Rich Boys vs. Poor Boys (The Cruel Kings of Castle Hill Academy, Book 1) by Devon Hartford kd103

by Hartford, Devon

  There comes a clacking from behind, followed by agitated clanking. A side door opens. “What do you think you’re doing, Fletcher?!”

  I don’t recognize the voice.

  Rob completely ignores it.

  Candle flames flicker off the corridor walls as the man chases after us.

  “Get your ass back here!” The man calls out.

  “Not now!” Rob shouts.

  “Now fucking now, Fletcher! I order you to stop!”

  “I order you to shut the fuck up!” Rob yells, but not in rage like he did with Prince. More in frustration.

  “You got a girl? Is that a girl, Fletcher? You know the rules! No women in the monastery! You want to get your ass thrown outta here?”

  Rob comes to a stop and growls, completely exasperated. I sense he has some respect for whoever this guy is trying to call the shots.

  “If anyone finds out,” the man says compassionately, “they’ll kick you out. I won’t have any say in the matter.”

  “Cover for me, Guerrero. Can you do that? Just fucking cover for me for one fucking night. This is important.”

  “Important enough to go back to jail over?”

  “Yes,” Rob barks without hesitation. “She was attacked.”

  “By who?” Guerrero asks, concerned.

  “Fucking Fundies,” Rob seethes.

  Everybody knows what that means. Fundies get away with whatever they want and we suffer for it.

  There’s a long sigh from Guerrero, then, “Okay. Go. Get in your room. But I want her out of here before the sun comes up. You hear me, Fletcher?”

  “Yes, sir, I hear you.”

  Guerrero grunts and he’s gone.

  <(—)>

  Rob closes the door to his room behind him.

  The room is half the size of mine and equally ascetic. One bed, one desk, one wardrobe, all made of simple wood. A similar prison window with a cross bar.

  Rob flips a switch on his desk lamp.

  A soothing glow butters the walls.

  Rob lowers me onto the bed gently.

  “I’ll be right back. I need to take my armor off.”

  I nod.

  A half hour later, he returns wearing boots, jeans and a black T-shirt, and holding a pitcher of water, bowl and cup. He pours water splashing into the cup.

  I’m parched, my throat a desert sand storm of scratches. The water hurts going down but I need it, swallowing it down with avid gasps. He pours two more. When I finish, I fall back onto the bed. I’m exhausted from my futile fight to escape that vicious iron maiden.

  Rob grabs a washcloth from his wardrobe, wets it, and sponges my face with gentle tenderness. Then he cleans my bloody fingers with a surprising degree of delicacy for a man so savage. I nearly clawed my fingernails off trying to escape that thing.

  As I get my energy back, I try to sit up.

  “Ow, shit!” I hiss.

  “What?”

  “My knee.”

  “Did you hurt it in the iron maiden?”

  “No, Jackess kicked it.”

  “Who?”

  “Jacqueline. That bitch is quick.”

  Rob helps me to sitting.

  I wince in pain. “Fuck that hurts!”

  “Take your pants off,” he orders.

  “What?! Rob! Not now! I am in excruciating pain here!” Any other time, I might actually do what he says.

  He grumbles, “I need to look at your knee. Make sure it’s okay. Your pants are too tight to pull up.”

  “Oh.”

  He’s already unlacing my boot carefully. He pulls it off softly and sets it on the floor. Undoes my other boot, tugging the laces like he’s tugging on my heart strings. There’s an intimacy to his movements that’s oddly nurturing. Nothing like bloody-faced Alpha the night I met him and his friends.

  He sets my other boot on the floor.

  I’m propped up on my elbows on his thin mattress.

  “Well?” he prompts, tugging on the cuff of my jeans.

  “Um…”

  “Do you want me to take them off?”

  “Could you?” This is the first time in my life I am asking a man on the same bed as me to take my pants off for me. Usually it’s me asking them to stop trying so hard to do it. You know how it is.

  He examines my many belts.

  “It’s the one on the bottom.”

  “I see it,” he nods.

