by Angel Lawson
“How can I help you?” the guy at the counter asks, pushing his glasses up his nose.
Hamilton pushes the clipboard toward him, looking annoyingly self-assured as he leans against the counter. “We’re going to need sixty custom shirts with these names on the back. Black shirt. Red print. Preston Prep Devil logo on the front. I’m sure you have it on file.” Hamilton speaks with absolute authority as though what he’s just asked for is completely reasonable. “Oh, and I need it tomorrow by four.”
“By four?” the guy says, already shaking his head. “That’s not possible.”
Hamilton slaps a black credit card on the counter, sliding it forward with one long finger. “I think you’ll probably find it is.”
The guy makes a complicated face—one part sour, one part weary, two parts exasperated—and finally concedes, “Let’s see what we can do for you, Mr. Bates.”
I’m dumbfounded as I watch him negotiate size and a final price, all for an elaborate prank for the team he’s supposed to be leading—all to get them back for being jerks to me. This is way beyond what’s required.
“You shouldn’t have to pay for all that,” I say when we’re back in the car.
“I’ll turn in the receipt.”
I worry my lip between my teeth. “I’m not sure that’s what the team budget is for…”
“Adams,” he says, voice deep with exasperation.
“What?”
“Would you just chill out? It’s going to be fine. This doesn’t even rank in my top thirty stunts.”
The truth slips out. “What if they just hate me more?”
He looks at me, mouth turning down. “Trust me. They won’t. This is exactly the kind of thing that’ll show them you’re more than an overachieving, badly dressed, buzzkill of a goody-goody with a stick up her ass.”
“Hey!” I squawk. “Fuck you, you—”
He leans over and pushes his mouth against mine, effectively shutting me up. The kiss is warm and gentle, his jaw strong, and despite myself I sink into him, letting all the nerves and worry dissipate with every stroke of his tongue.
I don’t know what’s happening, or why it keeps happening.
But I know I don’t want to stop.
He pulls away and his eyes are dark, but the curve of his smirk is amused.
I swallow. “What was that for?”
“To shut you up. It seems to be the only thing that works.” He starts the car and tosses his arm over my seat, presumably to look over his shoulder before backing out. But he winces suddenly, making a pained sound as he pulls it back. “Fuck.”
“Your shoulder?” I realize, mouth pulling into a frown. “That... that doesn’t sound good. Are you working it too hard?”
“Of course I’m not.” But his mouth is set into a thin, grim line as he pulls out of the parking space. “It’s nothing. Just a little tight.”
He peels out of the parking lot, tires squealing. I hold onto my seat like my life depends on it, but really, I just need to do something with my hands. My heart thunders wildly in my chest and I know it’s more about the kiss than the fast driving.
If tonight showed me anything, it’s that Hamilton Bates may know me better than anyone else at this school.
And that’s more terrifying than anything else.
“Holden!” a voice calls across the cafeteria. “Holden McGroin! You down there?”
“Nope,” another voice replies, “but I saw him with Jenny Tayla a few minutes ago.”
A ripple of laughter passes down the tables and I see two of my teammates high five. It’s been like this for two days, ever since the print shop delivered five boxes of shirts to the natatorium and Hamilton and I passed them out to our stunned and delighted teammates.
When there were two left, Hamilton handed one to me and pulled the other over his ripped, muscular upper body. He turned and I saw written across his broad shoulders, “Master Bates.”
I looked down at my own. “Ivana B Cumming. Seriously?” I asked, unable to smother a laugh.
“It was that or Helda Dick.” He shrugged but I knew he thought he was hilarious. The truth is that he kinda is. Who knew?
The most impressive part of it all was that Hamilton didn’t take credit. We’d handed them out together and ultimately, as much as I hated to admit it, he was right. The kids looked at me differently after they realized I had a sense of humor about their bullshit. If it’d been a test, then I passed.
“I still can’t believe you did that,” Tyson says from across the lunch table. “I thought Coach James was going to have a heart attack.”
