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

by Angel Lawson

  She’s just off limits, that’s all.

  It’s completely logical to want it.

  Right?

  Sighing, I toss the dirty shirt into the hamper and zip up my jeans. My knees aren’t weak as I dig around the closet for my United shirt, but I do need to take a moment to regain my bearings. The game is in a few hours and Xavier’s dad is sending a car to pick us up to take us to the stadium. Couldn’t have happened at a better fucking time. Some time away from here, some fresh air and excitement, will be just the thing to exorcise her from my mind.

  My injured finger brushes against the inside of my shirt as I pull it on, and I wince. The wound isn’t a big deal, it’s just a scrape, even if it bled like crazy. But something about it had really pissed me off. It wasn’t the work. I mean, am I used to performing tedious labor? Hell no. Why would I be? Am I ashamed my family can afford a staff—which, I sneer inwardly to Gwen, creates gainful employment for skilled workers, thank you very fucking much? Nope.

  It wasn’t the work that pissed me off.

  It was that she was doing it faster, easier, better.

  I walk into the bathroom and fish around for a Band-Aid to cover the raw scrape. Unfortunately, I don’t have any. Instead, I find a roll of gauze, which I use to wind around my finger a dozen times, tucking the end under. It’s sloppy and will probably annoy me all night, but it’ll work.

  Out in the lobby, the guys are sitting around playing video games. I know that Emory and Heston will meet us there. Xavier lives on campus primarily, because his parents travel a lot, but mostly because of the big party he’d thrown at their lake house over the summer. He blames me. My dad had already demonstrated that such a punishment was becoming of the community’s unruly boys, so it suddenly became a viable option to any parent with an axe to grind. Ansel also lives on campus, but that’s only because he’s a lazy fucker who can’t be bothered to drag his ass out of bed any earlier than seven—although I’m sure being in close proximity to girls 24/7 is probably a significant part of the appeal.

  Xavier glances over from the screen. “Hey, ready?”

  I nod. “Yeah.”

  “Did you have detention today? How’d it go?”

  I hold up my poorly bandaged finger. “It was a fucking riot.”

  Ansel laughs, but never looks away from the game. “I bet Adams had a good time, too.”

  My teeth clench together at the sound of her name. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Because, you know.” Ansel shrugs. “You may be an asshole to all of us, but to her? You’re just downright evil, bro. That’s gotta be like the double-decker taco of punishments for—aw, you fucking son-of-a-bitch, Xave!” He throws his controller down before picking it right back up.

  I stare blankly at the side of his head. “Did some obscure paint-based neurotoxin make it into my bloodstream this morning, or are you seriously defending Adams?”

  Ansel’s avatar explodes once again, but when he tosses down the controller this time, he doesn’t bother picking it back up. He looks up at me. “I just think she bothers you way more than the rest of us.”

  “He’s got a point,” Xavier says, putting down his own controller. “You’ve got a real hard-on for fucking with Gwen. It’s not like it’s a secret.”

  Well, I don’t have a hard-on anymore, I’ve already taken care of it. But, I exhale, trying to release a little of the building anger that’s so close to the surface right now. This is the last thing I need. If the guys have noticed I’ve lost control, then the teachers and administrators can’t be far behind. If Coach James catches wind of it, then I can probably kiss that captainship goodbye. And that won’t do.

  It’ll be better when I make captain.

  “Listen,” I say, “I need to do something before we go. Meet you at the car?”

  “Sure,” Xavier’s already booted up the next game and Ansel’s grabbing for his abused controller.

  I head back down to the athletic field, knowing Adams should be long gone by now. If Mr. Dewey finds the mess I made, he’ll give us another day of detention—or worse. If this morning was proof of anything, it was that I can’t handle being around her any longer than absolutely necessary. Why can’t people see that? Why does the universe keep trying to throw us together?

  It’s obvious even from a distance that the supplies I’d thrown around like the Hulk have been cleaned up. Same with the drop cloth and all the mess from scraping the walls. On closer inspection, it seems the walls themselves have been cleaned, Adams having obviously done the work alone.