  I swear, it takes an hour for him to unbuckle my belt. At least it seems like it, because my every nerve is on fire in anticipation. Of what, I don’t know. But this handsome man is taking off my effing pants like he’s done it a hundred times before. Not like he’s taken some other women’s pants off hundreds of times, no, I mean mine. Like, he has actually done this before. To me. It’s the weirdest sensation. It’s totally insane and it’s fleeting, but I feel it. Then it’s gone.

  When he starts to tug on my unbuttoned jeans, I push my butt up to help him scootch my pants down. Big mistake. That causes the knife in my knee to turn a screw or two.

  “Ow, shit!” I gasp.

  “Relax, Mary. I’ll do it.” He inches my jeans down past my knees and leaves them binding my ankles.

  I should feel trapped, like I’ve got shackles on my feet, but I don’t. I’m fine right here with him hovering over me with my pants down.

  Is it odd to say I’m really glad I shaved my legs just yesterday?

  Rob doesn’t seem to notice. He’s inspecting my knees. “It’s this one, right?”

  “Yeah,” I nod.

  His hands are careful and precise as he touches and tests. “Where’d she kick you?”

  “On the side.”

  “Nothing feels torn or sprained. There’s no swelling. She might have hit a nerve.”

  “Literally,” I snort, feeling much better with Rob by my side.

  “Yes, literally. My guess is you’ll be better in a few days at the most, once the nerve starts to heal.”

  “I hope so. Someone kicked my ribs too.” I grimace when I touch my side.

  “How bad is it?”

  “Not as bad as my knee, luckily. I’ll live. I’ve had worse.” I lay back on the bed and smile.

  He nods. His eyes flick down to my legs. He looks away like he’s embarrassed I caught him looking.

  “Don’t peek,” I joke. “I’m totally at your mercy right now. Peeking is not cool.”

  He smirks to himself, eyes on the ceiling.

  I’m disappointed. I like him looking.

  “You should sleep,” he says. “Do you need to take a leak or anything?”

  “Maybe later.”

  “Okay. Wake me if you need to go. We’ll have to sneak you into the bathroom.”

  “Oh. Erm, where are you going to be?”

  “Right next to you.” He peels his T-shirt off. Then his boots and jeans. Folds them into a neat pile on the floor.

  I am transfixed.

  His body is godly.

  Black boxers and muscles never looked so good. Even with his tattoos, his skin is flawless. His ink only enhances the hard lines of his physique.

  I am aching in anticipation of what happens next.

  The hottest man I’ve ever seen is about to climb into bed with me. Not a boy. Man, man, man. Manly perfection.

  I am speechless, but the answer is yes, he’s welcome in this bed.

  He opens the wardrobe and pulls out a rolled blanket. Whips it out unfurling on the floor. His blanket, not his… you know. He sits down cross-legged and positions his shirt and jeans, using them as a thin pillow. He lies down.

  I giggle, “What’re you doing down there?”

  “The bed’s kinda small.”

  “Oh. We can share if you want.”

  “Nah. This is fine. I’m good here.”

  I’m not good with him there. “Are you sure? I mean, I am pretty traumatized from what happened.” I try to sound jokey. After all these years, I’ve gotten pretty good at—

  ((((it hurts!))))


  ((((please not again!))))

  —blocking out pain.

  He nods. Stands. Picks me up and slides me against the wall. Lies down next to me. Pulls the blanket up over both of us.

  He is huge.

  I’ve never been with a man so big.

  It’s only somewhat intoxicating.

  What would happen if I were to touch his…

  I can’t do it.

  My knee is killing me. So are my ribs. Now is not the time.

  But I’m dying to kiss him.

  “You got enough room?” he asks like a brother or something similarly innocent. His muscled arm lies between us like a wall.

  “Um, not really?”

  “Do you want me to move my arm?”

  “Could you?”

  He lifts it, offering his side.

  I’d be an idiot not to snuggle with him. I slide right in.

  He tenses when I touch him.

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s fine,” he hisses.

  “Is something wrong?” This is so weird. In reality, I barely know Rob. We’re almost complete strangers. Yet here I am, little old me in his private bedroom, snuggling up in his private bed.

