by Angel Lawson
Palms growing sweaty, I rush away, the musician never distracted from his play.
Forget being late. I duck out the next door to feel the cool breeze on my cheeks and try—really hard—to reconcile the Hamilton Bates I just saw in that music room with the one I know, intimately. How can someone so evil, so dark and depraved, create something so beautiful?
Saturday rolls around with a gray, overcast sky, and a bitingly chilled wind. It’s the perfect backdrop for the first day of Saturday detention. While the rest of the dormitory sleeps in, I cross the campus toward the athletic fields. Mr. Dewey had replied to my email the night before.
Hollbrook Field, 8 AM. Dress for work.
I wear my rattiest jeans and Brayden’s old Preston football sweatshirt. A thick headband works both as a way to keep my hair out of my face and insulate my ears. Despite that, I still feel a surge of jealousy when I see Hamilton walking from the boy’s dorm with a steaming cup of coffee from the local café clutched in those long fingers.
Mr. Dewey waits for us by the front wall of the stadium, dressed in a heavy wool coat and a red and black plaid scarf. Next to his feet is a box of supplies.
“Mr. Bates,” he greets as we walk from opposite directions, “next time you get coffee delivered before detention, make sure you bring enough for everyone.”
I press a snicker into my sweater sleeve at the admonishment, which earns me a steely glare from Hamilton’s tired eyes. Jaw clenched with annoyance, he removes the lid and holds my gaze as he tips the cup, pouring all that hot, delicious coffee onto the ground.
I guess we’ll all go without.
“Dean Dewey,” he starts, using the voice he reserves for teachers and administrators. “Thank you for working around my rigorous schedule to meet on the weekend. As much as I appreciate your dedication to the school disciplinary system, I assure you that being tardy to Dr. Ross’ class was a one-time occurrence. I’m perfectly willing to submit to whatever punishment you’re got in mind, but I do have one request.”
I gape at Hamilton, because, like.... how much bullshit can one guy can muster at eight a.m. on a Saturday? Apparently, a lot.
“And what is that?” Dean Dewey asks, already sounding annoyed.
“I would prefer to take my punishment alone. To, uh, you know. Reflect on my failures.”
I roll my eyes. Jesus Christ.
“Unfortunately, Mr. Bates, the work required is a two-person job, and I assure you, this isn’t something you’d want to do alone. It would take far longer than the five weeks detention.” Hamilton opens his mouth to argue—he’d probably take thirty weeks of detention if it meant not spending them with me—but Dean Dewey cuts him off with a sharp gesture to the wall next to the stadium entrance. “As you know, the football team won the state title this year. The Headmaster wants a new mural on the wall for next season. That means the current mural needs to be cleaned, primed, and painted for the artists.
We both gawk up at the massive wall, which runs the entire length of the concession stand.
“The whole thing?” I ask, gulping at the size. Like Hamilton, I’d hoped this would be a task we could complete quickly, and then go our separate ways. Like picking up trash from the quad or covering up bathroom graffiti. But this? We’ll be lucky to get this done in five weeks.
Hamilton huffs, rubbing at his forehead in a way that always signals an impending conniption. “Isn’t this the kind of work Preston Prep pays for? Don’t we have staff for this kind of project? Is the school not even solvent anymore?”
It’s like watching a train wreck and the secondhand embarrassment burns. In five point zero seconds, he’s going to flip his lid, and that won’t go well—for either of us.
I step forward.
“We’ll get it done,” I declare. “Between the two of us, it should be a quick job.” Hamilton levels his glare at me, but I ignore him, adding, “I assume all the tools and supplies we need are in that box?”
Mr. Dewey seems delighted, either at my compliance or ability to head off one of Hamilton’s tantrums. “And in the shed. Ladders, paint rollers, scrapers, drop cloths.” He rattles off the list. “Make sure you clean up when you’re finished. We need to maintain a clean appearance while you’re not working.”
“Yes, sir,” I reply. Hamilton takes a moment to chew on the words that even he won’t allow himself to say, and ultimately nods.
