by Angel Lawson
She groans into her hands, but she’s fighting back laughter. “I’m sorry! You never close your curtains.”
I’m stunned speechless. Or, almost speechless. “Liked what you saw?”
She’s smiling back at me now, her lip trapped between her teeth. “Clearly.”
I wet my lips just imagining it—her watching me. “Full disclosure here. I’m not really in a position right now to give you much of a show.”
She looks back at me, face puckered in confusion. “What do you mean?”
I look between us, slowly working my pants and boxers down my hips. I feel more than see Vandy rising up on her elbows to watch as my cock springs free, bouncing lewdly over her spread legs. I take myself in hand, glancing up at her, and she’s staring at it intensely. God, this is probably the first cock she’s ever seen up close and personal.
That risk management plan is so fucked.
“Show me,” she breathes, blue eyes blazing back at me. “Show me how you like it.”
I sit back on my heels, eyes dragging down her body as my fist starts pumping. She’s still wearing my jacket, and it’s lame. I know it’s lame. But I feel this hot spike of possessive want shoot right to my cock. Her skirt’s still pushed up, revealing her wet panties and all of her thighs, and I really wasn’t lying before.
This is going to be quick.
My jaw clenches hard as I look, eyes roving from her thighs, to her panties, to her hot, eager gaze, and then back again. My hand moves on its own, slow and languid, trying to draw it out, even though I know it’s futile.
“Does it hurt?” she asks, watching my every move.
“No.” I bite my lip, stroking up the shaft, rolling the tip in my palm. “It feels fucking fantastic.”
“It feels good when I do it, too,” she admits, which causes me to skip a beat. “But the best time was when I did it while watching you.”
“Oh, Jesus Christ.”
I focus on her legs, unable to really process what she’s telling me. It’s too much, too intense. Already, I can see her hips subtly wriggling with me, like they’re magnetized to the rhythm I’m setting. I watch the tattoo as it moves with her, her legs still spread open for me like they want to cradle my hips and take me in and—
I fall forward on my palm, hovering over her as the coil finally snaps. All of the tension I’ve been holding in all day seems to erupt with it. “Fuck,” I growl as I watch my come paint the skin of her thighs, my fist wringing it out.
Vandy makes this airy little, “Oh,” sound as she watches—as she feels it fall on her.
“Sorry.” I feel like I’m half-wheezing from the force of it, sitting back on my heels to commit the vision to memory. I swipe the back of my hand over my mouth. “Sometimes I can’t control where it goes,” I lie.
She gives me a look that tells me just how much she isn’t buying this. “It’s okay.”
It’s probably not, but I’m too wrung out to beat myself up over it. Instead, I fish around in her bathroom for something to clean it off with, offering her an apologetic glance when I do.
She spends a long time in the bathroom—cleaning herself up, I guess—and I set myself to rights and linger around the window. I shouldn’t stay. A cautious glance out her window tells me that my dad isn’t even home, but it can’t be a good idea.
But when Vandy walks out of the bathroom in a thin shirt and a pair of shorts, eyes pinging between me and the window, I know before she opens her mouth what she’s going to ask.
“Stay?”
I know I’m going to give in.
“Okay.”
She rests her head in the crook of my shoulder when we lay down, and it’s a different quiet in here than the one in my room. This quiet is full of Vandy’s soft breaths, the rustle of the sheets when she moves her legs, the gentle sweep of her fingers against the hair on my forearm.
I break it with a soft, “Hey, V?”
She looks up at me, but I can’t bring myself to tear my eyes away from her ceiling. “Hm?”
“Remember earlier,” I ask, “when you made me promise?”
Her hand goes instantly still. “Yeah,” she says reluctantly, voice small and full of something I don’t want to think about.
I swallow. “Never Sebastian, okay?”
There’s a long stretch of silence, and I’m afraid for a moment that she’s going to ask why, and I won’t know what to tell her. It’s not that I don’t like him. It’s not that I didn’t see the way he treated her back there, like she was just any other girl—like the way her leg is was nothing to him. It’s not even that I think he’d hurt her.