  “No, it’s just, pardon me.” He reaches down and tugs at his boxers under the blanket.

  “What’re you doing?!” I laugh, totally not afraid.

  “Adjusting,” he grunts.

  “Oh. Oh! Sorry. It’s that thing where boys get all, you know, at night. And in the morning when they wake up?”

  “Something like that,” he says stiffly.

  Is he lying? Or being honest?

  I’m not a hundred percent sure.

  But I am a million percent sure I’ve never felt safer than I do right now. Sleeping in foster care was never simple. I always needed a locked door and an empty room, which I didn’t always get, and I still slept with one eye open even when I did. After Gladys, a lock was mandatory. There were some nights in new homes when I’d put a chair under the doorknob or even push a dresser in front of the door if I could. Rooming with Mimi in the Convent made sleeping suddenly way easier than I can remember. I never had a BFF in foster care, but Mimi definitely qualifies, and I slept soundly in her room for the first time since losing my parents. Rooming with Azzie wasn’t as easy as Mimi, but I did sleep in her room, probably because she was gaslighting me into thinking she was a wimpy little mouse. If only I’d known what a bitch she is. I need to forget about her. Anyway, neither Mimi nor Azzie compares to this. This I could get used to. Rob’s arms are the bedtime armor I’ve always dreamed of.

  The next thing I know, I slip into sleep.

  And dream about Rob.

  My knight in shining armor.

  There’s a castle, I’m locked in a tall tower, and this time I’m wearing a fabulous princess gown. He comes to save me, riding in on a white charger before battling his way up the spiral tower staircase, sword-fighting the king’s guards or whatever. This time, when he bursts through the door, it’s an actual dream come true.

  Chapter 29

  Do I march into Ms. Skelter’s office first thing Monday morning to tell her I was locked in an iron maiden by three Fundies because I broke curfew and snuck out of the Convent against Ms. Braunschott’s explicit orders?

  I’ll give you one guess who would be the one in trouble in that rosy scenario.

  Anyway, after Halloween, the castle quickly becomes a battleground everywhere I venture. The Fundies and their lackeys hound my heels at every turn. Even in the hallowed halls of the Convent, my one sanctuary from their savage harassment, they attack me without mercy.

  I nearly have a heart attack the morning I open my room door and find the iron maiden blocking my way. Being that it’s dark out, and the Convent corridors are so dim, it takes me a moment to figure out that I’m not in the middle of a nightmare. My screams start the instant after, waking the work-study girls. Even Ms. Braunschott comes running, fireplace poker in hand.

  As much as I’d love, I mean like to sleep with Rob every night for this exact reason, and I mean sleep sleep, because he makes me feel so safe, Mr. Guerrero won’t allow it. Neither will Ms. Braunschott. So I’m stuck in the Convent. I beg Brawny to let me sleep in Mimi’s room, but the answer is a hard no.

  Each night I huddle under my covers in the room I share with Azzie or Elizabeth or whoever the hell she really is. Ms. Skelter’s creepy creation? Like, Azielbeth is a demonic doll that Skelter brought to life one night while hovering over her witch’s kettle and chanting Satanic magical spells? Or, for all I know, Skelter has some magic evil ring that makes her young, and she puts it on and becomes Azzie or Elizabeth at will? I mean, I’ve never seen any of those three anywhere at the same time! Okay, ridic. Nobody has any magic rings.

  But Azzie aka Elizabeth?

  You know it’s a gaslight.

  Not that it matters. I never see “either” of them. I guess she’s done spying on me and would rather sleep in the East Wing where it’s not so drafty. Now that it’s November, there’s a chill in the night air that leaves me shivering under my thin wool blankets. I also use the ones from Azzie’s bed, but it isn’t enough to cut the cold. Did I mention there’s no heating in the Convent? Having Rob by my side would defs keep me warm, but rules are rules.

  As for my work-study duties, cleaning the West Wing is quickly becoming a deplorable chore. Those entitled Fundy boys constantly trash their rooms, leaving unnecessary messes every chance they get. I consider taking my revenge on their possessions in various ways, like dropping their stuff in their toilets or accidentally dropping things like watches or phones in the trash (Oops!) but I know where that will get me.

