A Deal With the Devil

by Angel Lawson

  I nod, feeling stupid. “Like that’s a surprise.”

  “Eh, people have gotten around nosier brothers.” She shrugs, and then haltingly asks, “Was it… okay?”

  I know what she’s asking. “It was…” I fall back into the chair and try to find words to describe it. I’m still aching with the knowledge that, if we hadn’t gotten caught, we could have done it again last night. I can’t stop my blissful smile when I respond, “Better than okay.”

  She meets my smile with a secret one of her own. “That good, huh?”

  “You have no idea,” and ew, if she does, I seriously can’t hear about it involving my brother, so I hastily add, “it wasn’t like Emory thinks. He didn’t talk me into it, or like… manipulate me. We just…” I chew on my lip, trying to choose my words carefully. “We just happened. If anything, I think he was more surprised than I was.”

  She watches me, forehead creasing in concern. “Vandy, your brother, he just feels betrayed. You understand that, right? The things he might be saying, or the way he might be treating you…” She shakes her head sadly. “I won’t excuse it, because I don’t know how bad it is. But I think—no, I know—that he doesn’t mean it. He’s just scared. Dating a guy like Reyn? There’s a lot of ways for it to go wrong. He’s cute and nice, and I like him. But the boy has ‘work in progress’ written all over him.”

  “Yeah, well it’s not like I’m without my own baggage here.” I roll my eyes, fingers reaching up to fidget with the charm around my neck. “We make each other better, though. Emory doesn’t get it.”

  “Talk to him,” she says, eyes imploring. “Like, make him talk to you. He’s stubborn but he’ll listen.”

  I throw my hands in the air, feeling the floodgate opening. “I tried! He just has the most infuriating god complex. He wants to control me, Aubrey. They all want to control me. And like, how is it fair that he gets two girlfriends and no one blinks an eye? I’m not asking for two boyfriends. I’m not a greedy jerk like him, I’ll be happy with just the one, but—” I clamp my mouth closed, rueful eyes falling on her. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

  …bring up Campbell and the fact he’s still with her.

  But Aubrey just snorts. “Girl, please. I’ll have that boy locked down and exclusive before she comes back for Thanksgiving break. Give me some credit.” She leans close, lips quirked. “Between you and me, here’s a little secret about your brother. When it comes to you, he’s stubborn as hell. But otherwise? He’s like putty.”

  I scoff. “Emory?”

  She bobs her head. “Totally. So easy to manipulate. Why do you think Campbell liked him so much? Why do you think he was so quick to impress the old guard? Why do you think he’s so terrified that you might be, too?” She raises an eyebrow. “Putty.”

  I give her a long, searching look, and I realize that she’s completely right. Emory has always conformed to the people around him. This thing he’s doing, leading the Devils? It’s the first thing like this he’s ever gone into without someone else’s influence. Seeing it in that light, I think I’m starting to get a part of why it’s so important to him. I narrow my eyes. “Should I be worried about you?”

  “I really, really like your brother, Vandy.” Something in her eyes softens, and when she looks like that, it’s easy to believe. “I only use my powers for good, but I promise to always respect and comply with your use of the Protective Sister card. God knows it’s time the tables turned a bit.” She repeats, “You should try to talk to him again. Don’t argue or fight. Just talk. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Emory, it’s that you’re his weakness. Use that.”

  I nod, but I doubt it will do much. The whole situation feels hopeless and immoveable—just as steel as I’d felt that morning.

  34

  Reyn

  I’ve spent a lifetime on a tightrope, balancing over a cavernous pit of shame, guilt, punishment, and fear. The rope sways but somehow, some way, I’ve always managed to stay vertical.

  Pure defiance, mostly.

  A touch of stubbornness.

  A heavy dose of not-giving-a-shit.

  But at the moment, that tightrope is pulled taut, and I’m swaying over a pit of vipers. First, there’s Emory, who I know is going to give me my reckoning once this prank is over with. There also Dewey, who will kick my ass back to Mountain Point—or worse—if he catches me sneaking around campus. There’s my dad, who’s been counting on me to stay clean, even though every single circumstance pushes me into the muck. Then there’s Vandy, the girl I love, who will get hurt the most if I screw any of this up.