It’s because of all those things.
It’s not until she repeats, “Never Sebastian,” and presses a small, “I promise,” into my shoulder that I can finally close my eyes.
23
Vandy
“Don’t forget the meeting tonight,” Emory says, wiping his mouth with a napkin. Our lunch table has grown into something crowded and curious. My brother and Aubrey were one thing, but after the fight—the bonfire—most of the other Devils and Playthings began drifting to our table, too. People around us notice and I can feel their probing gazes, because Vandy Hall does not sit at the popular table.
Except suddenly, I do.
If someone had suggested this possibility on the first day of school, I would have thought they were high. Or that I was.
It’s not without its conflicts. Emory has made it clear that Sydney isn’t welcome. She pretends she doesn’t care, sitting over with the lacrosse boys, but the pointed looks directed my way are laced with tension and a bitterness that makes the back of my neck prickle.
Then there’s Reyn.
He’s not supposed to be anywhere near me, but the merging of our worlds has made that a challenge. And after those two nights in my room, it’s almost a physical ache to not be around him. It doesn’t help that he hasn’t been to my room since that night. It seems like his dad is always home now, so I’ve had to settle for the moments like these, clustered around the other Devils, watching him, pretending I’m not over-warm and restless and impatient, and yes.
Tired.
Sleeping without Reyn sucks.
It’s only been three times, but god. I already miss it. I miss the good dreams, the lake and the fireflies and the stillness. I miss the warm, solid weight of him beside me. I miss the way he looks when he’s sleeping, face slack, lips just barely parted. I miss the way he kissed me when he left those two nights—a soft, feathery touch to my forehead—believing I was still asleep, even though I was listening to him put his shoes on.
Admittedly, sleep is a doomed endeavor when night is the only time I can really talk to him. For the past week, we’ve met at our windows, phones pressed to our ears, voices low across the distance. It’s painfully insufficient, but at least I have that—the sound of his voice as he leans over the sill, face shadowed.
Sometimes, if I really work for it, he’ll raise his face into the light and give me one of those patented Reyn McAllister smiles.
“I’ll be there after practice,” Afton says. “We’re working on homecoming stuff.”
“I have a shit-ton of homework for Dr. Ross due tomorrow, but,” Emory says, lowering his voice. “I have the next rite.”
I discreetly glance across the table at Reyn. His intense green eyes are already fixed on me. It’s a thrill to know that maybe he shares this chaotic, bone-deep need to touch and clutch and have. He’s a lot better at this thing than I am, stealing his covert glances at the perfect times. Of course, Reyn is always good at stealing. His expression is always schooled into something aloof, disinterested, but I know better. He’s definitely interested. I can tell when those eyes roam to my mouth, my chest, my waist, my legs.
He’s infatuated with my thighs, and it isn’t fair. The thought that I can’t just give them to him, feel his hands grazing up my skin there, claiming it, marking it, is killing me. if I wasn’t being watched twenty-four-seven by my family,
I’d get utterly lost in letting him fawn over them as much as he wants.
Unfortunately, that’s not how life works. Just figures that I’d finally find a guy who wants me, a guy I want back, and I’m not allowed to even be around him. I try to steal another glance, but this time, he’s not watching me. His gaze is trained across the room, face set into that sharp stillness. He’s got one hand on his backpack and he’s already halfway out of the chair. I turn to see what he’s looking at. Not ‘what’, but ‘who’.
Dean Dewey.
I glance at my brother, who has also noticed what’s going on. “Dude,” he says to Reyn, “let me say something to him. We can deal with this.”
“My problem,” Reyn says with a shrug and, a blink later, has already eased himself into a group of passing students.
“Is everything okay here?” Dean Dewey says, eyeing the empty chair. A water bottle sits on the table, half-full. It’s not the first time Dewey has scared Reyn off. It’s like they’re hoping to catch him in the act, just to have something to pin on him. Maybe Jerry and Dewey are trading notes or something.
