A Deal With the Devil

by Angel Lawson

  Carlton, who is standing over the sink, grins when he sees me. “Dude,” he says, holding out a cup. “Try that.”

  I tilt the cup to my lips and feel a caustic burn at the back of my throat. “Jesus Christ,” I mutter, looking at the red punch. “This shit could peel paint.”

  Carlton laughs. “It’s nasty but it’ll fuck you up.”

  “Well, there is that,” I say, taking the cup and turning around. My feet stick to the floor and I lift one up, looking to see if I stepped in something.

  “Oh yeah, watch your step.” Sydney is leaning against the island, hip jutting out. “Vandy spilled punch all over the place.”

  My eyes dart down to her tanned legs, tracing up to her thighs. Even I’ve heard the rumors and jokes about her short skirts. She’s an attractive girl. Sexy, if you’re into the overt stuff, which I’m sure many guys are. The warning Emory gave me flashes in my head, but it’s not even necessary. Normally, I’d be all about seeing what it might be like to feel my hands between those legs of hers, but there’s just something about Sydney that’s off-putting. She’s trying just a little too hard, and it takes away a lot of the appeal.

  I’m still a guy, though, and it takes me a stretch of silent leg-ogling to register her words.

  “Vandy’s here?”

  I force myself not to look for her.

  “I know, I’m surprised, too. She never wants to come, but she asked for a ride and I was like, yes! Let’s do this!” She lifts her foot, which makes a ripping sound as it separates from the sticky floor. “Poor thing. She’s barely here for five minutes when she commits the ultimate party foul.”

  “Hm.” I absently bring the cup to my mouth again but stop when the smell hits me. Aren’t rich people like the Maxwells supposed to have good liquor? “So, where did she go?”

  “Being Vandy,” her eyeroll doesn’t look nearly as fond as she probably thinks it does,

  “she tried to clean it all up. George was helping her and then they vanished. Not sure.”

  “George?” Fucking pimply faced fucker. I swear to god.

  “Holy shit.” Her face lights up, oblivious to my irritation. Oblivious to a lot of things, really. She grabs my forearm. “Do you think she’s like, flirting with him or something? That would be amazing. It’s high time my girl started seeing some action. You know, things have been really shitty for her since that wreck.” Her eyes suddenly widen, her hand popping over her red mouth. “Oh shit, sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  I’m not ungentle when I pull my arm from her grasp. “No worries.”

  She doesn’t look put out. “I get it, you know.”

  My eyes narrow. “Get what?”

  “What it’s like to be the center of all the rumors. People love to talk about me. It’s non-fucking-stop. It’s like, just live your own damn life, people. Why are you so interested in mine?” Her mouth runs like a freight train, barreling forward. “I just try to focus my attention on Vandy. She’s really needed my support these last couple years, so I’ve done everything I can to really stick by her side. Even when things were bad.” She leans forward. “I mean, really bad.” She looks like she’s dying to tell me specifics.

  “Uh huh.” Jesus, this girl. Emory was right. She’s a piece of work.

  “Anyway, I know that you’re not supposed to be spending time with her because of your probation and everything,” she touches my shoulder, “but that doesn’t mean we can’t hang out.” My eyes flick to her hand and the way her thumb is rubbing against my shirt.

  “Right.” I reach for my phone in my back pocket, acting like I’m looking at an incoming call. “Know what? That’s my probation officer. I need to go take this.”

  Her eyebrows shoot up her forehead, but she nods solemnly. I stalk away from her, making an easy escape down an empty hallway. I expect that by the time I get home, rumors will be flying about the ‘call’ I just received. I don’t even care. I slip to the back of the house and pass an open door. A lamp on the desk casts a dim light through the room, but it’s enough to catch my attention.

  I step inside and push the door closed. The room itself is a showcase of leather-bound books, shiny trinkets, and collectibles. While the party rages on down the hall, I take my time, running my hands over the spines of books, inspecting a solid silver figurine in the shape of a bear, an elaborately carved humidor and various cigar paraphernalia. I bypass the photographs of Elana and her family, but linger over a curio cabinet, the central focus being a gold pocket watch.

