“Literally? Like off with their heads? Because she seems like the type. You guys don’t have guillotines around here, do you?”
He smirks, “What would you call going back to jail?”
I don’t have an answer for that. “Wait, would you go back to jail if you pissed her off?”
He arches an eyebrow that says yes.
“Is it because you’re in the work-study program?”
“And I’d like to keep it that way.”
I almost cut in and ask him if he ever raped anybody like the Silicones said, but I seriously don’t want to know. No, I don’t need to know. Mr. Robbers here would never rape anybody. He’s too nice under his hardened exterior. I can tell. When he saw into my soul, I saw into his.
He finishes, “So don’t go pissing off Elizabeth or her friends.”
“The other two? The brunette and the redhead?”
He nods, “Victoria and Jacqueline. They’re not worth it. Doing your time here and walking away with a diploma is.”
“Don’t you have yours? Your diploma, I mean?”
He totally looks old enough for a degree, let alone a diploma, but he shakes his head, “Not yet. Still working on it.” There’s no way he’s not eighteen.
“How old are you?”
“Old enough. Forget about me. Focus on not pissing off Elizabeth.”
After what he did since we got in the parking garage, I could never forget a man like him, no matter how old or young he is, diploma or no diploma. In a weird way, I realize that a minute ago, he wasn’t protecting Eliza-bitch from me, and he wasn’t protecting me from her wrath either. Not literally. He was protecting me from myself. It wasn’t like she was going to fight me. I could tell. Other than throwing drinks at you, rich girls like her never lift a finger. They pay people to lift their fingers for them. If Rob hadn’t pulled me off Eliza-bitch, I would’ve slapped her nose job off, and then some. You can bet your best bra Eliza-bitch would press charges if I’d clawed her eyes out. Except Rob stepped in when it counted and literally saved me from jail. This man is much more complicated than I thought at first blush, and that’s not counting whether or not he is or isn’t Alpha. You know who isn’t complicated? Eliza-bitch. She’s a walking cliché. “Is she like, the Queen Bee-word around here or whatever?”
Rob smirks, “Close enough. Whatever you call her, don’t say it to her face or anyone else.”
“Anyone?”
“Not anyone. Do what she says or she will have you kicked back to jail. I mean it.”
“Seriously? She can do that?”
He says cryptically, “At Castle Hill Academy, Elizabeth Morgan-Hearst can do anything she wants.”
I don’t know it at the time, but I will soon find out how right he is. Blitchy bitches be like that.
Rob says, “Keep your head down, Mouth. Life here isn’t so bad if you follow orders. And do me a favor.”
“What?”
“Learn to pick your battles,” he winks. “I’ve got a thick skin. Elizabeth doesn’t. I mean it when I said you caught her on a good day. I’ve never seen her this nice.”
“Are you serious?” I laugh.
“Deadly.”
“What, did she get laid last night? Or this morning or whenever?” I’m suddenly wondering if Rob is the one who laid her. No! No effing way! He’d never do a bitch like her!
“Probably,” he smiles wide and tousles my limp mohawk like I’m a little kid.
I hate that he’s treating me like a kid, but I love, no, I mean like, that he, I don’t know… likes me enough to finally smile at me like maybe he likes me, even if it’s just as a friend. And what a smile it is. It pulls at my soul, slipping past my defenses and cuddling up with my heart and spooning it before I realize he’s doing it.
“Let’s go,” Rob grins and starts walking.
“Yeah,” I titter and follow willingly.
Another thing I don’t know at the time is that Rob’s kindness is a blatant lie, his smile a traitorous thing no one should ever trust, especially not a gullible girl like me. If only I’d known better, but he tricked me. Hit me where I’m most vulnerable. Right in the feels.
I told you hugs are lies.
Chapter 8
Rob takes me up an elevator from the garage. Just me and him. Inside during the ride, I desperately want him to push me up against the wall and kiss me.
He doesn’t.
I’m not exactly sure why. He’s all over the place emotionally, he may or may not be a murderer or worse, but he’s a walking wall of masculine perfection, we’re alone, and he’s irresistible. Isn’t that good enough?
