Wicked Idol: A Hellfire Club Novel

by Becker Gray

  Her eyelashes fluttered—gleaming silver from the moonlight—and a slow, lazy smile curved her lips. She was all satiation now, all loose limbs and dozy eyes, while I was strung as tight as a piano wire.

  “Okay, Keaton,” she said, all the pleasure I’d just given her still thick in her voice. She parted her thighs even more in invitation. “You can look.”

  I was already moving my hands up her thighs, sliding my palms over the synthetic material of her tights. They were thick as far as tights went, but as worked up as I was, they were no match for me. I tore a hole right between her legs, ripping it open enough to get a good look at the pink cotton panties underneath.

  I hooked them to the side, and for the first time, I got to see her. I got to see where she was wet and soft, just for me.

  “Babe.” My voice was rough.

  She grabbed my shirt and pulled me down to kiss her again, her hips undulating lazily underneath me.

  “You want more?” I whispered against her lips. “You want me to give you another one?”

  She nodded, still kissing me, and then sighing as I moved a thigh between her legs for her to move against. By this point, my dick could have hammered nails, and I had to bite my lip to keep from grunting every time she accidentally brushed against it. I’d never gone so long without getting off, and I couldn’t even say why exactly, other than that I would tear off my own arm before I stopped right now. I had to make her feel good again.

  “What about you?” she asked between kisses. Her hand slid down, down, and then her fingers skated over me. Showers of sparks chased her touch—down my belly, deep in my groin, all along the aching length.

  I covered her hand with mine. “You want to make this feel better?” I breathed. “I can show you how.”

  Her heavenly blue eyes were wide on mine as I guided her into rubbing me, as I decided I needed to pop open the button of my fly—

  Honk.

  Honk honk.

  Hooooonk.

  “Shit.”

  Her face screwed up in confusion. “Are those cars?”

  Honk honk honk.

  “Yeah. Shit. Here, let me help you up—” I rolled to my feet and took her hands, hauling her easily to standing and then tugging her dress down. Her hair was tousled and her lips were swollen and her tights were torn—but the tights were hidden by her dress and the rest could be chalked up to drinking.

  And not, you know, having her pussy seen to by the rugby captain.

  “The honks mean we’re being busted,” I said, taking her hand and tugging her away from the river and towards the bonfire. “We need to get back to the school.”

  “Okay,” she said, looking pale and worried, and I stopped.

  “You’ve never been to a party getting busted before?”

  She shook her head.

  “You’ll be fine,” I reassured her. “You haven’t been drinking and we don’t have any alcohol on us. If someone stops us, the worst that will happen is they tell us to go home.”

  “If you say so,” she muttered as we started walking again, but she didn’t sound convinced. All around us were scrambling students, some of them dumping out liquor or weed, others trying to cram it in their pockets and then make a run for it through the trees, taking the long way back to the school.

  Me, I preferred the direct route. I figured if it were the cops or school admin, either way, they’d already have their hands full with Samantha Morgan and the Croft Wells kids. We’d just waltz past all the mess and then right back onto the school grounds.

  Except there was one thing I wasn’t counting on when I reached the bonfire clearing.

  One person.

  I dropped Iris’s hand.

  “Daddy,” she whispered. It could have been horror, or it could have been relief, I didn’t know her well enough to say.

  You don’t know her at all.

  “Did you tell him about the party?” I asked, looking over at her. Headmaster Briggs was striding towards us, thunder in his face, and all I could think was that Rhys was right.

  She’ll draw attention.

  The last thing you want is Headmaster Briggs associating rugby with whatever this is.

  Shit. Had I just fucked over the entire team—and myself—by fucking around with the headmaster’s daughter?

  Iris’s face was difficult to read. She seemed hurt or indignant or both. “Of course I didn’t,” she hissed. “Do you think I would have . . . you know . . . if I knew he was coming?”

  “I don’t know, Big Red. How badly would you like to see me in trouble?”