  What a fucking martyr. Hopefully someone will let her down from that cross soon.

  A text buzzes on my phone, informing me that the car has arrived.

  I’ll find out soon enough if Adams told the dean I’d walked out earlier, and what sort of fallout will come from it. I mean, of course she did. Snitching really is her forte. I’m sure it gave her nothing but pleasure to rat me out for a shiny new opportunity to look better than me.

  I jog across the campus toward the limo waiting for us. Xavier’s driver opens the door and I slide inside. I’ve barely settled in my seat before Ansel pushes a beer in my hand, and something within me slowly begins to unwind at the promise of hedonism laid out before me. I screw off the cap and take a long drink.

  There will probably be hell to pay tomorrow for walking off like that from detention, but until then I’m going to enjoy the rest of the afternoon with my friends, a good soccer match, and a lot of beer.

  The campus is dark when we get dropped off, hours later. United won, which only added to the celebratory energy on the way home.

  “I can’t believe Menendez got that final penalty kick. I thought for sure Duncan would stop it.” Ansel steps back to recreate the kick while Xavier plays the goalie. An imaginary scene follows. I play the part of the adoring crowd, cupping my hands around my mouth to simulate raucous cheering.

  “Menendez is unstoppable,” Xavier says. He loops his arm around Ansel. We’re stuffed with free food from the box and pretty drunk. Well, I’m drunk. I don’t know about the others, but I’ve got enough of a buzz that I stop on the way back to the dorm to take a piss right against the giant tree where the sidewalk diverges into two.

  “Ham, come on,” Xavier calls, “if Buster finds you…”

  Buster is the campus security guard. He’s pushing 80, and I’m pretty sure there aren’t even any bullets in his gun. What’s he going to do, call my dad? The thought makes me laugh as I rest my forearm on the trunk and relieve my bladder. My phone vibrates as I’m zipping up.

  It’s a text from Dean Dewey, thanking me and Adams for our hard work that morning. Evidently, he was impressed with our progress, particularly with the level of care we took cleaning up.

  Confused, I look up from my phone only to see that Ansel and Xavier have run across the quad and are headed toward the soccer fields—probably to go recreate the game. I stumble clumsily forward, not even realizing I’m on the wrong path until I reach the dormitory and can’t get the code to work. I jam in the digits again, and again, and a third time, having the fleeting thought that somehow, I’ve been locked out. Or am I so drunk that I’ve forgotten the code?

  Two girls approach from behind, giving me looks of combined wariness and gawking as they sidle up to me.

  That’s when it hits me.

  I’m not at Cresswell, I’m at Hayden. The girls' dorm.

  They enter the correct code and reluctantly, I follow them in, giving a slight nod of thanks.

  I’ve been in here before, naturally. Different girls, different rooms. Hell, I lost my virginity in room 306. I was a freshman, she was a junior, and it lasted approximately the length of the commercial break during a rerun episode of CSI—not that anyone knows that.

  The two dorms are almost exact clones of each other. The seniors are on the fourth floor here, just like over in Cresswell. I take the stairs, two at a time, fast enough that I feel lightheaded when I reach the top. Truthfully, I’m no
t a big drinker, especially when I’m trying to stay in top physical shape. Obviously, the booze hit me harder than I thought.

  At least that’s my excuse for walking down the senior hall, fingers dragging down the wall as I scan the names by the doors. Until I stop abruptly.

  418.

  Gwendolyn Adams.

  My stomach flutters in warning, but I knock anyway, leaning against the wall as I wait. She appears in the open door only a moment later, dressed in an obscenely tight shirt, no bra, nipples on point. Her shorts are these tiny clinging things, probably halfway up her ass. Very little is being left to the imagination here.

  I drag a hand down my face.

  This was the worst idea.

  Her eyes widen. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  I fumble my phone from my pocket, holding it to face her. “Just got the text from Dewey. Apparently, we did a great job.” My sneer feels limp. “What’s your angle, Adams? You think I need you to cover for me? You think I need your help?”