  My body hums like a diviner searching for water.

  The watch is too pricey to steal, though. Obviously, a family heirloom. Too flashy, too much attention. I sink into the deep leather chair behind the desk and peruse the cigar offerings instead. I don’t smoke, but the cigar lighter is rad. It’s heavy and flares to life in a billow of brightness and butane when I press the trigger.

  Like always when I see a flame, I feel that old background nudge of ‘get away’. I stare into the blue and yellow of it, letting the wrongness of it slide over me like melted wax. It doesn’t give me the same back-sweating panic that it used to, and sometimes I think my little stint with Melanie The Pyromaniac was more about this than the sex. The way she handled fire was a thing of beauty. I’d watch her from afar, too proud to admit that the sight of flames made my stomach roil and my back itch. Given the gentle way she kept bringing it closer and closer, I’m pretty sure she knew. Complete lunatic, and the sex was… fine, but that’s the biggest thing I took away from my time with her.

  This thing—this light and heat—only has as much power over me as I give it.

  I press off the trigger, kicking back leisurely in the chair.

  I’m assessing my prize, testing the weight of it in my hand, when the door falls open and a girl stumbles in.

  Not just any girl.

  Vandy turns around, her long hair falling over her shoulder, and our eyes meet. I know instantly that something’s wrong. Her eyes are big and wild, and when she reaches up to push her hair behind her ear, I can see a little tremor.

  We silently take each other in. She’s wearing a clingy little jumpsuit with thigh-grazing short-shorts, and I don’t even know what it is about this place. It’s like every bit of female clothing in this town was designed to torture me.

  Her eyes flick down to the object in my hand and back up to my face, but I’m focused solely on her expression. Her face is drawn and ashen, and I know the way she’s breathing. I’d know that shit anywhere. It’s the same way I used to breathe when Melanie first started setting shit on fire in front of me. All I can think is that the last person she was seen with was George.

  “Are you stealing that?” she asks, the judgment thick in her question.

  “Just browsing.” I don’t miss her knitted eyebrows, but at least she’s being distracted from her panic. “What? That’s not a crime.”

  “Picking through people’s personal belongings without their permission is pretty damn close to a crime, Reynolds.”

  “Close, but not quite.” I pick up the cigar cutter and balance the two in my hands. “I’m wavering between the guillotine and the torch. What do you think?”

  She stares at me, aghast, unaware that I’m successfully drawing her out of her panic attack. Her arms cross over her chest. “I think you and every other guy in this place should start keeping your hands to yourself.

  I hold her eyes as I lean forward, carefully setting the items back on the desk. “Is someone bothering you?” There’s a threat in my voice that I’m all too ready to deliver on.

  “No.” She visibly struggles to take a deep breath. “Yes. No. Well… it’s less about the guy and more about me. I told you before, I don’t do things like this.” She gestures wildly, babbling, “I don’t go to parties. I don’t mingle and drink and not embarrass myself. Elana only invited me because,” she gives me a significant look, “well, you know why she invited me. But I’m sure she’s regretting it. I’m clumsy and slow, and I spilled my drink, an
d everyone is watching me, and I don’t know how to talk to people, and George didn’t even do anything wrong, except… except pick the worst girl in school to try to kiss, and god, this would all be so much easier if I’d taken an oxy tonight.” She punctuates this by rattling the door when her head bangs back against it, nostrils flared out with her breaths.

  That may be the most I’ve ever heard Vandy say in her life.

  “Hey.” I keep my voice low, waiting for her eyes to meet mine. “Hey, come on. Parties suck. Why do you think I’m in here?” I stand from the chair, burying my hands into my pockets. “And look, everyone does embarrassing stuff. Fucking ChattySnap will be full of hormonal teenage regret by tomorrow. And George?” I swallow back rising irritation and try to come up with the right words to say. “George is a fucking idiot, but I’m pretty sure you’re not the worst girl in school to try to kiss.”