Once the dean leaves, I hear the boy next to me mutter, “Kiss ass.”
I turn to glare at him. “Seriously? You’re calling me a kiss ass? Three minutes ago, you were basically groveling at his feet to weasel your way out of this.” I mock in a dumb jock voice, “I appreciate your dedication to the school disciplinary system. Do you even know how embarrassing you sound?”
“About half as embarrassing as you.” He tosses the empty coffee cup on the ground. “Let’s get this done.”
I keep my glare leveled on him as I walk to the cup and make a big show of picking it up. “Slob.”
He stuffs his hands into his pockets and shrugs, uncaring.
While I spread out the massive drop cloth, he rifles through the box and pulls out scrapers for the peeling sections of paint. He throws them carelessly on the cloth.
Once again, I make a big show of picking one up. “Well?” I challenge, waiting. There’s no way I’m going to let him stand there and watch me do all the work.
He glowers off into the distance with a stubborn, pinched expression. A gust of wind whips his hair from his forehead, and he holds out long enough that it flops right back, all mussed and agitated. With a grunting breath, he stomps over and takes a scraper, and even though he’s holding it the wrong way—like a serial killer stalking someone with a knife—I’m appeased enough to get started.
My scraper makes moderately difficult work of the loose paint and dirt splashed up during the last hard rain. For a good five minutes, there’s nothing but the scratchy sounds of us working and the shuffle of the wind in the grass.
Suddenly, Hamilton yelps in pain.
“What?” I ask.
He snaps, “Nothing.”
I glance up from where I’m squatting, scraping the paint off the bottom of the ‘P’, and see a trail of blood dripping down his finger. That doesn’t stop him, although it should. He’s completely useless with the tool, still holding it down-fist and allowing his knuckles to bang against the concrete wall. I spend a long-suffering two minutes weighing the pros and cons of coaching him through this.
Before I can even come to a decision, he shouts again.
“Dammit! This fucking thing doesn’t work!” He kicks the wall then hurls the tool halfway across the parking lot. His tantrum doesn’t end there. He lunges for the box, lifting it over his head and tossing it down the sidewalk. Supplies bounce and scatter everywhere.
“Dude!” I shout, “Are you an actual toddler? What the hell are you doing?”
Rollers spin down the slight incline headed down toward the parking lot, while the lid off a can of turpentine pops off, and the fluid gushes all over the ground. Hamilton does nothing to stop this of course, just curses and kicks the wall again. I race over to keep the environmental damage to a minimum.
“A little help would sure be nice,” I snap, trying to sop up the turpentine with a bunch of rags. He just nurses his finger, frowning down at it with an expression so intense, I almost fear for the fate of my own scraper. I mutter, “Or not. Whatever. I’ve got it, you gigantic baby.”
I do the best I can at mopping up the liquid, but I don’t have nearly enough rags for such a task and my hands smell terrible. I shake my head. “Seriously, Bates, have you ever done any kind of hard work? Did those seven minutes of back-breaking scraping actually bring you to ruin?”
All that crazy-eyed focus shifts from his finger to me. “I’ve done hard work before, Adams. Two summers ago, I had to clean my father’s entire fucking yacht after Heston and I threw a party.”
I stare at him blankly. “Let me get this straight.
Your one notable moment of manual labor was cleaning a yacht. With Heston Wilcox.”
“What?” he asks, as if there was nothing ridiculous about that entire summation.
“You really do have a negative sum of self-awareness, don’t you?”
His lips twitch in a sneer. “And what exactly have you done?”
“Well for starters, at my house we all have chores. That’s what happens when you have a lot of kids and no maid—”
“Bullshit!” He has a smug gleam to his eye. “I know you have a nanny. I’ve seen her.”
I narrow my eyes. Has he been watching me? How does he know about Debbie?
“I don’t deny that we have a nanny. My parents both work. They’ve had five kids. Of course, they need help. But even so, it’s not like we have a staff or anything.”
“So you sort your own laundry. How heroic.” He turns to address a fake crowd. “Get a load of Mother Theresa over here! She probably washed a fork once.”