When the doors open, he walks me out to a gorgeous courtyard. Blue skies, tall palm trees, more marble columns, intricate red brick inlayed walkways with colorful patterned tiles, a round fountain with a statue of a patinated Poseidon or Neptune surrounded by nymphs, all of them lounging or frozen in mid-frolic on a raised dais held up by giant seahorses ridden by mermen. On every level, countless hanging flowers splash over balcony railings like rainbow waterfalls. In the distance, the vast cyan expanse of the ocean. I can almost smell the surf.
This place is paradise.
At the moment, I don’t see any people around. Class must be in session. My mental lightbulb flips on sun-bright, and I say, “What did you say Elizabeth’s last name is?”
“Morgan-Hearst.”
“As in the Hearsts? Like, Hearst castle Hearst? Did they build this place? It totally reminds me of San Simeon.”
“No, the Morgan-Hearsts are a different branch. No relation. From what I’ve heard, her family came over before the Mayflower got here. We’re talking the oldest money in America, going way back. Back in the day, they had tobacco slave plantations all over the south. They had to get rid of the slaves after the Civil War, but they never got rid of the tobacco fields or the plantation mindset. These days, that means vaping products.”
“Makes sense someone so vapid is into vaping.”
“Yeah,” he snickers.
“Wait, her family owned slave slaves?”
He smirks, “Where do you think she got her attitude?”
I grin, “From her weave being too tight? Botox on the brain? Her boob implants leaked silicone into her heart and hardened it?”
He chuckles, “Good breeding, according to her.”
“What, is she a horse? Because she looks like one.” That’s totally not true. Plastic surgery or not, Eliza-bitch is wicked good looking, which makes her all the more hate-worthy.
“No, but her family has owned half the horses to ever win the Kentucky Derby.”
“What?! That can’t be true.”
He nods. “Rumor has it, the Morgans and the Hearsts have royal blue blood coursing through their veins.”
“What, like British Royals?”
“Who knows. European for sure, but with both sides of her family coming over so long ago, they could be British, French, Dutch, German, Russian. It’s anybody’s guess.”
“Her family really owns Castle Hill Academy?”
“They built it shortly before the Civil War, so yeah.”
“Wow. How rich is she?”
“Put it this way. When God needs a loan, he asks her family.”
“Uh uh,” I laugh.
“For real. Pick any exploding American industry, and they were in it from day one. Tobacco, cotton, steel, rail, banking, weaponry, electronics, computers, pharmaceuticals, the internet, artificial intelligence, and whatever other secret shit they’re investing in.”
“How do you know all this stuff?” I’m thoroughly impressed with Rob’s insight. He’s not just some pretty boy prison thug.
“Been here a while. You pick things up when you’re the janitor. People talk.”
“Is that your thing for the work-study program? Janitoring?”
“Yes, and janitoring isn’t a word,” he smirks.
My eyes light up and I snicker, “Listen to the word nerd nerding out over here.”
&n
bsp; “I don’t plan on being a janitor forever.” He smiles and his dark eyes light up with kindness and good humor. “You shouldn’t either.”
“Wait, is that what I have to do for my work studying? Janitoring?”
He grins, “Who knows. They’ll assign you to something. It’s random.”
Suddenly, a mellifluous male voice calls out with friendly familiarity, “Well, well, well. If it isn’t Rob Fletcher and his latest Connie Convict.” Whoever it is sounds almost like Justin Timberlake singing, his voice is that handsome, but there’s a cool cruelty to it you can’t miss.
I lean around Rob to look.
The hottest bleach-blond surfer-tan boy you can possibly imagine comes sauntering up wearing a prep school suit. He’s tall, broad shouldered, trim of hip, his blue eyes are lightning sapphire, his hair spun gold, his skin melted caramel, his cheekbones chiseled, his teeth and smile the most lickable looking candy confection I’ve ever seen. His tailored suit isn’t half bad either. The jacket’s gold buttons are diamond studded, the tie a silken shimmer, the gold piping and Castle Hill crest so vibrant, I almost think they’re running rivulets of molten gold. The jacket material is a jeweled ultramarine blue, the slacks a royal purple so deep, it’s almost black, but in the sunlight, the purple hue shines through.
