Devil May Care: Enemies-to-Lovers Standalone Romance: Boys of Preston Prep

by Angel Lawson

  I roll my eyes, looking at him long-sufferingly. “It’s not ‘work’. We’re going to volunteer at a program my mother has contacts with while we’re there, and no one said you had to dig a well.”

  “Unpaid work.” He makes a series of overdramatic, fake gagging sounds. “Like a fucking socialist. Even better.”

  We talk with our friends, and I realize that I’ll miss them. But I’m also really excited about going on this adventure with Hamilton. It’ll be a good test for the fall.

  We both committed to Vanderbilt and secured spots on the swim team.

  We’ll be around one another a lot.

  “We’re going to go,” Tyson says, shrugging into his dress blazer, “but we’ll see you tonight at the end-of-year bonfire, right?”

  I nod. “Yep.”

  Presley gives me a hug, and over her shoulder, I see Hamilton across the room talking to an older couple I don’t know. I take the break to head to the restroom off the kitchen. I’m only just returning to the party when a hallway door opens, and I’m pulled inside.

  I’m engulfed in the spicy warmth of Hamilton’s scent before the door even clicks shut.

  “What are you—”

  There’s no need to finish my question. His wolfish grin tells me everything I need to know.

  “I just needed a minute alone with you. You know I hate crowds.” His nose nuzzles in the crook of my neck. “All the small talk and chit-chat. Really, you’re the only one here I like. I don’t need a big fuck-you party to have that.”

  It’s true. For the last six months, we’ve spent most of our time together. In all the years I’d seen Hamilton dating different girls, the Devils or sports or whatever he was interested in, those things always came first.

  He’s done a thorough job of making it very clear that I’m his main priority.

  Although, the fantastic sex is probably a contributing factor. That’s one thing that hasn’t changed. He’s insatiable, still as wicked as they come. He pushes at the hem of my sundress, fingertips dragging a blazing trail up my thigh.

  “Please?” he says, planting a slow, teasing kiss to my lips. “It’s been, like... days.”

  I laugh but can’t help but push into his hands. “It’s been two days.”

  “Jesus, that’s like a lifetime.” His insistent fingers dip under the lace of my panties, searching.

  “What if Renata or someone comes in here?” I say, knees weak from the feel of his lips on my neck. “Or god, your mom?”

  He breathlessly explains, “I locked the door.”

  There was really no talking him out of this—not that I ever planned on trying very hard. It’s just so much fun—so satisfying and empowering—to see him beg like this, eyes strained and pleading, hands so gentle yet demanding.

  He grabs my waist and picks me up, sliding me onto the counter. It takes me a moment to understand that we’re in the laundry room. It’s absolutely absurd. It’s probably bigger than most peoples’ living rooms.

  I kiss him, suppressing a frown at the feel of his smooth chin against mine. He’s shaved his beard, and although he promises to grow it back out in Puerto Rico, I still miss it. I thread my fingers into the hair on the back of his neck and moan when he deepens the kiss, his hips pushing persistently between my thighs. I run my hands over his chest—his button-down is the color of his eyes—and feel a small object in his breast pocket.

  I pull back with a breathless sound, asking, “What’s that?”

  He licks my lips and then his own, giving my thighs one last squeeze before reaching into his pocket. It’s a small box. “It’s a gift. For you.”

  My stomach flips in excitement and awe. Hamilton gives the best gifts, and even though it’s a semi-regular occurrence to get one, I still get a fissure of pleased surprise every time.

  I slide off the gold string and open the lid.

  Inside, there’s a silver ring. It’s shiny and polished, and the design is familiar—a pitchfork wrapped in a circle.

  I raise an eyebrow, and he lifts his chin.

  “Before we head off, I wanted to mark you properly. Stake my claim, Devil style. Will you wear it?”

  “Yes.” I grin so wide it almost hurts.

  He smiles in return and slides it onto my finger. After, he presses a lingering kiss to it. “It’s a promise,” he explains. “One day I’m going to give you the real thing. Conflict-free diamonds, of course.” He wraps his arms around me and pulls me flush against his body. My legs wrap instinctively around his waist and he speaks into my hair, voice rough with emotion. “You’re my everything, Gwendolyn. My best friend. My future. My compass.” He tucks my hair behind my ear. “I love you.”

