly, drawn out. “There’s this little issue where the HOA, care of Fucking Jerry, doesn’t like me roaming the streets of their precious gated community past—”

  “Okay, okay,” he says, flapping a hand. “Then go do homework.”

  I pause. “I’d rather face Fucking Jerry.”

  He whirls on me. “Reynolds.”

  I heed the warning in his voice. Pops hasn’t had any action in five nights, which is practically a dry spell for him, and I’m fine dealing with his ire, but sexual frustration? Disgusting.

  My room is just as boring as downstairs. I hear Dad’s lady-friend knock and thank whatever deity is listening for the fact his room isn’t within hearing distance. Really did me a solid there.

  It’s not only because I haven’t stolen anything in two weeks. That’s obviously a factor in my massive amounts of boredom, but mostly it’s the lack of challenge. Thr
ill. Adrenaline. It’s embarrassing how worked up I’m getting over this idiotic Devil prank. It’s juvenile, sure. But it’s also something to fucking do. It’s a risk. It’s something I’ll need to use my skills for, something that I can get away with.

  Something I can help eleven other people get away with.

  I spend some time going over the plan in my head, but I’m only a minor part of it, and truthfully, getting into the tech room is kid’s play, anyway. It’s all about time management. Instead, I decide to do what any bored eighteen-year-old guy does. I take a shower and jerk off. I really draw it out, too. Make a night of it. Show myself a good time. I think of Vandy and the way she looked in my jacket today. I think of how everyone saw it, and the expression on their faces—the awareness—is enough to make me want to sneak over there and get my hands on her.

  I’m still thinking of that when I come.

  Okay, so maybe some of my restlessness is because Vandy and I haven’t been alone in days. Whether it’s seeing her from afar or sitting next to her in the car with Emory, the result is the same: Biting, acute want. Emory is seriously getting on my fucking nerves. Always there, always watching. I know there was a time I was happy to see him, to hang with my best friend, but the memory is being all fogged up by the way his sister is making my dick hard, twenty-four-seven.

  Breathless and too hot in the steam, I cut the water and dry my face, prepared to retire to my bed for a lazy round two.

  But when I walk out of the bathroom, there she is.

  On my bed.

  In my jacket.

  Alone.

  I’m not going to bullshit myself and pretend a dozen different fantasies don’t start like this. I walk into my room to a hot girl sitting on my bed. In my mind, she’s usually in some kind of lingerie, something sexy and easy to rip off, but seeing my girl, dwarfed in my jacket…

  Yeah, that works too.