  Her mouth gaped. “What?”

  “Were you bait?”

  She closed her mouth then, and her eyes narrowed. “I hate you.”

  “So you say. And so here we are.” I nodded at Headmaster Briggs, who’d finally reached us, his cheeks florid with rage.

  I knew I should have run then. And I could have; in the dim, flickering light, he probably hadn’t gotten a good look at my face and would have thought me just another fleeing teenager. But as suspicious of Iris as I was, as pissed as I was about what this might mean for the team, I couldn’t leave her there. I didn’t know why.

  Something about her made me stupid as hell, I guess.

  I drew myself up to my full height, fully expecting the headmaster to start laying into me.

  Instead, it was as if he didn’t even see me at all. He only had furious eyes for his daughter. “You,” he said coldly to her. “Home with me. Now.”

  She didn’t look at me. But she didn’t have to look at me for me to sense that something normally bright and vibrant inside of her had gone dim. And it was her father’s fault.

  She stepped forward, and they both turned and walked away, leaving me in no trouble at all.

  And yet still feeling guiltier than ever.

  11

  Iris

  There was a very specific format to a Milo Briggs lecture.

  It was always guaran-goddamn-teed to start with stern disappointment sewn in with some mild derision.

  Add a little dash of expectation, some confusion as to how you could have possibly disappointed when you were a Briggs, and then, finally, some love.

  There was always love intertwined, which should have made it hurt less, but somehow always managed to make it worse. Because at the end of the day no matter what, I knew my parents wanted the best for me.

  The problem was they never actually listened to me or asked me what I wanted. They just had their plans laid out, their expectations. And I was expected to comply. To follow along, to do as I was told. To follow the rules. And all I wanted to do was to break the rules.

  Total lie.

  I didn’t want to break the rules. That was ridiculous. Who wanted to break rules? I liked rules. Rules guided things. I just liked the rules that made sense. If a rule seemed dumb to me or arbitrary, then I was less inclined to follow it. The number one important thing to me was my freedom. I just wanted to be out of here. And it was almost within my reach. Unfortunately, my father had other plans for me.

  “I cannot believe you, Iris. Out cavorting with god knows who, drinking and doing god knows what.”

  He had a point about the god knows what part. I knew that this was the portion of the lecture where I was supposed to inject the, “I’m sorry, Daddy.”

  Instead I said, “What is it you can’t believe?”

  I blinked. Then blinked again. Wondering if somehow I’d become a ventriloquist dummy. That was not what I intended to say.

  His brows furrowed. Likely because I had never ever said anything like that to him before. “Iris, I know a move to a new school in your senior year was not . . . ideal.”

  “Not ideal?” He was kidding right? He’d gotten the new post right after Isabelle had gone to school in London. “You uprooted my whole high-school experience. You didn’t even ask. And when I asked if I could stay with Aunt Helen, you said no. ‘A family has to stay together,’ you said.”

  He sighed. Clearly fl
ummoxed as to where this newfound mouthiness was coming from. The truth was I was always mouthy. Just, I didn’t usually say things out loud. But for some reason, the comebacks, the sly comments, the quick wit, they all came out when I was talking to Keaton. It was easy to forget to control myself with him. Usually because he was making me so mad.

  Also for other reasons.

  But for my parents, I bit my tongue. I knew how important it was to present the right image. But it was like being with Keaton had loosened something in me, and that half of a fuck I had left had dwindled to nearly nothing. Now, it was open season and I couldn’t stop the words from tripping and dancing and twirling out of my mouth.

  “Iris Briggs. I am your father. I mean, to find you at a party? I am disappointed. Fine, you’re young. I know you need to have some social experiences. But you, with those kids from Croft Wells? From the Hellfire Club? What in the world is wrong with you?”