  It’s not the first time he’s said it, but my heart still swoops excitedly the same way, each and every time.

  “I love you, too.”

  Afterword

  Thank you for reading Devil May Care, the first standalone novel in the Boys of Preston Prep series.

  Keep an eye out for book 2 of the Boys of Preston Prep: A Deal With The Devil, available on Amazon for pre-order and sale in August 2020.

  If you liked Devil May Care, you may also like Angel’s reverse harem series, Sparrowood Academy or Thistle Cove, both contemporary, dark, bully romance. Check out chapter one below!

  A Deal With The Devil

  Prologue

  The night it all changes begins like a fairytale.

  It’s warm for late spring, even for the south, and it’s the first time I’ve seen fireflies this year. They twinkle across the rolling green of the golf course, like tiny fairy lights beckoning me into the dark. I watch them for a long moment, transfixed, feeling the bloom of awareness that always arrives with the changing of the season, as if suddenly realizing the world has taken a gulp of time. Without thinking, I wander away from the patio, the dessert buffet, and my parents, to follow the blinking bugs in an attempt to catch one.

  Even at thirteen, I’m still the kind of kid who’s more interested in chasing fireflies than talking about gossip, looks, and boys. I’m just not into hanging out with the other tweens at The Club, which is not to imply that my parents would let me anyway. In a world of excess and privilege, I’ve been blessed with two obnoxiously overbearing parents who expect—no, demand—good, appropriate behavior. Especially for a girl. If others think I’m bland and boring, then it just means my parents are succeeding.

  It doesn’t really matter to me. I’m more comfortable on my own, anyway. I can’t compete with the other girls my age, with their push-up bras from Victoria’s Secret, or their high-heeled wedges that make them three inches taller. My best friend, Sydney, is all in the thick of it, a cornerstone of their whispered bathroom conversations about sneaking alcohol and giving guys blow jobs. Along with all the stuffed bras, I suspect they’re making it up—well, I know Sydney is—but regardless, there has to be a certain level of confidence to even pretend to live that life. It’s something I definitely lack.

  The firefly slips through the cracks in the wrought iron gate leading out to the parking lot. I push through unthinkingly, continuing to follow it, but jolt to a stop when I hear a voice.

  “I bet you can’t do it,” I hear a boy whisper.

  No, not just a boy. My brother, Emory.

  Someone else scoffs. “Sure, I can.”

  I freeze at the sound of this voice, my heartbeat stuttering at the low cadence. Reynolds McAllister is many things. He’s our next-door neighbor. He’s my brother’s best friend. He’s our neighborhood's biggest troublemaker. He is, I suspect, the focus of many of those whispered bathroom discussions among the girls. But most of all, Reynolds McAllister is this:

  My soul mate.

  Reynolds whispers, “I just need a distraction.”

  I shift a little so I can get a better view. It’s already dark out—hence the fireflies—but the moon is bright and full enough that I can see both of their profiles in a thicket of sculpted bushes. They’re crouched low, peering out at the parking lot,
and I can just barely make out the confident, loose smile curving Reynold’s lips.

  “Are you down, or what?” he challenges.

  I watch as Emory gnaws at a thumbnail, silent for a moment, before agreeing, “I’ll distract the attendant and you’ll snag the keys.”

  Reynolds turns to him to say, “Remember what I taught you. Nothing too big. Don’t draw outside attention.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” My brother flaps a dismissive hand, adding, “And you can’t just grab any key. It has to be something really nice, like a Porsche or Tesla.”

  “Hey, hold the fuck up. Now there’s criteria?” Reynolds’ voice is already deep for a fourteen-year-old. He makes my brother sound like he’s still in middle school, with me—not a freshman at Preston Prep. His deep voice and penchant for curse words always makes Reynolds sound confident and a little commanding, like he’s the one in charge, older somehow. It also frequently makes my cheeks heat, but that started long before he hit puberty.