Royalty.
That one word encapsulates everything this boy is.
He says, “Elizabeth told me about you, Connie.” You meaning me.
He’s still far enough away, and I’m hidden behind Rob, so I whisper, “Are this guy and Elizabeth a thing?”
Rob mutters, “Whenever he’s not banging someone else.”
“How often is that?” I ask.
“You mean how often isn’t that.”
“Is he one of those?”
“He’s one of those,” Rob answers.
In other words, manwhore.
I step out from behind Rob, who is standing tall, but his head hangs like he’s bowing, his eyes studying the intricate brick pavers beneath his work boots.
Me on the other hand, I stare right at His Highness. Honestly, I can’t take my eyes off him. Are my hands shaking? Yup, they’re shaking. So is the rest of me. This young man is a walking icon of masculine perfection, the refined kind, everything every girl ever dreamed of.
“Eyes down,” His Highness commands, a bitter slap.
“What?!” I snort.
“Eyes down!”
Rob hisses, “Don’t look at him.”
I laugh, “Are you serious?”
“Deadly,” His Highness seethes, glaring at me with pure hate. “Put your eyes on the pavement, Connie, or I will put them there for you.”
“My name’s not Connie,” I sneer. “It’s Mary. What’s yours? Prince Prick?”
He smiles, “Close. It’s Prince.”
“No it’s not.”
“Prince J. Lancaster the third. It would be customary for me to add at your service, but you, my luscious strumpet, will be at my service, always at my beck and call. Now do as I say. Eyes down. Now, strumpet.”
“No,” I snicker, staring right at him.
“No?” He cups my chin with a soft hand, his thumb lovingly caressing my jawline.
“No,” I mutter. I’d tell him to let go of me, but I’m stopped by a bloom of pure pleasure sizzling down my neck. It swirls in my breasts, melting my resolve. I swear, I start to float. I’d look down to see if my feet have left the ground, but I can’t look away from his beautiful blues. That doesn’t stop me from adding, “Has anyone ever told you you sound like the middle school version of a bad Shakespeare play?”
A slow smile eases across his full lips. He leans in, inches from my ear. This young man reeks of affluence and privilege, but he smells divine, sandalwood and a hint of cinnamon that hits me with a shiver. As much as I hate to admit it, this guy is a god.
He whispers, “Oh, strumpet. Do you realize how happy you just made me? What a pleasure it will be to break you.” His voice is a soft song, a lullaby that hides the lie. I’ve known boys like Prince. And men. They’ve never been this polite or picture perfect, but underneath they’re all the same. He sniffs my neck, so close I can feel his heat. “Mocha strumpet, Myyyyy favorite,” he sings, savoring the words. “What a pleasure it will be to butter your crumpet and eat you, my little strumpet.” You don’t need a dictionary to know what kind of eat he means, or which crumpet he intends to devour.
Without thinking, I reach up and slap him.
Smack!
This time, Rob doesn’t stop me, but he is wincing like he was the one I hit, and he’s obviously hiding his shock.
Oops.
I was kinda counting on him to grab me before I did something truly stupid. Too late now.
Suddenly, Prince’s caramel skin burns red and his sapphires ice over. “You shouldn’t have done that, strumpet. I was going to break you in gently, but that’s not what you want, is it?”
Am I an idiot if I admit my heart is hammering at the thought of him breaking me in? That my blood is simmering with what I can only assume is lust, and part of me wants to tell him no, that is exactly what I want? Gentle, not gentle, I don’t care which, as long as it’s him? Not that I would, but I sure am thinking it. Does that make me a disgrace to women everywhere? No, it’s not like he touched me. I was the one who hit him. He’s just using words, and they’re not even technically insulting. He’s just being an arrogant ass, acting like he owns me, which he doesn’t. No one does.
He says, “Kiss my shoe.”
“What?” I giggle.
“Kiss it.”
“No! Are you crazy? I’m not kissing your shoe!” I look to Rob for support.
He’s stone still, same as when we were in Mr. Ralston’s Mercedes. No, that’s not quite right. Rob’s exhibiting an imperceptible shiver. Every muscle is flexing like he’s an earthquake waiting to happen, on the verge of cracking open like a giant fault line about to go 9.0.