  Her cheeks turn the most delightful shade of pink, spreading down her neck and to the V of her shirt. I notice the black cord and instinctively feel for the one in my pocket. I’d spent half the bus ride to and from the game wondering what it goes to.

  Now I’m wondering if hers is the same.

  Vandy shakes her head, eyes dropping. “He’s an idiot because he picked the one girl at this party with zero experience.” She presses her palms to her cheeks, giving me a wincing look. “I completely panicked when he tried. I didn’t even have time to think about if I wanted it or not. I mean, god, it would have been my first kiss, and I just shoved him off and ran away like a coward.”

  I let out a slow, relieved breath. Halle-fucking-lujah, I won’t have to pummel that kid.

  Her face turns inexplicably red and I try to come up with an appropriate answer for that. Appropriate in the way her brother’s best friend might be, an answer that doesn’t slip into improper territory because, well…

  When I first saw the photo in the trophy case, I’d noticed how pretty she was, but in person? In the dim light of this room, with the red cheeks and the short-shorts? It’s more than obvious. She’s stunning. A little low-key, especially compared to girls like her friend Sydney, but cute in a whole different way.

  Not in the big-brotherly kind of way, either.

  “Doesn’t seem like a big loss.” I eventually say, shrugging. “Do you really want your first kiss to be with some chicken-shit pizza face, next to the keg?”

  I’m not sure why, but she looks vaguely embarrassed by this. “He’s not so bad.”

  It occurs to me that she might actually like that douchebag. I have a lot of opinions on this, but don’t voice a single one. I just grit my teeth, reaching out to finger the cigar lighter again. “Whatever floats your boat, Baby V.”

  Her eyebrows furl into something dark and combative. “Well, some people don’t have prospects throwing themselves at us all the time.”

  I feel my lip curl at this, because I’ve seen the way guys look at Vandy—far better guys than George—and seriously? This is the culmination of Emory’s bullshit efforts to keep them away? I can see it perfectly. She’s going to go for the first guy who has the balls to make a move. All it’ll take are a few generically pleasant words, the right place, and some gentle coaxing, and he’s in there. Just like that. It could totally be George. It could be Tyson, who already lies to a girl every single day, just to get into her pants. It could even be Sebastian, who legitimately seems one misspoken word from an assault charge. It could be anyone.

  She’d just… settle.

  The thought makes me boil inside.

  Before I can decide how to even voice any of that, the sounds of distant sirens begin swelling beyond the house. I instantly recognize it as the howl of Fucking Jerry’s golf cart. I walk to the window and take a furtive peek through the curtains, and sure enough, his amber lights are flashing up the drive.

  But blue lights follow close behind.

  “Fuck.”

  It’s not just him this time. He’s called for back-up from his buddies, two police cruisers rolling up behind him.

  I glance over at Vandy, and all of that restless, wide-eyed panic has returned with a vengeance. “Oh my god, I can’t get caught here.”

  “You and me both, Baby V.” There’s no Mountain Point at the end of this road. There’s just probation violations and more time in juvie, for me. I snatch the lighter off the desk and put the guillotine carefully back in its place. Then, I walk over to the opposite side of the room and push back the sheer white curtain, revealing French doors that lead to the side yard. “Come on,” I tell her, holding out my hand.

  She blinks and stares at it, frozen still as a statue.

  It’s like I’m transported back in time. Suddenly this room is a parking lot and I’m watching the glow of stadium lights playing across the softness of her young cheeks and bright eyes. It takes me a moment to blink myself out of it, but when I do, I snatch my hand away.

  I swallow and ball my fist, shoving it in my pocket. “I can get you home safe. I promise.”

  The words ring hollow, even to me—even knowing that I can. That I will.

  For a moment I think she’s going to turn and run, and for a longer moment I’m thinking that she should.

  She should run like hell.

  Instead, she braces herself and walks across the room, following me out the door.