  Since as far back as I can remember, I’ve always had a crush on Reynolds McAllister. It isn’t just his easy smile, nor is it the deep-set dimples on his cheeks, both of which are likely a useful distraction, as once he sets them loose, you’re rendered temporarily unable to wonder what he’s up to—though the answer is usually ‘stealing something’. It’s not his messy hair, or that he’s got the dreamiest green eyes, or the way he always slouches when he sits, with his legs spread wide, like he’s just too cool to care about anything. It’s not even that he somehow knows a lot about things that fourteen-year-olds shouldn’t.

  It’s about the way he looks at me sometimes, assured and trusting, like I’m not a child—like I’m more than the neighbor’s bratty kid sister. Emory and the rest of his friends have no tolerance for me. I can’t even count the amount of times Emory has wanted to do something and our parents have asked him to take me along. I can’t ignore the way my brother and his friends react with deep groans and barely-veiled glowers.

  But not him.

  Reynolds will just give me one of those easy smiles, gesture with a nod at the door, and wait for me to follow.

  “Bro, look,” Emory explains, “If we’re going to jack one of these cars, it may as well be worth it. We’re both already on strike two.”

  I gape at their shadowy forms, knowing that one of the biggest reasons my parents are so overprotective is that my idiot brother can’t seem to stay out of trouble. It’s like a moth to a flame. Which is why, despite the fact I’m not the least bit surprised the guys are talking about stealing a car, I am surprised they’re stupid enough to actually do it.

  Again.

  This has been going on for a year now already, and they’re both close to getting into real trouble—the serious kind of trouble that can’t just be wiped away with a phone call from our dad and a donation to whatever institution has fallen victim to their next antic. It comes at no surprise that Reynolds is orchestrating it, though. There are a finite amount of certainties in life; the grass is green, the sky is blue, and Reynolds McAllister will steal anything that isn’t bolted down.

  Not that bolts would stop him from trying.

  It’d started as a running joke in the community—little Sticky Fingers McAllister—but Reynolds isn’t little anymore, and no one is laughing now. It’s grown obvious that this is more than good natured pranks, more than material desire. Reynolds just keeps taking things, no matter the punishment. Whether it’s for the fun of it, the challenge of it, or some weird compulsion, this is what it’s escalated to, and he’s dragging my brother along.

  But Emory isn’t stupid, and unlike many of our other friends’ parents, ours would follow through on a serious punishment if he got busted one more time.

  But I don’t need to wonder why they’re taking the risk. They’ve both been vying for a chance to be part of the exclusive group of Devils at the high school. The Devils are a bunch of popular jocks, which is something Emory and Reynolds already are, so it doesn’t even make sense to me. They’ve already made the football team. They’ve dated the prettiest girls, have worn the matching letterman jackets, and have driven the expensive cars. They’re already legendary, even by middle school standards. But, from what I understand, trivial schoolyard shenanigans are far below the cruel caliber of the Devils’ usual fare.

  A prank like this would look great on their resume.

  The second I decide to step in and do something, my heart starts pounding, palms growing sweaty, but I have to stop them before this goes too far. I don’t want either of them to get a third strike—whatever that means, it doesn’t sound good.

  I take a deep breath and march down the sidewalk, having to cut around the shrubbery to meet them. But when I reach the bush, the only person I see is Reynolds, peering over at the valet attendant’s stand.

  “Where’s Emory?” I whisper.

  Reynolds jerks in surprise, whipping around to meet my gaze. When he does, he releases a slow exhale, shoulders slumping in relief. His green eyes sweep over me, then dart back to the attendant’s stand where my brother has suddenly appeared. “Get out of here, Baby V.”

  Ugh, I hate when he calls me that. “I know what you’re doing,” I say, crossing my arms defiantly, “and you two need to stop.”

  “If you know what we’re doing,” he says, sparing me a rapid glance, “then you need to get the hell out of here.”

  From the attendant’s stand, my brother suddenly shouts, “God Dammit, Bryan!” sounding much older than fourteen. “There’s a scratch on my father’s BMW! Do you want to explain how that got there?”