“Me too,” I laugh, “but he was pretty cool about it.”
He did make Hamilton and I swim an extra 200 for being smart-asses, but all in all, I think he’s just happy to see Hamilton and I working together. He did make it clear we’re not allowed to wear the shirts anywhere but at practice. It’s not the kind of joke other schools or the officials would find amusing.
“Oh, I wanted to ask you something,” Tyson pipes up.
“Yeah?” I scrape the remains of my yogurt out of the container. “What’s up?”
“I have this diving competition on Saturday afternoon. My girlfriend is coming and I kind of wanted you to meet her.”
I realize this must be the girl from the homecoming pictures. “Aw, you want me to meet your girlfriend?”
“She’s been bugging me about introducing her to some kids from school. You’re really my only friend so far.”
I pause, considering. “Is she from Northridge, because—”
“No no no,” he says quickly. “She goes to Holy Innocence. She’s a sweet little Catholic girl.” His grin is wicked.
I point to his chest. “Is that why you wear the cross?”
He touches the charm around his neck. “Kind of. Her mother likes it.”
I gather my trash and stand, deciding, “l guess I can come after I do my detention hours. Other than that, it’s not like I have a huge social calendar to rearrange.”
“Awesome—not about your detention or lack of social life—but because you’re coming,” he says, wrapping his arm around me and giving me a tight squeeze. I start across the cafeteria and look up to see Hamilton watching me, and even though his expression is perfectly blank and aloof, the intensity of his gaze trips me up. Literally. I fumble my yogurt container—which I catch—but the spoon falls, skittering across the floor and echoing loudly around the room. The universe being the cruel mistress that she is, it lands two feet from where Hamilton sits.
“Crap,” I mutter, feeling all the eyes in the room suddenly shifting to me.
I dart over and quickly bend, eyes now level with Hamilton’s crotch. Reagan’s hand is resting possessively on his thigh, her sharp red nails pressed into the fabric of his khakis. I grab the spoon and lurch upright, smoothing out the back of my skirt as I go. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end when I realize he’s still watching me.
Closely.
“See you at practice,” I tell Tyson, parting from him in the hallway. I duck into the bathroom and silently berate my reflection in the mirror. Before that little scene in the cafeteria, this had been shaping up to be a really good day. The swim team was treating me... well, not good, but they weren’t making snide comments around me all the time, and that was a pretty big upgrade.
When I exit, I notice that the hall is pretty empty, which makes sense, since most everyone is still at lunch. I’m passing by one of the science labs when the door opens and I’m yanked inside.
“What the f—!” I shout, heart pounding. I’m not even surprised to see Hamilton standing a few feet away with a strained expression, back to the door. It’s not the first time he’s cornered me alone. “I know you don’t want to be seen talking to me in public, but seriously? A text would work—”
A heartbeat later, he’s closed the distance and has his hand tangled into my hair.
Hamilton’s mouth crashes against mine, and it’s an increasingly familia
r feeling, just as warm and insistent as ever. But he doesn’t stop there, not like in the car. His hands roam down my backside, tickling the back of my thighs. A flash of red fingernails flits through my mind and I jerk back, gasping.
“Shouldn’t you be doing this with Reagan right now?”
He licks his bottom lip. His voice is gravelly when he replies, “Reagan didn’t prance around in front of me in the cafeteria in that tiny little skirt, flashing me her panties.”
“I did not,” I insist, aghast. “I barely even—”
“They’re white,” he rattles off simply. “Utilitarian, yet disturbingly sexy.”
I stare at him evenly, throat bobbing with a swallow, which is enough of an admission for him.
“You drive me crazy,” he breathes in a rush, burying his face into my neck, pushing his wet mouth against my jaw. “God, I fucking hate it, and it’s like I can’t stop. You acting completely clueless about what you’re doing to me every time you walk by doesn’t make it any better.”
His hands move again, this time under my skirt. My whole body is warm and the spot between my legs is well past that—damp and hot.