  “Aren’t you always the one that says, ‘Make new friends, get to know the school culture. Immerse yourself fully.’” I tapped my chin. “That was you, right? Or should I go round up Mom and see if she remembers who said those words? It was either her or you. Or hey, maybe it was Isabelle. But ah wait, that’s right. Isabelle is not here to check with you, because you let my sister go off to London.”

  “She’s off to study economics.”

  That was the crux of it. Unlike my sister, I was being impractical. They didn’t want me studying photography. And that chafed me raw.

  “Look, Iris. Your mother and I, we love you.”

  “And I love you. I just, I feel trapped, Daddy.”

  “And that is not what we want for you. It’s your senior year and we didn’t want to just leave you behind with your aunt. We are a family.”

  That seed of discontentment that had planted itself in my belly, rooted, and had started to sprout little leaves, blossomed into a blood-red flower, covered in thorns. I knew they loved me. And I loved them. I just didn’t want what they wanted for me. And they were unwilling to listen.

  “Daddy, I don’t understand what the problem is. I have straight As. I work hard, I’ve been making friends. Getting to know people.”

  “But you’re distracted. I can tell. Back-to-school night, where were you? Your mother and I were counting on you. You know the rule. You know your role. Whatever the new school is, you make everyone feel welcome and that you are excited to be a student there. We did not have that this time.”

  I muttered under my breath, “I’m sorry, a student needed me.”

  “What student? Was something wrong?”

  I swallowed down the pang of jealousy at his immediate concern for some fictitious student. My jealousy was only salved by the knowledge that the student was Keaton Constantine. And my father would not be too worried about him.

  “I took care of it. But that’s what I was doing. So sorry I couldn’t be by your side.”

  He shook his head. “Iris, we need you to get things together. Honestly, your mother said it’s like you’re not even interested in the college application process.”

  More like I wasn’t interested in the applications they wanted me to be interested in. “Oh that. I filled out some of the forms you gave me.” I had done my essays. Or rather, I’d taken a series of essays through school and from working on past school newspapers as well as my blog and repurposed several of them to fit the questions being asked. “What about my applications?”

  “What about them is you don’t seem interested. Is there anywhere that you’re dying to go? We could make calls. You’re not campaigning for yourself, Iris.”

  “I’ve applied to my dream school and several safeties,” I hedged, hoping he wouldn’t ask for more details. “Well, I’ll see where I get in and then I’ll make a decision.”

  He softened then. We were about to get to the I-love-you portion of the lecture. “I need you to buckle down and show me you want this.”

  I did want this. I wanted my parents’ approval. Just not at the expense of myself.

  “Iris, we need you to get back to your focus. You have opportunities awaiting you. Can you show me that you care? Can you show me that you’re not distracted? That you’re not going to let some boys and wild parties get the better of your senior year? Screwing around is not what you do.”

  My brow furrowed. “Daddy, I went to one party. I didn’t even drink. I hung out with kids from the school. I didn’t even talk to the kids from the other school. I did everything that I was supposed to do and then some. But the first time I go to a party, you’re mad?”

  “I’m not mad. I’m disappointed. If you’d just told us. . .”

  “Oh my god, so I’m that kid. The one who narcs on her friends. Besides, what is so wrong with a party?”

  “You forget I was young once.”

  “Oh no. I don’t forget. You keep telling me. But you keep acting seriously uncool.”

  He sat back, crossed his arms. “All right, fine, you can go to your room now. But finish the rest of your applications, would you?”

  I couldn’t give a shit about Harvard—where he wanted me to go. Columbia didn’t interest me, although NYU did, and I’d applied there as a safety. My mother’s alma mater of Brown held zero appeal. But of course, she had already made all the calls to the director of admissions and the alumni board. Dad had gone to Dartmouth. And so that’s where he was campaigning for.

  Neither one of them wanted Yale.

  God forbid.

  So Harvard was the compromise. Obvi.

  I shook my head. Neither one of them had asked me where I wanted to go. What dream would make me fly, soar. The good news was I was eighteen. My college fund was fully funded. And I could get a loan for living expenses. I had it all figured out. And they couldn’t stop me.