  We come to this country club often enough to know that Bryan is new. “A scratch? Where?” Bryan narrows his eyes suspiciously at my brother, but it’s clear from the way they dart around that he’s worried.

  Emory gestures wildly. “Down the whole side panel!”

  My teeth grind in frustration at having been blown off by Reynolds, so I give up and just march toward the valet stand instead. If I can’t stop Reynolds, maybe I can talk some sense into my idiot brother.

  “Why were you at the car, anyway?” the guy checked his clipboard. “I still have the keys here.”

  Emory’s gaze jumps to mine as I approach, never flinching. “I was getting a sweater out of the car for my sister, and that’s when I saw it. If you don’t believe me, come see it for yourself.”

  Bryan argues, “I can’t leave the stand and Jeremy is on a break.”

  Emory rolls his eyes, and I wonder if maybe he hasn’t been spending a bit too much time around Reynolds. He’s putting on a really convincing act. “My sister will wait here and just tell everyone you’ll be right back. Trust me, that’s a better option than my dad being the one to see that scratch first.”

  I freeze.

  Did he just drag me into this?

  Bryan assesses me for a long moment, fingers carding through the papers on the clipboard, and must decide that I look trustworthy. Which, of course, I am. I’m just innocent little Baby V. Nothing to see here but an awkward thirteen-year-old giving her brother the stink-eye. Bryan mutters a curse under his breath but concedes to my worryingly persuasive brother. I’m left standing by the curb, arms crossed, as my brother walks toward the parking lot. He turns back to wink at me.

  Before I can react, Reynolds darts out of the bushes, his dress shirt wrinkled and his Club mandated tie askew. He brushes past me without any acknowledgment, ducking behind the valet stand to run his finger down the clipboard. I watch uselessly a slow, wicked smile appears on his face. A heartbeat later, he’s snatched a set of keys bearing a Tesla logo from the board at his back.

  “This is a bad idea,” I say, wringing my hands to stop them from shaking. “I don’t want you guys to get in trouble.”

  Every time Emory does something, my parents clamp down even more, and I’m usually the one who gets the brunt of their frustrations. It’s not fair. It’s not right. But that’s the way it’s always been.

  Reynolds pauses just then, staring pens
ively at the keys in his hand, and for a moment I think maybe—just maybe—he’ll actually listen to me. Instead, he turns his mischievous smile, dimples and all, right on me. “You should come with me.”

  I blink at him, gulping. “What?”

  “Come on, Baby V.” He reaches out, grazing the soft knuckle of a curled forefinger beneath my chin. I’m momentarily struck speechless. Breathless. Senseless. He cocks his head, watching me. “Aren’t you tired of being the good girl who watches us have all the fun? Come with me, you’ll have a blast.” He holds out his hand, gesturing with a nod toward the parking lot. “It’s just one joyride, it’ll be fine.”

  Through the thick fog of my screeching internal ‘oh my god, he touched me’, I’m only distantly aware of what he’s doing. Reynolds wants me, at the very least, out of the way. And at the very most… complicit. Reynolds may be a thief and a troublemaker, but he isn’t dumb. I’m a witness now, a liability. What better way to shut me up than to make me an accomplice?

  Even more distant is the awareness that Reynolds must know how hard it is for me to say no to him. It always has been, and it certainly isn’t the first time he’s leveled me with one of those dimpled grins and found a convenient blind eye to his and my brother’s antics.

  It is, however, the first time he’s asked me to go along for the ride.

  I look at his outstretched hand, at long fingers that have picked pockets and locks and pretty high school girls, and I know it’s not real, but this is Reynolds.

  This is Reynolds picking me.

  My heart bangs wildly as I slip my hand into his, finally meeting his gaze, and I wonder if I look as panicked and unhinged as I feel. “Okay.”

  “Sweet.” He grasps my hand and turns, leading me away, and I follow without question.

  Because the thing about Reynolds McAllister is that even when he’s doing bad things—even if being nice to me is merely a means to an end—he still has a way of making me feel like I’m special.