by Angel Lawson
“What you said to me the other night, before we…” She flushes, looking away. “You know.”
I’ve said a lot of shit to a lot of girls to get in their pants. It’s not something I’m proud of, but it’s just the way the game is played. Gwendolyn, in particular, is quite effective in making my brain melt.
I squint at her. “Yeah, I’m going to need a little bit more to go on.”
She exhales and looks up at the ceiling, as if asking some higher power for the strength. “You said something about me being stronger than other girls. Did you mean that?”
‘You can handle all my bullshit— and if you can handle that, you can handle anything.’
The words echo in my head, the memory crystal clear. She’d been under me, her body hot but soft. My body hard and thrumming. And I just remember thinking ‘nothing about this feels wrong’.
“Yeah, I meant it,” I reply, clasping my hands between my knees with a shrug. “It’s true.”
She studies my face, as if looking to find the truth in my response. I’m not sure what she finds. “What about Reagan?”
I know what she’s asking. What I’m doing with Gwen… it makes me a cheater. A liar. Do I tell her that I haven’t slept with her? That I spend more time avoiding her than anything else? Would that make it any better, make me any less of a dick?
Probably not.
“Look, here’s the truth.” I run my hand through my hair and admit, “Reagan is a nice, sweet, compliant little sheep who doesn’t interest me one fucking bit. Our relationship is purely superficial, but it’s also socially acceptable. She’s too easy for me. She’s predictable. She’s not like—” I stop, but it doesn’t matter.
“Like me?” she snorts and rolls her eyes.
“She’s nothing like you. You’re a pain in my ass. You drive me crazy. All you ever do is argue with me. And as much as I hate it—"
“You like it.”
God, I really, really do.
I love the way it feels, the trouble and the electricity. It’s not like it was with Campbell. With her, it was drama. With Gwen, it’s a struggle. I can’t just have Gwen. I have to fight tooth and fucking nail for it. It makes my balls ache and my heart pound. Gwendolyn Adams is a need more than a want. And I have no fucking idea what to do with that except try to pound her out of my system.
I’m not so sure she’d be keen about that.
Except, she’s here. And we’re talking about it. And everything’s turned upside down.
“One last thing,” she says, arms crossed over those perfect tits.
I nod, curious enough.
“What about the test?”
“Test?” I can’t ever follow her train of thought. See? Struggle.
“You know, the test.” She quirks an eyebrow at me, her eyes darting down to my crotch. “The blow job test.”
Ah, right. The infamous test. The test Campbell made up sophomore year to make herself look bad ass. The test that somehow evolved into a weird, unspoken rule for any girl who wanted to date me. The entire charade propelled us in popularity and power, and yeah, I got a few blow jobs out of it, for sure. As far as sexual rumors went, I’m pretty sure I hit the jackpot on that one.
All this talk of getting my dick sucked makes it a physical battle not to study her mouth too hard.
“You auditioning for my girlfriend, now?”
She laughs, loud and honking. “Yeah, right, Bates. As if being your shady, illicit hook-up isn’t bad enough.”
Her blunt honesty hurts more than expected, like a sharp stab to the middle of my chest. It’s not something I feel often, and I don’t particularly like it. She pushes off the desk and heads toward the door, making it clear that any hopes of a hookup right now are wildly misplaced. It isn’t going to happen. Maybe ever.
She takes a quick look down the hall, making sure no one sees her leaving, and then vanishes down the hall, plaid skirt swishing behind her. I fall back in my chair, heart thrumming, body on edge, one thought flitting through my mind.
Maybe this girl can bruise my ego, after all.
17
Gwendolyn
“Gwen! We brought you something!” Michaela rushes from the car, coffee cup clutched in both hands.
“Careful!” Debbie calls, eyeing Michaela’s trot worriedly. I quickly rescue the drink from my sister’s hands.
“Thank you!” I say to both Michaela and Debbie, the latter obviously having been the one responsible for the coffee. Debbie honks her horn in reply and drives off.
“You look better today,” Micha says, squinting up at me from where he’s kneeled, adjusting one of his pink shoelaces.
I frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You looked tired on Monday,” Michaela explains. She gives Micha an impatient look, huffing when he finally falls into step with us. “That’s why we brought you the mocha. Sugar and caffeine. It’s your favorite right?”
“It is.” I take a demonstrative sip. It’s delicious, perfect for a cold morning. Thanksgiving is only two weeks away, so the air is growing crisper, and the ancient trees around the campus are dressed up in vivid yellows and deep oranges.
“Good,” she says in relief, smile widening. “Because that’s what I told that boy the other day when he asked.”
I come to a stumbling halt, head whipping toward her. “Wait, what? What boy?”
“The cute one—”
“He’s not cute,” Micha says, giving his sister a wise look, “he’s hot.”
Michaela doesn’t bother disagreeing. She adds, “Anyway, he said he was on the swim team.”
“Hamilton?” I take a panicked glance around the courtyard. “You talked to Hamilton?”
“Yeah.” She grips her backpack straps with both hands and starts to walk toward the building.
“Whoa, whoa!” I grab her by the arm, pulling her back to me. “Michaela, tell me exactly what happened.”
The twins share a confused glance before she explains, “We were waiting in the carpool line after school. He just walked up and asked what your favorite coffee was.”
I rear back in surprise. “Really?”
“Yep.” Michaela nods.
I consider her for a moment, worrying my lip between my teeth. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.” She shrugs, and I fight back a wave of frantic frustration. She asks, “Did he bring you some coffee?”
“Actually, he did.” Saturday morning. Before our little meltdown. “Did he say anything else?”
I know Michaela, who is scarily detail-oriented, can do better than this. Where are the specifics? What was he wearing? What was his demeanor? What day was it? Was he already on his way off-campus, suggesting a spontaneous gesture, or was it the day before?
Set the fucking scene, child!
“No, but he was nice. He said he liked my braids.” She grins, reaching up to twirl one around her finger. She breathes a giggle. “His eyes are dreamy.”
Hell yeah, they are.
“Okay, well, if he talks to you again, let me know, okay?”
Micha’s eyebrow raises dramatically—something he’s no doubt been practicing in the mirror for the last year. “Are you two hanging out?”
“No!” I reply, a little too abruptly. From the look on his face, my brother isn’t buying it. “We’re co-captains on swim together. Sometimes we do nice things for each other. It’s no big deal.”
“Whatever you say, sis,” he replies.
The bell tower chimes, cutting the conversation short. I wave and they take off into the middle school. If Michaela is telling the truth—and there’s no reason she wouldn’t—Hamilton went out of his way to make sure he brought me a coffee I specifically would like. And this was before we had it out at detention. Before he humiliated me in front of his friends. Before we even had sex.
Traffic control devices get less mixed signals than this.
I walk toward the main building, coffee cup warming my hands, and feel my eyes pull m
agnetically toward where Hamilton stands with his friends. Micha’s right. He is hot. His hair is gently blowing in the breeze, and he ducks his head down against it, grinning with half his mouth as he talks. His tie is a little loose at his neck, and he’s propped up against one of the low retaining walls, hands pushed into his pockets. I look at him and get all these thoughts, like his shoulders shifting under his shirt as he shrugs, and how I’ve had my hands hooked around them while he was thrusting into me. Or how when he reaches up to fidget with his earlobe, remembering that my teeth have been there. Or when he wets his bottom lip with his tongue, I get this striking awareness that it’s been buried between my legs.
The conversation we had with one another in the music room was all at once awkward and disorienting. He wanted to hook up—it was written clear as day on his face—but I was such a mess of nerves and self-doubt that we’d talked instead. The whole conversation felt like we were setting clear parameters; this isn’t dating and I’m not lining up to be his girlfriend. After what he admitted about his current girlfriend, I’m not sure Hamilton Bates is designed for commitment at all, least of all with me.
Across the quad, I watch him as he laughs at something Xavier says, his face glowing in the early morning sun, and I’m acutely aware when his eyes dart my direction, before flicking away just as quickly. If I blinked, I would have missed it.