“Everything’s fine,” Emory says, speaking for the group. Afton gives him a smile. Tyson focuses on his lunch. I feel the hot spike of anger building in my chest, but swallow it back until the Dean, and his penetrative eyes, leaves.
“We need to fix this,” I say to Emory, fed up. “It’s not fair that he can’t sit with his friends.”
“He can sit with his friends,” Carlton says. “Just not when you’re around.”
The words sting like a slap, even though I know Carlton didn’t mean for them to. “You’re right. Reyn should sit here, and I—” I look around, deciding, “I’ll go somewhere else to eat from now on.”
“What?” Emory grabs my arm before I can stand. “No way. That is not how we’re handling this shit. You’re my sister. He’s my best friend. There has to be a solution.” He sighs. “I’ll talk to Mom and Dad, maybe they can do something.”
I nod but wait a few minutes before leaving the cafeteria anyway, explaining that I just don’t have an appetite anymore. It’s not a lie. I search the hallways, but can’t find Reyn. I fire off a few texts:
Where are you?
Are you okay?
I’m sorry.
Finally, just before the bell rings, my phone buzzes.
I’m fine. See you at the meeting tonight.
I know better than to press, and there’s nothing I can do about it right now, anyway. Every time something like this comes up, Reyn tends to fall into some silent, blank space that I can’t seem to reach. I’m just hoping that someday he’ll let me help him the way he’s helped me. I know there’s a lot of pressure on him with Jerry and Dewey always following him around, not to mention his dad and the combined expectations of Preston’s football program heavy on his shoulders. He’s finally found acceptance with me and it’s a secret wrapped in another secret.
All of that is still on my mind when we meet in the bunker that night. When I take my seat in the circle, he’s already there, sweaty and flushed from practice. His face is still set into that eerie stillness from earlier, jaw sharply clenched.
“We’re halfway through the rituals,” Emory says, holding the black book in his hands. “And we’ve had advance notice by the Devil ‘Powers that Be’ that there’s an endowment fundraising dinner at the club to kick off homecoming. Plan on being there.”
Reyn speaks up, voice flat. “Might be a problem, considering I’m not allowed on club property anymore.”
Afton’s eyebrows shoot up and Sebastian gives a deep little laugh. For once, no one looks at me.
“Don’t worry about that,” Emory says. “We’ll figure it out.”
“Any news on the next ritual?” Tyson asks.
“Yes,” my brother says, holding up a piece of black cardstock. He flips it around so we can see the silver handwriting. “Our next challenge is getting into the Preston Alumni House and leaving the Devil’s mark inside somewhere.”
“We’re doing another break-in?” Georgia asks, eyes darting around.
“Not exactly.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the key that is identical to the one we all have. “These keys open a lot of doors at Preston. The Alumni house is one of them.”
He goes on to explain the specifics. The Devils mark—the D with the pitchfork—needs to be stamped somewhere discreetly in the house. Apparently, this was done for years before it fell out of tradition. “Like the other rites, you’ll work with a partner. There’s a caretaker on site and we’re instructed to leave the marks between nine p.m. and three a.m. this Tuesday.”
“On a school night?” I blurt. All their eyes shift to me in varying degrees of amusement. One sentence just confirmed my excruciating lameness. It’s just hard getting out of the house at night with my parents watching. “Never mind. I’ll figure it out.”
Emory calls the meeting to a close and I stand, grabbing my bag. I turn to Reyn, excited that we have an excuse to finally talk, but he’s already filtering out the door behind Caroline. I watch, stomach twisting in disappointment as he leaves. It’s almost as bad as that night of the bonfire, wondering if I’ve done something wrong. Even if I hadn’t, it just always feels like all of Reyn’s problems are because of me.
“Hey.” Emory bumps our shoulders together once everyone else has left. “I can probably talk to Mom and Dad, try to get you an alibi.”
“Oh.” I try to play off my sullen mood. “No, it’s okay. I can wing it.” He’s already talking to them about Reyn. If I want to be treated as an equal, I can’t keep counting on Emory to have all my difficult discussions.