“So this is my fault?” I accuse, but it must seem pretty weak given the way my hands instantly roam up his shirt. “Typical.”
His fingers push under the edge of my panties, invasive and intruding. I should be affronted—annoyed at the very least—but just like last time, I can’t feel much of anything beyond that liquid-hot, bone-deep need to feel him touch me. I want to feel the wind up and the impending implosion. I want to combust, to be consumed, to feel him around me and inside me, over me and beneath me, and it’s all just insane.
Him knowing exactly how to accomplish this is a mystery—stupid freak of a libido—but he plays me like the strings on his cello. The pads of his fingers graze against the hot bundle of nerves in between my legs and I shiver, knees buckling. His strong, muscular arm wraps around me, holding me up.
“Careful,” he says, pushing a breathy chuckle against my mouth in another kiss. “We’re not finished yet.”
The bulge in his pants pushes against my thigh and I reach for him without much thought, sliding my hand down his length. He hisses and returns his attention to my neck.
I knew he was big, even before what happened in the Stairway to Hell. I’d felt him, and geez, I’d basically seen him through the thin, clingy fabric of his Speedo countless times. But holding him like this, it’s just not the same. It’s not the same, and it’s not enough.
I tug frantically at his shirt, freeing it from his pants, and then shove my hand under his waist band. He exhales raggedly when I slide my hand down the hot, smooth skin. It twitches in my hand, his hips pushing eagerly into my palm.
He pulls back to look me in the eye when he says, “I’m not coming in my pants again.”
My hand goes still, because I can’t give Hamilton a blow job. I won’t. I won’t fall in line like the other girls he hangs out with, the ones that want to be his girlfriend. I will not take the test.
“I just wanted to make that clear,” he adds, fully unaware of my mental war. And then he drops to his knees, forcing my hand to slide abruptly away.
Even with him on his knees in front of me, his hand tugging down my panties, it still takes me an extended moment of disbelief to understand what he’s about to do.
“Bates.” My voice is reedy and panicked, and I’m not actually sure why. Here I am about to get eaten out by Hamilton fucking Bates, and I can’t seem to pry my damn knees apart.
“Hey.” He looks up at me, mouth red and swollen, and gently guides my hips back, until I’m leaning against the lab table. “Just relax,” he says, running his warm palms down my bare, trembling thighs. He licks his lips. “I just want to taste you.”
I swallow hard and press my weight into the table, casting a worried glance at the door. It takes a few moments of Hamilton touching me like that—hands stroking gently between my thighs—before he finally coaxes my legs to part.
He holds my gaze as his fingers return to my center, thumb pressing against my clit, and then licks his lips again and disappears beneath my skirt.
My knuckles go white as I grip the table.
His tongue is so much hotter and wetter down there that the first touch startles me. I have to fight to keep my thighs from clamping around his head, because it just seems like the polite thing to do. He must sense this, because his palms run back up my thighs, kneading into my muscles before gently pushing them farther apart.
I’m grateful for it when I do, because it gives him more access, that silver tongue of his lapping at my clit, and then farther back. From this vantage, all I can see are the muscles in his back working beneath the fabric of his shirt as he moves. And he seems to be moving, like, a lot.
More than necessary.
But my brain is too muddled to really focus on anything but the machinations of his mouth, and God. It’s like someone bottled tingling heat and sunshine, and for some reason, I can’t seem to catch my breath. My head keeps falling back and if I grip this table any tighter, I’m convinced I’ll crush it.
The orgasm is like none other—a slow rolling wave of crashing heat, my walls clenching and nerves coiling, winding tighter and tighter—and it comes upon me so intensely that I don’t even realize I’m clutching his injured shoulder until I feel him grunt against me.
It sounds more pained than anything.
I snatch my hand back, gasping, “Sorry, sorry,” but his tongue never stops, he just eases me through the crest and fall of it.