No, the coffee gesture wasn’t loaded. It was a minor peace offering, nothing more. The unspoken agreement we seemed to have come to yesterday was obvious. We’re both in this to fulfill a need—a need that apparently neither of us have been able to quench—and that it doesn’t need to be fraught with hatred and resentment to work. It can just... be.
It just can’t be anything more.
“I need all the seniors to come meet by the bleachers,” Hamilton announces once practice is over. We’re wrapped in towels, muscles and skin hot from swimming, but pebbled with goosebumps from the cool air outside the water. There are twenty seniors, and, after a moment of dawdling, they all huddle obediently around me and Hamilton.
“The first meet is coming up and that means it’s time for locker decorating,” Hamilton says, while I pass around cards to each swimmer. “Gwendolyn is giving you a list of the swimmers you’re responsible for, and I don’t want to hear any bitching about who you get.”
“Everyone should have about four teammates that you’re responsible for. There are a few details about each swimmer, such as favorite color, candy, drink—that kind of thing. We have art supplies and paper in the office for you to use, including a metric fuckload of glitter, and don’t be afraid to go the extra mile by adding personal touches.”
I’m not quite sure how locker decorating—which should by all accounts be scorned as a lame waste of time by the popular kids—became something that got the entire team excited, but even Heston seems eager, nodding along. Though I shouldn’t really be surprised. It’s tradition, one that’s upheld seriously. This is more than just a silly craft project. It is, in its own way, a competition itself.
I’m just glad they’re cooperating.
“The administration is leaving the building open tomorrow night for the sole purpose of decorating. Go in, find the locker, and decorate the fucking thing. That’s it. No sneaking into classrooms, petty theft, or vandalizing anything.” Hamilton’s grey eyes sweep the crowd before narrowing at Heston, who holds his hands up innocently. I don’t think either of us miss the wicked smirk on his mouth. Last year there were some problems, but Coach was able to smooth it over. I doubt we’d get a third chance. “We’ll meet at the main doors at nine sharp, got it?”
As a group, they nod, and break off to begin discussing their ideas. Most head into the office to avail themselves of the supplies to take back to their dorms or home. When we’re alone, Hamilton scratches the back of his neck and turns to me, eyes averted.
“So,” he asks quietly. “Want to knock this out together?”
I eye him warily. We have eighteen lockers to decorate between the two of us and something tells me that, much like manual labor, creative arts probably aren’t part of Hamilton’s wheelhouse. There’s also a part of me that suspects he’s using this as a way to get me alone so we can do more hot, sweaty things. It’s not even that I don’t want to. It’s just that I’m still unsure what to make of it all, and it doesn’t seem like a good idea.
“If I agree to come, I’m not doing all the work,” I tell him, avoiding his gaze when I carefully add, “And that’s all we’d be doing. Working.”
“Fine. You can come by my suite, if you want.” I give him a warning look and he rolls his eyes. “Jesus Christ, we’ll leave the door open, okay? It’s not about that, I just have a lot of space there. We can spread out, have plenty of room to work with.”
I nod toward the group of Devils walking into the locker room. “Won’t certain people have something to say about that?” He and I both know that just waltzing up to his suite will be making a particular kind of public statement.
But Hamilton just shrugs. “This is the kind of thing Coach wants us to do, right? The dean, too. We’re supposed to be putting aside our differences for the sake of good leadership or whatever. So, I have no problem with it getting around. It’s the kind of thing that gets them off our back.” He meets my gaze, the curve of his mouth spreading into an impish grin. “It’ll also get back to my dad, which will make him absolutely fucking furious.” He cocks an eyebrow. “You game?”
While he waits for me to decide, he pulls on a shirt, covering his ridiculous upper body. I don’t miss his wince, nor the way his body goes rigid for a split second while working his shoulder.
“That’s getting worse.”
“Nah.” He shakes his head, and I think if I listen closely enough, I can hear the undercurrent of the pain he’s clearly trying to hide. “Just tight. It’s not an issue.”