  With my father’s disappointed eyes watching me warily, I stood and grabbed my backpack off the floor. “If we’re done, Daddy?”

  “Yeah, we’re done. Just try to stay out of trouble, Iris. I’ve never had to say that to you before, but maybe without your sister here as an example, you need to hear it. But I really don’t want that to be our relationship now.”

  I refrained from rolling my eyes for fear that one of them would get so far lodged I wouldn’t be able to get it back. Izzy, perfect Izzy, brilliant and scarlet-haired and beautiful. A hard act to follow.

  There was a small part of me that wanted to be like her. I wished I could just toe the line. But I didn’t want to. I wanted to be in Paris. I wanted to have freedom.

  Problem was Dad wasn’t wrong about me being distracted. Keaton Constantine had me twisted. God, I’d been making out with him, at a party. Lying down. He’d been grinding on me with his hand up my dress and that delicious pressure right at the juncture of my thighs.

  I had been flying. Feeling like my skin was on fire and I was vibrating all at once. It felt so good. But god, he was so evil. Swear to god if he somehow still managed to tank this project for me, I was going to kill him. Not to mention that fucking bait comment!

  I was super going to kill him.

  Funny how my usual Keaton Constantine feelings included thoughts of murder. I thought about it frequently. I wondered if I could hit him hard enough to make him pass out, if I could throttle him. I wondered what would happen if I took my dad’s car and just ran him over.

  And then on the other hand, I wondered how far this thing between us—the whispered hushed secrets and soul baring—was going to go. And, of course, there was the desperate forbidden deliciousness, the need to be near him even when I knew I hated him.

  You don’t hate him.

  I shoved that thought aside. What the fuck? I absolutely did hate him. I hated everything about him. The kind of guy he was, that smug alpha asshole. I hated alpha guys. Loathed them. I didn’t necessarily want a beta guy either. But I hated that cocksure I-know-everything-and-you-know-nothing kind of attitude. It made me want to punch things.

  That attitude roiled against my need for independence, and s
o I stayed away from guys like that. But somehow, I couldn’t stay away from Keaton. It didn’t matter how much I hated him.

  You don’t hate him.

  God, I did. Please, God, let me still hate him.

  The problem was I knew that was right. I didn’t hate him.

  Being lectured now, that sucked. And the first person I wanted to talk to was him. Not to Sera, not Sloane. Not even Rachel from back home. I wanted Keaton.

  From a few of the things he’d said about his parents, I got the impression he would understand. That he would feel me and my annoyance so hard. And the disappointment, and the need to be my own person. The need to break free. I knew he would get it.

  Then why are we still pretending we hate him?

  My boots shuffled on the old wood floors of the headmaster’s residence as I passed dark window after dark window on my way down the hall. The house was situated behind the dorms and surrounded by trees, as if the encroaching forest wanted to swallow it whole, and it seemed as ancient as the forest too, with its stained glass windows and dark wood paneling and tiny fireplaces in every room. Whereas the Pembroke campus was all New England charm, the headmaster’s house had more of a Turn of the Screw vibe—a little creepy, a lot creaky, and very cool.

  Except, of course, if you were trying to get down the noisy Victorian-era staircase for a midnight snack. Then all the creakiness and creepiness were suddenly a lot less amusing.

  I got to my room and quietly closed the door—even though slamming it would’ve felt really good right about now—and took a look around. It looked the same as it did before I went to the party. Before I once again fell into the logic-abyss that seemed to be Keaton Constantine. Before I let Keaton give me an orgasm—again.

  Frustrated, I tossed my bag on my bed and then sat at my desk.

  I knew I had the other applications to the other schools that were on my parents’ hit list. The problem was I had zero motivation to apply to those, not even to add to my pile of safeties. Instead, there was the one that I wanted, and the even earlier escape it was promising through the pre-degree program.