  During school hours, the taunts and verbal jabs continue. Now they call me Witch Trial or Bloody Mary.

  I ignore it and suck it up and collect my stipend checks while trying to keep my grades up.

  The real kicker is the night I come home to my Convent room and find a lifesize photo of Gladys from her actual mugshot photo taped over my headboard like her insane eyes are watching over me. In scratchy black letters, a speech bubble says, “I’m coming for you, Mary!”

  I’m surprised they didn’t call me pig shit, but I don’t think that’s in my file. Who knows. But I do know I have Jackess to thank for the photo, and probably Elizazzielbeth for giving her access to my Convent room.

  The next morning, on my way to clean the classrooms at 5:00am, I find pictures of Gladys taped up all over campus. Thousands of them staring at me like I’m trapped inside some freaky carnival hall of mirrors. It would be terrifying if they were lit up with ghoulish lighting and laughing maniacally, but they’re not. It’s just printed paper, and it’s still dark out.

  It must’ve taken an army of Fundy goblin lackeys or whoever to put them up during the night without anyone noticing. There’s too many for a few Fundy girls to do it in one night. Later that morning, I find my locker has been papered with Gladys photos inside and out. Whatever. I ignore them.

  Guess who cleans them all up?

  All thousands of them?

  Me and the work-study kids. Every last one of us, boys and girls, is forced to spend three hours that night tearing them down and bagging them up in hundreds of black trash bags. It’s a serious chore, and the entire time the work-study kids grumble about getting revenge. Thankfully, they don’t mean on me. They know the Fundies are to blame. At least the work-study kids are on my team. I don’t know what I’d do if they turned on me too. Being hated by half the school is bad enough.

  Prince has tried apologizing a hundred times since Halloween. I turn my back on him whenever he does. Rob was right to say Prince never should’ve invited me to the All Hallows’ Ball. I was so wrong for going.

  I should’ve known!

  Live and learn.

  I know it’s getting old to say it, but at least this isn’t prison. It’s not like they locked me inside a functional iron maiden. Mine didn’t even have any spikes.

  Can I get a sarcastic ha-ha-
ha?

  No?

  Not even a mildly sympathetic and minimally indignant one? Not that either?

  I hear you, sister.

  This place is jail.

  At least no one’s tried to shank me.

  That does deserve a ha-ha-ha.

  How many more years do I have left to go?

  <(—)>

  I never tell Mimi about kissing Chase.

  I haven’t yet lost a girlfriend over a boyfriend and I’m not about to start, not that I’ve ever had a girlfriend as close to me as Meems. I’m grateful for her like you have no idea.

  After being here nearly two months, it’s clear she has a thing for Chase and I’d much rather have her friendship over his boyfriendship. Though something tells me he’s not the type to settle down. I’m more than happy to savor the hint of shipping between him and Meems from a distance. Not that they have anything going, at least, not that Mimi’s told me. They might be hooking up, but there’s no obvious signals she’s showing.

  I don’t tell her about kissing Prince either because I’m embarrassed I did. I know the iron maiden thing wasn’t his fault, and I should maybe forgive him. Or not. If I wanted, I could craft some convoluted chain of logic blaming him for taking me to the bathroom at Halloween and leaving me there to kiss Chase which led to Prince arguing with him which led me to walking away which led to the Silicones cornering me in the torture chamber. That’s not Prince’s fault. It’s theirs. But he did invite me into the viper pit in the first place. Maybe I’ll forgive him some day. Like when he offers to buy my freedom out of here. Like that’ll ever happen.

  As for Duke, I did avoid any impropriety thus far, both times when he cornered me with those smoldering coals he calls eyes. I swear, when he looks at you, it’s like he’s trying to burn a hole through the armor around your heart so he can take it and claim it. Under other circumstances, I might consider it. Not here at the academy, not while Victoria is still alive. As much as she disrespects him, she considers him hers. I’m keeping my distance.