  “Jesus,” she mutters, casting a nervous glance down the hall. Her hand fists my jersey and she yanks me in the room, shutting the door behind her. “You smell like a brewery, Bates. Are you drunk?”

  “Wow, nothing gets past your keen observation skills, huh?” I lope into the room. It’s a small single, tidy to the point of boredom. Where are the fairy lights? The color-coordinated curtains and bedding? The photos of friends? Oh right, she doesn’t have any. I snicker at her bare walls before turning to face her. My gaze instantly fixates itself on those pert tits. “Well? Why’d you cover for me?”

  She crosses her arms over her chest. I smirk at the still-visible outline of a nipple.

  “I didn’t cover for you, Bates. I did the job we were assigned. Believe it or not, I’m just as ready to be done with this as you are. Probably more than.”

  “Not fucking likely,” I mutter. I roam over to the bookshelf, fingers running down spines. Mostly assigned reading. Ah, Stephen King. For the kind of girl who flirts with having a dark side but is never quite willing to put out. How apropos. I hook my finger into the spine and pull it from the shelf. “Plus, isn’t that a bit too selfish a motive for an Adams? You don’t do things for yourself. Nah, you’re too good for that.”

  “This again?” She drops her arms in her annoyance and my eyes dip back down. “I’m so sorry you’re intimidated by my service work. I know this may seem like a really radical statement, but not everything in life is about you.”

  I inhale, which is stupid, because I’m overwhelmed by a blast of her scent—something sweet and homey and feminine. I tumble gracelessly onto her bed and stretch my legs out, flexing my ankles as I open the book. A quick flip through the pages reveals creased top corners. Gwendolyn Adams, abuser of books, isn’t so perfect after all.

  She stands over me, expression slightly murderous, and snatches the book out of my hands. “Please, make yourself uncomfortable.”

  “You’re telling me,” I begin, crossing my ankles, “that you have no desire to turn me into one of your little charity ventures? Fixing the poor little rich boy would be quite the pet project.” I lean back on my elbows, finding her mattress surprisingly soft. “Whatever, Adams, you can build me a house if you want. For the record, I prefer platinum fixtures and a double-headed shower feature.”

  “I think you’re drunk.” She tosses the book aside and my eyes follow, raising an imperious brow at the untidiness of such an act. “I also think that you’re—and I cannot stress this enough—the biggest self-centered idiot I’ve ever met. And we’re both going to get in more trouble if you’re caught in here.”

  “Tell me why you covered for me.” I’ll keep asking until she answers. What the hell, right? I have all night. I want her to admit that she just can’t stop trying to one-up me.

  Unfortunately, Gwendolyn Adams doesn’t give a shit about what I want. Instead of answering, she frowns at the injured hand pressing into her bed. The bandage is ratty, dirty from an afternoon of gluttony and not giving a fuck. I’d forgotten about it, really.

  She gestures to it long-sufferingly, “Is that seriously the best bandage you could manage?”

  “Do I look like a nurse?”

  “You don’t want to know what I think you look like,” she answers in a terse voice.

  My eyebrows climb my forehead. “I bet I fucking do.”

  We’re locked in a suspended, challenging stare that goes on long enough that she eventually sighs. “Do you want me to rewrap that for you, or what?”

  “See?” I grin, victorious. “I knew you wouldn’t stop until you could fix something about me.”

  “Oh my god, how can one person be this insufferable,” she mutters, but walks across the room and retrieves a large pouch. Returning to me, she unzips it and I see a red cross on the front. “Move.” She shoves me aside with her hips and drops next to me on the bed.

  “Take off the old bandage,” she demands, rifling through the pouch. I unwind the gauze, wincing when the fabric sticks to the wound, a stinging tug that would probably hurt a lot more, were I sober. I rip it off quick, revealing a raw, crimson scrape wound. “Does it hurt?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe a little.” Actually, it probably hurts a lot, and I don’t even want to think what it’ll feel like in the chlorine at swim practice in two days.