  It just keeps piling on and on, and I keep juggling and bracing for a fall that I won’t let happen. Maybe Dad was right. Maybe this is all adulthood is—facing one problem after another and just dealing with it, because there’s no other option. There’s a part of me that wants to just run away from it all. To snatch her up and drive her away from all this pretentious, secret-society, prep-school bullshit. But then… I got into this for her. To give her something. Because if I really do end up on the wrong side of this, at least she’ll have the club and the relationships she’s built. The Playthings like her. They treat her like one of the girls. And she’ll have Sebastian, who still sometimes makes me want to hear her promise again, but who seems to get her.

  There’s a long whistle from the doorway, drawing my attention.

  “Look at you.” My dad leans against the door frame, eyebrow raised. “Gonna break some hearts tonight.”

  I turn back to the mirror. The suit is ridiculous, but looking the part is a requirement of the job. “It’s only for a few hours,” I remind myself, even though he’s not wrong. I look damn good in a suit.

  Even if I can’t get this fucking bowtie tied.

  He pushes off the jamb and walks into the room, pulling a stack of bills from his wallet. He tucks them neatly into my palm. “Take her someplace nice, pull her chair out for her, chew with your mouth closed.”

  I blink at him in confusion. “What? Who?”

  “Your date, dumbass.”

  I hand the money back to him. “I don’t have a date.” I try not to even humor the thought of it—how nice it’d be to do all those things with Vandy. “I’m just going for the team.”

  My dad frowns at the money. “Didn’t you ask anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Not even hickey girl?” He gives me a look that’s full of disappointment, muttering, “Maybe your mother was right.”

  “About what?” This whole conversation is making the back of my neck sweat. Or maybe it’s just because I keep fucking this bowtie up.

  He sighs, eyes roving around my room. “She seems to think I’m not setting a good example here.” His lips press into a grim line. “With how to respectfully treat women.”

  “Christ…” I walk over to the laptop, searching for a tutorial.

  He kicks around the room, face tight. “Here’s the thing, Reyn. The women I bring home… they know what’s in the cards for them. You understand that, right? I don’t… date… younger women because I prefer them, it’s because they’re single and not looking for anything serious. It’s important to—”

  “For fuck’s sake!” I can’t take it anymore. The man says the word ‘date’ like he’s referring to a backroom orgy. “I’m not you, Dad. I don’t sleep around!” Not anymore. When the roiling nausea passes, I decide to give him a piece of the truth. “I didn’t ask anyone to the dance because the person I want to ask can’t go with me. That’s it.”

  His face smoothes out into something slack and surprised. “Oh.” His eyes narrow. “Hickey girl?”

  I know he’s fishing for a name, but all I offer is a terse, “Yes.”

  He exhales in relief. “For the record, these talks hurt me more than they hurt you.”

  “I really doubt that.”

  “I can’t watch this anymore,” he decides, coming over to yank the bowtie from my neck. “Stand still.” His forehead creases in concentration as
he loops it around my neck. I only relent, raising my chin, because there isn’t much time to fuck around here. He doesn’t meet my eyes when he asks, “Is she special?”

  I stare at the ceiling, throat constricting with a dry swallow. My hands feel clammy, neck prickling uncomfortably. “Yeah,” I quietly confess. I don’t do it because of whatever bullshit bonding moment he’s trying so hard to actualize. I just can’t stand the thought of saying anything else, because she is.

  Vandy is special.

  His fingers stall momentarily, before pulling the tie through the knot. “Ah,” he says, grinning. “The firefly pendant was for her.”

  “Dad,” I warn. He’s getting too close and it’s making me fidgety as hell. That’s what I get for having it shipped here. The one day this asshole is actually home to intercept the mail, and it’s the day her charm had arrived. “Back off.”

  He looks taken aback by my tone, but easily recovers, tightening the knot and stepping away. “It’ll hold,” he decides.