  It’s the second time Vandy has put her faith in me to get her somewhere safe.

  This time I’m not going to fail.

  13

  Vandy

  I stare at that hand for a long, hard moment, fear licking up my spine. The last time I followed Reynolds McAllister, it destroyed my life and his. But the sirens are growing louder, and outside the library door I hear frenzied footsteps, kids shouting, “Cops!” and I know that if I get caught here, that’s all she wrote. My mom will never let me out of the house again.

  I also know if I don’t make a decision quick, Reyn will leave me here. He’ll have to, I wouldn’t even blame him. He’d be facing a prison sentence that’s a lot worse than the mere parent-mandated house arrest I’m looking at.

  Self-preservation kicks in, and before I can change my mind, I’ve followed him out the door. The entire front yard is chaos, blue and yellow lights casting a swirl of color across the front yard. Reyn heads toward the woods, away from the light and noise. He darts ahead, fast, clearly unfamiliar with how much my halting gait holds me back. He vanishes into the tree line, but reemerges instantly, a deep line slashing his forehead.

  “Sorry!” I whisper, struggling through the grass, “I can’t—”

  He turns, squats and says, “Get on my back.”

  A twig snaps and it startles me into action. Despite a gazillion reservations, I steady my hands on his firm, broad shoulders and hop. His hands catch my thighs and hitch me up, and he straightens easily, hooking his arms under my legs.

  “Good?” he asks, although he’s already moving.

  “Go go go!” I urge and without any more hesitation, he takes off through the woods. He moves just like the athlete he is, steady and sure. The jostling makes me clench my knees around his waist, and when I press my cheek against the side of his neck, his skin is warm and a little clammy. As he darts through the forest, I’m overwhelmed by sensations. The scent of him, soapy, clean, and masculine, fills my lungs. I find myself breathing it in curiously, filing it away. The hard lines of his muscular body shift against me with the raw power of his movement.

  Once we’re away from the lights of Elana’s house, he slows, striding quietly through the dark, but he doesn’t release me, and I don’t stop clinging to him. I readjust my grip to something less strangling and he ducks his head, bouncing once to buck me up a little higher.

  A different set of lights appear, but these I recognize as our houses in the distance. He spins for a minute, reaching out and touching the trunk of a tree. The treehouse, I realize. He clutches my legs against his sides and I feel his pulse hammering beneath my cheek. His breath comes out in low shudders, his chest heaving
from exertion, and there’s a moment when it becomes acutely awkward that I’m still hanging on his back.

  I unlatch my hands and slowly slide down the lean slope of his tall body. The chirp of the early fall crickets fills the air, and the lights from our backyard cast far enough back here that we’re not completely swallowed in the dark.

  He lets out a low, breathless laugh, collapsing against the trunk of the tree. “And here I thought I was done with ruck marches.”

  I watch his chest rise and fall. “Ruck marches?”

  He nods breathlessly, leaning forward to rest his hands on his knees. “Ruck marches are... like…” He tilts his head, but the bill of his cap obstructs his eyes. “Travelling a certain distance, in a certain amount of time, with a certain amount of weight strapped to your back. My old school had them twice a year. It’s always a big deal.”

  It’s the first time I realize that I don’t actually know much about what Reyn’s life was like, wherever he was. I knew he was in a military academy, of course. Everyone knew that. I’d known about juvie. I’d even known about the week he spent in the hospital, after the accident. But I guess I’d never given it much thought beyond the bare fact of it.

  “That sounds terrible.”

  “Nah.” He straightens and gives a dismissive wave. “They test you first, build up the weights and the distance depending on your conditioning and endurance. There’s PT for it every week. There are some people in the military that have to do it all the time.”

  But Reyn didn’t go to that school because he wanted to be in the military. It was punishment.

  Punishment for what he did to me.

  He breathlessly adds, “Who knew it’d come in handy, huh?” and smiles at me.

  It’s the smile. His eyes still look tired, and he has that same stillness about him, but now his lips are pulled back, revealing both of his dimples.