  “The gauze stuck because you didn’t put any ointment on it. You need to keep it moist,” she explains, tearing the edge off a little disposable packet of goo. She squeezes a glob of it onto the wound and after a moment of slight hesitation, takes my hand in her own and uses her finger’s delicate touch to smear it around. The cool, greasy medicine brings an instant relief, and I don’t bother fussing as she rewraps it with a smaller strip of gauze. Once she’s secured it with actual tape, I hold it up to inspect it.

  “Don’t tell me,” I say, “you learned how to do that by treating the ailing children of some remote third-world village after an earthquake ravaged their community.”

  “Actually,” she says, packing back up the supplies, her actions stiff and agitated, “I learned how to do that on myself, back when my mother left me home alone for three days and I sliced my hand open on a can of rancid ravioli.” She levels me with a frosty look. “But of course, the ceiling of knowledge as it pertains to the absolute basics of caring for a scrape is pretty low.”

  Her eyes hold mine—daring me to come up with a smart retort. Strangely, what emerges is, “Just because I don’t do a bunch of dumb charity shit doesn’t make me a bad person.”

  She blinks at me for a moment, eyebrows pulling together. Slowly, as if speaking to a small and very dumb child, she says, “No. The way you treat people makes you a bad person.”

  I hold up a finger. “That’s up for debate. Arguably, I’m morally grey at worst, and at best—”

  “What the hell are you doing here, Hamilton?” she bursts. “Because if I have to hear you drunkenly extol your own virtues, so help me god, I will fling myself out that window.”

  I look around the room as if seeing it for the first time.

  What am I doing here?

  Well, I couldn’t tell her the truth, could I? I couldn’t say that I just want to prove that she’s nothing special. That the fact I can’t stop thinking about her all the time is just some stress-induced psychological fluke. That what transpired between us in the locker room was an anomaly. A moment of weakness. My mind playing tricks on me.

  Instead, I lift my hand, raising it to slip a finger below her chin, and look at that. She doesn’t even flinch, doesn’t resist at all when I nudge her face upward. Her wide eyes meet mine for only a split second before dropping to my mouth.

  The kiss is slow and gentle, entirely void of the rage and intimidation of the first time we were together. There are no jagged edges here. This is all softness, so delicate and careful that even the soft sound of suction as our lips retreat threatens to shatter the moment.

  The girl in front of me isn’t fighting b
ack. She’s stunned silent as I sit here exploring the curiosity of it all. The lack of heat and anger should make this kiss different, I think. It should make it vacant, less intense, nothing more than any other mediocre kiss.

  But fuck. It’s just as good as I’d remembered. Better, maybe, because here I have the bandwidth to really take it in and feel it. This isn’t going even remotely how I expected. I pull back and see her wide, confused eyes. Before she can form the question, I return to her lips, eager to dive in for more. But this time, I allow my hand to rest on her waist and slide up, rucking her thin tank top as it ascends.

  Her hands land on my chest and she pushes me hard enough that I have to shoot out a hand to avoid falling off the bed.

  I let out a surly, “Ow,” as I land on my injured hand.

  Having already lurched herself from the bed, Gwendolyn gapes down at me. “What are you doing?”

  I shrug, feigning casualness even though my heart is racing like a hummingbird’s wings. “Thought I’d try it again. See what all the fuss was about.”

  “You’re fucking with me, aren’t you?” She darts a nervous glance out her window, then toward her door, and I don’t even know what she’s expecting to find. A gaggle of Devils standing in the hall with their ears pressed up against the door? A camera capturing the whole thing to share on social media? “You totally are! You need to leave.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” Her question comes out shrill, incredulous.

  “Why do I need to leave?” I know perfectly well that I’m being an ass, but I just can’t help it now that I’ve reclaimed the upper hand. I really hadn’t been messing with her before, but now? How could I possibly help myself?

  “Because, because…” She’s got that pink, flustered sheen all about her, cheeks and neck splotched with red. I’ve seen her flushed with anger before, and the Gwen standing before me doesn’t have nearly enough of the wide, apoplectic eyes to signal anger alone.