  “Thanks,” I mutter, trying to smooth over the tension. “It’s not that I don’t—”

  He raises a hand, stopping me. “When you’re ready to talk, I’ll be ready to listen.”

  I observe him, this strange man I barely know anymore. He’s not quite the same dad I remember. That dad had been firm, but unyieldingly present. He would have pushed. He would have interrogated me about this until we were both blue in the face, and then he would have opened that drawer over there, dumped it out, and given me the third degree about all the things inside.

  This dad doesn’t know me—not really. But lately, all this space he’s given me feels less like a cold shoulder and more of a generosity. This dad is oddly patient, and I wonder if it’s the same kind of patience I’ve grown into. The necessary kind. The sort of patience you’ve been forced to feel. Sometimes I see the way he walks through the house, eyes averted, like looking at these walls is physically painful, and I feel bad for him. Because maybe the other dad was present and firm, but this is a dad I can relate to.

  Somehow, he’s become the better version.

  “Dude—” a voice whispers from the dark. “You’re late.”

  I make out Ben’s face from where he’s tucked against the wall in a dark shadow. Caroline is next to him. They, like me, are dressed in formal wear—not exactly my first choice for a break-in. “Sorry. It was this fucking tie. I couldn’t find it, then I couldn’t tie it, and shit. I know. I’m here.”

  Caroline assesses me. “The bowtie was a strong choice, McAllister. I approve.”

  Not sure I was asking for her approval, but whatever. “Are you ready?”

  “We’ve been ready,” Ben replies, holding up his laptop. “The cameras are shut off for the next hour—on a loop. Buster shouldn’t notice anything.”

  Buster is old and probably taking a nap in his chair right now. He’s not my biggest concern. Dewey, on the other hand, is conniving and wise. He’ll be waiting for something to go down tonight, even if it’s just some d-bag spiking the punch bowl. That’s why we have Sebastian and Carlton, though.

  It takes almost nothing to get into the main building. I’d already swiped and traced a key days ago. A little marker, some clear packing tape, an old orange juice jug, and some careful scissor work had provided me with a passable blank, which I’d already tested before the pep rally.

  I slip it into the keyhole, using my torque wrench to turn the tumbler.

  Caroline grins wolfishly when the door opens. “Radical.”

  For several logistical reasons, we have to take the long way through the building, sneaking through the east corridor and past the languages wing. Unlike the gym at Thistle Cove, the hallowed halls of Preston Prep are not completely darkened. I feel exposed and jittery under the soft emergency lights, hugging the lockers and walls as we tread quietly.

  When we reach the tech room, I pull my kit from my pocket and start testing picks. Swiping a key to the main doors was easy—it’s the most worn and accessible key on the janitor’s ring. But finding the key to this room in that mess? Fucking impossible.

  Ben watches me work while Caroline anxiously surveys the hall, teeth gnawing at her thumbnail.

  “So, uh,” Ben starts, eyes fixed on my hands as I work the pick through the tumbler, counting pins. “Fair warning and all, if we get through this, Emory has plans.”

  Quietly, I reply, “Yep.”

  Ben unnecessarily adds, “He’s going to kick your ass.”

  “I’m aware.”

  Ben is gloriously silent long enough for me to count twenty pins. Fuck. That’s a lot of fucking pins. “What the hell do they have in here, the crown jewels?” I get to work, trying to be as efficient and methodical as possible.

  Ben doesn’t even interrupt my concentration when he asks, “You gonna let him? Kick your ass, I mean.”

  I don’t pause. “Haven’t decided yet.” I get the first cylinder cleared and cut my eyes to him, curious. “Think it’d help if I did?”

  He shrugs. “Maybe.”

  I press my lips together and continue clicking pins. At this point, a mere ass-kicking seems downright optimistic. The thing about best friends is that they have all the dirt on you, and Emory has truckloads of mine. Things I’ve stolen. Places I’ve broken into. People I’ve taken from. If it were anything else but Vandy, I might think he was bluffing about narc’ing on me. But when it comes to her, I’m not so sure.

  “He’s acting like a pig,” Caroline mutters. I guess everyone knows by now. Awesome.