“Two years ago,” I begin, teeth grinding, “while you were throwing parties on your yacht, my whole family went to Puerto Rico on a humanitarian project to help clean up after the hurricane.” I hurl the wet rags into the box and start picking up the other supplies scattered all over. “We helped rebuild a school for a community ravaged by the storm. We brought medical supplies and books for the children.”
He stares at me for a moment, eyes hard and unreadable. The lines of his face are a dichotomy of harsh and beautiful. The lure of the Devil. His long lashes flutter when he rolls his eyes. “This is why people hate you, you know.”
“What?” I ask, taken aback. “Why?”
“Because of shit like that.” He gestures to the air between us. “That doesn’t make you better than anyone else.”
“I never said it did!”
He shrugs. “You sure act like it.”
“No, I don’t,” I insist, crossing my arms. “Helping others is just something we were raised to do.”
“Obviously,” he says dryly.
My skin pricks with anger. “What does that mean?”
“It means your whole family is one big charity case, looking for more charity cases to mount on your shoulders while you climb the hill of mount martyr.”
“First of all, that’s ridiculous. Second,” I push the headband off my ears. They’re suddenly hot. “You say that like helping others is a bad thing.”
He looks at me incredulously, as though I’m missing something.
I continue, “It’s not a bad thing. My parents decided to use their wealth and privilege for something other than just furthering their own position in society. They saw a need and they wanted to fill it. Why is that so terrible? Do you really think that people—children in particular—don’t deserve a better life? An opportunity to make more of themselves than what they were raised in?”
“You know what I believe in? I believe in the American dream. I’m a fucking capitalist, I believe in meritocracy,” he says, without a trace of irony. “If people want to waste their hard-earned time and money pulling people from gutters, then I’ve got no problem with that, just—” He goes suspiciously silent here, mouth snapping shut.
“Just what?” I say it like a dare.
His face screws up into the mask that transforms him into the Devil, the Prince of Preston Prep. It’s cruel and calculating. “Just not in my backyard, or my school, or my fraternity. Keep it somewhere else. Like over at Northridge or wherever the hell it is you people frequent.”
A bark of laughter escapes my throat. I can’t help it. It bubbles in my chest and explodes from my lips in a harsh bark.
He raises an eyebrow. “What’s so funny?”
“You, Bates. You have absolutely no idea how ridiculous you sound. Just look at you.” I wave a hand at him. “Your whole life is one big vanity project. I bet even your shits are hollow.”
“No, Adams, I’m sane. I sound like every goddamned Bates that came before me. Reasonable. Rational.” He tips his chin up, head high. “Look, you grew up your way—with your whole ‘it takes a village’ hippie shitshow. I grew up my way, where we’ve learned to protect our way of life, where we’re taught to preserve our lineage.” Something dark flickers in his eyes. “I’ve learned that when you don’t tow that line, there are consequences, and I’m talking about actions, choices, that can’t be undone.”
He’s breathing heavy, agitated. He’s always on the edge. One step from crossing over. Tantrum. Rage. There’s something strange in the way he’s standing, the dull heat of his eyes. I suspect, though I couldn’t begin to explain why, that Hamilton Bates has been very badly hurt.
There’s something dark in the boy in front of me. I can’t help but wonder how deep it goes and what’s caused it.
Without thinking I ask, “What’s your deal, Bates? Who’s hurt you?”
He blinks, like maybe he’s just seeing me for the first time. But the reprieve only lasts a moment before the curl of his upper lip is back. “Let me guess, this is the part of Saturday detention where we huddle in the library and tell each other why our lives secretly suck, therefore discovering that, despite our differences, we’re actually a lot alike.” He mock-frowns at me. “Sorry, this isn’t Breakfast Club, and you’re sure as fuck no Molly Ringwald. I’m not going to let you drag me into the swamp with you like you tried to do the other night.”
My jaw drops. “When I what?”
“You know what you did.”
“Wow.” I laugh, pushing my hair from my face. “Are you accusing me of something? Because if memory serves, you assaulted me.”