I dither for a moment, and I don’t even know. It’s like I have this sudden impulse to sit him down on the bench and give him a massage or something, which is preposterous. Hamilton’s a fantastic swimmer, and I don’t know what his plans for the future are—maybe it’s all riding on his athletics, though I doubt it—but I do know that nothing good can come from ignoring an injury like this.
I tell myself firmly that it’s not my problem to fix. If he wanted help, he’d ask for it like a big boy.
Which is why I can’t ignore it when he does—such as help with decorating lockers.
The truth is that for all my bravado, I’m not sure I want to put myself in a situation where I’m alone with Hamilton in his dorm room. Far riskier situations haven’t stopped us.
But he’s right. It would make the coach happy, and upsetting his father is a really tempting flavor to ice that cake with.
I take a breath and turn to him, holding his slate-gray gaze. “I’m game.”
I stand outside of Cresswell long enough to draw stares. I have a box of art supplies wedged under my arm, and I’m wondering if maybe I’ve finally lost my mind. Agreeing to come here was foolish, like walking into a set trap. When we’re alone, I know Hamilton can be civil. I’ve seen it. But in front of his dormmates? I just can’t see it happening. It’ll probably be just like the other day at detention. For all his talk about putting aside our differences for the sake of leadership, I’ve yet to see proof that Hamilton has it in him.
No. This feels exactly like walking into enemy territory.
What would Skylar think?
I’m overwhelmed by a sudden moment of clarity that I can’t do it. For some reason, going into the Devil’s lair feels even worse than what we’ve already done. The making out, the sex, had all been hormonally instigated impulse. This is something else. This is willing fraternization.
I turn on my heel and crash into someone before I can even take a step.
“Oh, shit, are you—Gwen?” Xavier looks down at me with wide eyes.
“Sorry,” I mumble, taking a wide step back. “I was just—”
Und
erstanding seems to dawn over his face. “You need the code?”
Dammit.
My face twists up into a grimace. If I leave now, he’ll know that I chickened out. “Yeah, I guess so.” He steps past me and punches it in. I exhale, shoulders dropping in defeat. “While you’re at it, can you point me to Bates’ room? We have this swim team thing to do.”
Xavier looks at me over his shoulder and doesn’t seem surprised at all. “Sure, it’s on the fourth floor. Here,” he takes the box from me easily, “you can just follow me.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, every nerve going suddenly on high alert. Why is Xavier being nice to me? Once again, suspicions of a setup tickle my spidey-senses. I have no idea what I’m walking into.
On the second-floor landing, two underclassmen pass us. One gives me a long, curious look, even slowing to watch me. He looks nervous. My fight or flight instincts take over.
There’s no way I can fight off a guy like Xavier.
I stop, voice shaking when I start, “You know what? I think I forgot—”
Xavier turns to me. “Hey, can I ask you something?” He lowers the box so it’s resting against his hip. And the thing is, he doesn’t look angry, or aggressive, or even like he just doesn’t like me. He looks perfectly casual.
“Um...” I glance around nervously. “I guess so?”
“I know we’re not supposed to talk about this.” He takes a furtive glance over his shoulder, but we’re alone now. “But I was wondering how Skylar is doing. Like, for real.”
I stare blankly at him. In the seven months since the party, no one at Preston has mentioned Skylar to me. It’s against the rules, for one, but mostly I’ve just assumed that no one actually cares.
But of all people with the nerve to ask…
Xavier frowns at my silence, at my blank stare, and then nods at the ground. “Yeah, that’s fair. I never should have taken her to the party that night. It was stupid and risky. I knew the guys wouldn’t want her to be there, but I just thought...” He trails off for a moment, eyebrows pushed together. “I guess I just thought if they spent some time with her like I had, they might come around, you know? See that she was cool and nice and smart and... you know, Sky. And then we had that stupid fight.” He shifts closer, his voice dropping into a fervent, shaky whisper. “I had no idea what was going on that night, Gwen. I really didn’t, I’ll swear on my own life. I really did like her. I mean...” he gives me a sad smile, “not that I ever stopped liking her. And it’s just that I never got a chance to say goodbye, or that I was sorry.”