I squirm away when I start feeling too sensitive, and he finally emerges from beneath my skirt, red-cheeked and shiny-mouthed. He doesn’t meet my gaze, though, eyes clamped tightly closed as he—
I bite down hard on my lip. He’s pulled himself from his pants and his hand is flying over his erection, these sharp little breaths punching from his chest with every stroke. His whole torso clenches when he comes, spilling over his fist and onto the white floor below.
The sound he makes is guttural, breathless.
When he’s done, he leans back on his heels, head thrown back. “Fuck, yes.”
We’re both hot and sticky messes. We untangle and I try to decide how a girl usually takes care of cleanliness in a situation such as this, but my mind is totally fogged. I turn away to awkwardly pull up my panties. The shake in my hands is different from the quiver in my knees.
He adjusts himself behind me, obviously needing to clean up his own mess.
“What was that?” I ask him, pushing my hair from my sweaty face. “Why does it keep happening?”
Why do I let it keep happening?
His voice is languid. “I don’t know. Because it feels good?”
Is it as simple as that? No. He’s not a good person. He’s hurt my family, my sister, me. Maybe it does feel good, but after the whole tangled sex fog settles, it mostly just feels super shitty.
“Why is it okay for us to do that, but not for you to look at me in the hallway? Or speak to me in class?”
“I don’t make the rules.” He tucks in his shirt.
“That’s bullshit and you know it.” I face the sink and scrub my hands. I’ve already learned you can’t wash out shame or regret, but I try anyway. The heat is scalding, burning my skin, and I sense him behind me just before he turns off the faucet.
His chest presses against my back. Gentle fingers push aside my hair and I feel his breath on my ear. “You’re right, it is bullshit. I don’t know why, but I can’t stay away from you, and I think... I think maybe you can’t stay away from me, either.” His mouth presses a slow, wet kiss into the spot below my ear. “If you ask me, we’re doing this because it feels good and we’re both in a place where that’s hard to find. Can’t that be enough?”
His teeth tug at my earlobe and my hands clench the side of the sink.
I want him to go away.
I want more.
I want...
The lunch bell rings shrill
y, shattering the fragile warmth of the moment. I duck away, grabbing my backpack and slipping out the door. I merge seamlessly with the tide of kids headed to class and try to ignore the heat of his kiss, just below my ear, like a brand. Although I’m put back together and no one would ever guess, I feel naked, dirty… exposed.
Knowing Hamilton Bates, that’s exactly what he wants.
Other than basic swim captain duties, I resolve to avoid Hamilton for the rest of the week. Without giving Tyson any details, I ask him to stick around and wait for me after lunch, after practice. He’s happy to do it, and if it means I won’t suddenly find myself alone with Hamilton in the captain’s office or anywhere else, then it’s working.
Frankly, I don’t trust myself.
All that comes to an end on Saturday when it’s time to show for detention. There’s no buffer or escaping this one. Dread paralyzes me as I put on my work clothes and shoes. I stare at the bag hanging from the back of my desk, which contains something I brought from home last weekend. At the time it didn’t feel like a big deal, but now, any gesture, any interaction, feels like some kind of involuntary acceptance of it all.
Clearly, it’s dumb. I’m being absurd. It’s just my ridiculous hormones. He’s Hamilton Bates. He’s like the epitome of attractiveness. Hamilton is hot, and I’m big enough to admit that. He’s sexy and genetically perfect, the ideal physical specimen. It only makes sense that my body reacts to his body, to have some evolutionary biological imperative triggered when he’s around. I’ve always been aware of his muscles and the way he’s performed as an athlete. He walks around nearly naked at swim. There’s no ignoring his ripped abs and strong legs, his lean biceps and powerful back. So we apparently have some latent sexual chemistry going on. Who wouldn’t be attracted to all of that?
Because, damn. Seriously. The guy is smoking hot, and I’m...
I’m just one woman.
It’s a perfectly valid weakness.
I repeat all of this to myself like an affirmation, doing my best to convince myself that it’s just surface deep. With a steeling inhale, I grab the bag and leave.