The tips of his ears turn red and his jaw locks. His frame seems to expand, hulking over me, and a shiver runs down my spine. It’s an instinctive reminder of how dangerous this boy is, how much harm he could do, if he wanted. He stares down at me, so full of hate that I can almost taste the tangy, bitter edge of it. I’m so aware of his gaze dropping to my lips that my tongue darts out to wet them, something instinctive and involuntary. For a heartbeat, I worry that he’s going to do something to me.
For more than one heartbeat, I really want him to.
“Forget it.” He lurches back. “I’m not doing any of this bullshit. I’ll just deal with the fallout later. You can tell Dewey I’m out.”
I watch, stunned, as he walks back across the campus, shoulders tense and angry. I don’t follow him. I don’t even really care that he only managed a measly seven minutes of actual work, and somehow ended up making more work for me in the process. Hamilton Bates is a spoiled brat, and I’m better off without him.
8
Hamilton
Who hurt you?
The question throbs in my mind like a headache, and it’s still less infuriating than her having the nerve to even ask.
My response had burned hot and sour in the back of my throat. The raw, feral edge of me wanted to hurt her in return, make her pay for believing me some secretly weak and damaged little boy. It wanted to lash back, warn her to be worried about who was hurting her, threaten and intimidate. How fucking dare she look at me like I was less?
Like I was one of her charity cases.
But a much, much smaller part of me, one that I admittedly didn’t have control over, wanted to tell her that I did hurt. That for all my talk of the importance of family and lineage, the line I walked was precarious and painfully thin. It wanted to tell her that it was all stupid—that I knew it was stupid—but it was mine. And that I’d already seen my sister fall from the tightrope of it all, clutching and clawing, and all the worse for wear because of it, and how was that stupid? It wanted to tell her that the future of the Bates’ line fell on my shoulders, and that I follow it out of fear just as much as responsibility.
Mostly, it wanted to tell her—to singe all her softness with the truth of it—that my whole life is nothing more than a never-ending string of frantic attempts to achieve the next stupid fucking thing, because I naively believe it’ll get better once I do.
It’ll be better
when I pass exams.
It’ll be better when I finish the year with the highest GPA.
It’ll be better when I make captain.
It has to get better.
And it never fucking does.
But as much as I’d love to sting her with it, Adams doesn’t deserve that truth—not from me.
The problem is that she just won’t stop arguing. She won’t stop pushing. She’s got zero fucking common sense, just standing before me with that face and body and argumentative little mouth like a gust of wind threatening to blow me right off that line.
What is it about this girl, and why the hell does she keep tripping me up?
It’d be so easy to just blame it on hormones. She’s beautiful, with that shiny, sweet-smelling hair, her full lips and round tits. The thing about Adams is that she’s pretty—she’s got this soft, open-looking face—but she’s also nice and sturdy. She’s got a great figure, of course, but she’s not fragile and delicate like some of the other twigs around here.
I could probably bend her over something. Hell, I could probably bend her in half. I could probably slam my dick into her over and over again, and she’d be able to handle it. No, she’d probably give back just as good. She could probably ride me hard and put me away wet. She’d probably twist that hot, annoying little mouth of hers into an evil smirk while she wrings it all from me, tits bouncing, hair swaying as she screws herself down onto my—
“Fuck.”
Warm jizz drips over my fist, and I scramble for a dirty shirt to clean up, panting.
That’s right. I jerked off. Again.
To Gwendolyn Adams.
Again.
I can’t keep doing this. It can’t be healthy. I’ve got Reagan so ready and willing to do whatever I want, but I just... don’t. No, my mind, my libido, my fantasies, and my fucking nightmares keep going back to Gwendolyn over and over again. I just can’t shake it.
If it’s not hormones, then it has to be nothing more than a simple case of a spoiled little rich boy wanting what he can’t have. That makes sense, right? She’s the chocolate cake on the highest shelf. The forbidden bottle of Scotch in my father’s liquor cabinet. The Porsche I took out on a midnight spin before I had a license.