The last thing I want to see is Rob fighting Prince. No matter who won, it would end badly for Rob. Me too, because I wouldn’t just stand here and watch. Then it would be back to jail for the both of us.
Desperately wanting to avoid that disaster, I look around the courtyard for some authority figure, some adult who’ll step in and stop this nonsense, but there aren’t any. It’s just me and these two brooding bad boys.
Prince says, “As much as I’d like to see you down on your knees, strumpet, I have a better idea. Rob, kiss my shoe.”
Without hesitation, Rob grunts, “I’ll kiss your shoe if you promise to leave Mary alone.”
Prince laughs, “I don’t bargain with you. Kiss my shoe.”
“Don’t do it, Rob,” I say. Nobody deserves to kiss anybody’s shoe. “This is so stupid. Don’t!”
Rob bends down on one knee.
Prince extends a shiny leather loafer in a courtly pose. The shoe is a rich ombré mix of purple blending into ebony. It’s so polished, it’s practically mirrored, and catches the reflection of the deep blue sky, adding another jeweled hue to the overall palette. I’ve never seen anything like it. It must be priceless.
Rob leans forward, his weight on his fingers, his lips an inch away.
“Don’t leave a smudge,” Prince smirks. “This one shoe costs more money than you earn all year.”
Something tells me Prince isn’t exaggerating.
To my utter amazement, Rob actually leans forward and kisses Prince’s shoe. Then he’s back on his feet, head bowed down obediently.
Prince turns to me, “Your turn, strumpet. On your knees.”
“No!” I blurt. “You can’t—”
“O, but I can, strumpet. On your knees, or it’s back to the big house for you.”
I gasp, “Rob, he can’t!”
Rob is completely obsessed with his work boots.
I glare at Prince, “This is wrong!”
“And yet so right, strumpet. Classism in action, with me on top and you exactly where I want you. On the bot
tom.” He wears his expression of superiority and cruel amusement with pride. If he wasn’t so good looking, it would be disgusting. But he is. “Kiss it, strumpet.”
I know better than to fall for looks. “You can’t make me!”
“The rules say I can. On. Your. Knees, strumpet.”
Meanwhile, Rob is literally standing there like a stone.
“No, just no!” My eyes flick between him and Prince.
“Now, strumpet. I don’t have all day.” Prince is loving every bit of this, savoring my desperation like priceless wine.
Just when I’m about to go down, because I don’t know what else to do—
“Miss Angerman!” Mr. Ralston calls out from across the courtyard. “I’ve been looking all over for you!” He rushes over. “Ms. Skelter is waiting! Rob! What are you doing? I told you to bring Mary to her office straight away!”
Prince is standing between me and Mr. Ralston. If I had thought Prison Rob was bad before I realized he was also Mr. Robbers Rob underneath, this Prince prick is a million times worse. I give him a last glance and flip him off.
“It would be my pleasure…” Prince mutters quietly then silently mouthes the words, “…to fuck you.”
“That’s not what I meant!”
He chuckles, “In that case, I am very much going to enjoy making you regret that gesture, strumpet. I will repay it in kind, but I won’t be using my finger.”
The sick thing is, I can’t decide if I like the sound of that or not. No, of course I don’t like the sound of that! Not at all! Then why am I so flustered and shaking? I’ve had guys say things ten times worse than this. Okay, I admit it. They never looked as good as Prince, nor spoke with so much poetry, but they said worse.
Rob puts his big hand on my lower back to guide me toward Mr. Ralston and away from Prince. Rob’s hand is almost touching my ass. A hot liquid sensation pours out of his hand and rushes around to my front, bouncing up and down my body. It’s tender and protective and thrilling enough to make me a little bit giddy.
“Not so fast, Fletcher,” Prince insists, stepping directly in front of me and Rob. “I can take it from here. You have work to do. Unlike the ruling class, you always have work to do.” There’s an implication in there that Prince never has work to do. You can’t miss it.
Rich Boys vs. Poor Boys (The Cruel Kings of Castle Hill Academy, Book 1) by Devon Hartford kd103 Page 7