  Ben argues, “You don’t know the whole situation.”

  “I know Vandy deserves to make her own decisions and have those respected by the people who claim to care about her.”

  “I’m not saying she doesn’t, I’m just saying there are circumstances, and even though I don’t agree with him, I understand why he’s—”

  She barks out a sharp, “Ugh. I can’t believe you’re Team Emory. Even Carlton’s Team Reyn.”

  “I’m not choosing teams,” Ben replies.

  “Shocker there,” Caroline says. “Football and band. Guys and girls. V and Em. You don’t commit, Shackleford.”

  “I commit!” he hisses. “I might commit to everything, but trust me. I fucking follow through.”

  Caroline doesn’t seem to have anything to say to this. “Well, all the Playthings are Team V.”

  I calmly cut in, “I’m Team ‘shut the fuck up so I can pick this lock and not get busted’. Feel me?” There’s a long, contrite silence. I take advantage of it, getting lost in the repetitive movements. The longer it takes, the more I can hear them shifting impatiently, checking the clocks on their phones, biting their nails.

  When the last pin is in, I pause, wrench still in the tumbler.

  This is the point I’d ask my girl to choose a direction—left or right.

  I could ask Caroline or Ben, but strangely, the thought of choosing doesn’t make my throat all tight and constricted like it used to. It’s stupid, because I should be feeling it now more than ever. It’ll take me for-fucking-ever if these pins get reset.

  Without hesitating, I turn it right.

  The lock opens.

  I stand, popping the knob and waving them inside. I barely pay attention to what they’re doing once they are. I drop into the same desk I’d sat in that day, weeks ago, when Vandy had driven a figurative knife through my gut. I’m thinking of how I haven’t had that chest-clutching anxiety in a long time. I’m thinking of how I probably will let Emory kick my ass. I’m thinking of how love is so fucking stupid, and yet also fully badass.

  Whatever they’re doing, it doesn’t take nearly as long as getting through that lock had.

  “We’re good,” Caroline says, stuffing cords into her bag.

  Ben closes the laptop and nervously darts to the door, checking both ends of the hallways before nodding us out.

  Buoyed by the feeling of success, we retrace our steps, going in reverse. Relocking the doors, double checking our blin
d spots. Caroline giggles nervously behind me, giddy with her own duplicity, and Ben keeps taking his phone out of his pocket, checking and re-checking the time.

  Once we get out the door, none of us linger. As planned, we split up, each of us taking different routes back to the gym. Most of my excitement is about getting to Vandy, though. I’m fucking dying to lock eyes on her. I want her to see me in this stupid suit, ridiculous bowtie and all. More than anything, I want to drag her onto the dance floor and show the whole fucking school—Emory included—that for better or for worse, she’s my girl. I know I can’t, but it’s a nice dream.

  “Decided to come after all, huh?”

  I skid to a stop, turning to see Sydney leaning against the Devil’s Tower. She’s wearing a red, skin-tight dress, and might even look nice if not for the smudged eye makeup and the lazy, bitter smirk on her face. I can smell the liquor on her from over here. “Guess I decided to see what all the fuss is about.”

  Her lean against the tower is slumped and awkward, and I don’t really like the way this all looks. Some drunk girl propped against the entrance to the Stairway to Hell doesn’t give me the most fun and consensual vibes.

  “Are you… waiting for someone?” I reluctantly ask.

  She looks at the door, and then up, as if someone might be up there. She gives the stonework a little pat. “Nope. Just little old me.” Her smile is overly bright, sloppy. “Getting stood up, as one does.”

  I pull a face, craning my neck to look toward the gym. “Uh, sorry to hear that.” I can see now her makeup isn’t smudged, so much as running tracks down her cheeks. This girl is a complete mess.

  I nod my chin, gesturing to where her foot is at an odd angle. “Something wrong?”

  Her eyes follow mine, and she must be pretty wasted, because she almost looks surprised. “I twisted my ankle on the grass.” She extends her leg, giving me a view of her long legs and the sharp, pointed heel of her shoes. “That’s what I get for trying to look fabulous for guys who don’t show up.”