“Well, other than myself, Reyn is the most likely to get in and out of there with no trouble.” We walk toward the staircase and he turns to lock the door with his key. “I’m going with Aubrey.”
“You really like her, huh?”
His cheeks tint but he shrugs like it’s no big deal. “She’s cool. Way less demanding than Campbell. Less mean, too. Plus, she’s…” he looks at me and I see him mentally shift gears from whatever other compliment he was going to give her, “… uh, cool.”
“Right.” My eyes narrow and for a split second, I wonder what he was about to say. What do guys like in a girl, anyway? Of course, then I’d have to live with the knowledge of my brother liking something about a girl. Blech. “Well, for what it’s worth, I like her, too.”
He gives me a small grin. “Honestly, that’s worth more than you’d think.”
There’s a beat where I want so badly to tell him about Reyn. To share this enormous, all encompassing, life-changing thing I’m going through. The confession is like fire on the tip of my tongue. Maybe he wouldn’t really care. We’re all friends now. We’re Devils. Emory likes Reyn.
But I know better.
Emory’s approval has limitations. He’s getting something out of this—his best friend back. And I’m getting something too—the article. If he scratched the surface on my relationship with Reyn, god knows what else would come out.
“Reyn and I will do fine,” I say. “The odds of getting caught are pretty slim.”
“He’s uniquely skilled for this type of prank.” We reach the top of the stairs, but before we go outside, he says, “One thing, though.”
“What’s that?”
He turns to me, face serious. “You guys need to get in, leave your mark, and get out. Don’t let him take anything. I know for a fact they inventory everything in there. It’s a historic home, filled with historic Preston Prep artifacts. It’s like putting a fat kid in a candy shop, but he needs to keep his hands to himself.”
The snort happens without warning, and I slap a hand over my mouth and nose. It’s not the candy shop comment that gets me laughing. It’s the idea of Reyn keeping his hands to himself. I know for a fact that’s something he struggles with.
“I’ll try to keep him in line,” I reply, “or distract him somehow.”
He grins. “Thanks V. You know, I’m
really glad we’re doing this together. The three of us? It’s like old times, before—”
“I’m glad, too,” I finish before he can wallow in the memory of what happened. It’s the first time that the thought of actually completing this article gives me pause. Emory and I have built this fragile, new trust with one another, and the thought of breaking it makes my chest ache. He’s opening up to me, about Aubrey and Reyn, and who knows. Maybe if he had a little more time to get used to the idea, I could open up to him about Reyn, too.
Am I really ready to burn that all down?
I’m still thinking about it that evening as I add the details of the new rite to my notes, staring at all the material I’ve collected. Because of my access, there’s a lot here, and it’s solid stuff. The invitations, the notices about the rituals, photos I secretly took of the bunker, the tattoos. All of these things were meant to bond us together, and I have to hand it to them.
It’s worked.
I think of Sebastian jumping to my defense, Georgia and her shy smiles, Afton and her badass attitude. I think of Aubrey and the way she looks at my brother, hopeful and soft. I think of Tyson’s easy smiles and Carlton’s ridiculous comments. I think of Ben and Elana’s laughter, people who I used to think mean and elitist, but who I’ve found nothing but kindness. I think of Caroline sitting at our table and all the awed looks she gets for doing it.
We’re nothing like we were on that first night, sitting in the circle, confessing our sins. We were all a little broken then, shiftless like flotsam. This thing—these Devils—have always been a cruel, ugly thing. Maybe the havoc of the legacy breathes in all of us, but maybe I’ve been too quick to write it off.
Maybe we’re turning this into something better. Something good.
But just as soon as the thought comes, it passes. If it were only the twelve of us calling the shots, maybe it could be like that. But we don’t hold the power here. Whoever’s behind the resurgence of the Devils do.
Thanks.
I keep scrolling up, reading my texts with Reyn. A couple hours ago, I’d left him a plate of fried chicken in the front seat of his Jeep and shot him a message telling him where to find it. Hence, the Thanks.
