by Angel Lawson
We bump fists and Xavier heads off to his first period, but I hold back a minute, skimming the room.
“You’re doing it again,” Ansel says.
I blink at him. “Doing what?”
“Looking for her.”
We both know who “her” is.
Dark hair. Big blue eyes. Puffy pink lips.
“Well, duh? Because I fucking hate her and want to do everything possible to avoid her.”
Ansel rolls his eyes. “You’re not the only one who got in trouble over that bullshit.”
“No,” I agree, jaw tightening, “but I’m the one with the most on the line.”
After the meeting with the board and Skylar’s parents, everyone agreed to The Terms, and trust me, capital Ts are necessary here. Most of the parents thought The Terms were punishment enough. Not my father. There’s never a problem too small for his emotional sledgehammer. Being at that party, letting the Devils get out of control, not having a handle on everything; these are all a clear sign of weakness. Well, at least to him. Apparently, the fact that I’m the best—academically, athletically, genetically—makes me responsible for everyone else, and it’s bullshit. But a ‘real leader’ wouldn’t have let that happen. A Hamilton wouldn’t have let that happen.
A Hamilton would never let someone inferior, with no name, no legacy, dictate my future.
In typical fashion, he completely overreacted by cracking down. In his opinion, I never should have been around the public-school kids from Northridge in the first place, and I sure as hell shouldn’t have been anywhere near the Adams family. My father’s perspective is that if I want to play with commoners, there are avenues to make that happen. The worst of the fallout was that I had to move out of the estate and into the dorms for “extra supervision.” Additionally, he took my BMW away; it’s locked up in the student lot with a tracker affixed to the bottom, only to be used to travel to and from home. The explanation is that my singular focus was to be on academics, swimming, and tending to my tarnished reputation. This was followed by a demeaning lecture about ‘girls like that’ and how it’s best to stay clear of them, and concluded with the promise that, if I needed someone so desperately to suck me off, he’d hire a reputable escort.
Jesus.
My kingdom for the ability to bleach that conversation from my memory.
“Once I make team captain, he’ll lay off,” I assure. “It’s just really important to him that I succeed.”
And maintain the legacy.
Preston Prep is just the first step of many. Next is getting into one of the southern Ivies. Vanderbilt, Washington and Lee, UVA, or Wake Forest. And then, joining my father and grandfather’s fraternity, which would lead to me being invited to “The Machine,” a secret society that would be the key to all future relationships and successes. I had the bloodline, the money, and the family prestige, but if I tarnished it—fucked with it in any way—all of that could crumble. I’d be done—not just socially, but also where my father was concerned. I’m under no illusions. Unconditional family love and all that other fluffy bullshit might be enough for trash like the Adamses, but my family? Not a chance.
“You should take Reagan home,” Ansel suggests. “Isn’t her dad a senator or something? Maybe she can calm him down.”
I don’t want to give my father or Reagan any ideas, but yeah, Reagan with her luxurious blonde hair and impeccable make-up—not to mention perfect tits that she inherited from her beauty queen mother—would distract my father for a little bit, even if only for the conflict of wondering if he liked her for me, or himself.
Fucking gross.
I shake that off before it devolves into physical nausea. “No, it’ll be fine. Coach is making the big announcement next week. I think things will chill from there.”
Ansel lifts a dubious eyebrow. “And if not?”
My eyes follow the sway of Gwendolyn’s hips as she turns down the hall. My fingers twitch, sparked by the anger boiling low beneath the surface.
“Then shit is going to get very real.”
I slide into my first period seat, opening my backpack and dropping my book on the desk.
Heston Wilcox, another Devil, follows me in and takes the seat next to mine. Our fathers are both leaders in the business community, members of the same clubs, and alumni of Preston. As a result, Heston and I have been tossed together since preschool. It’s a good thing we like one another. We’ve swam competitively together and against one another since we were four, which means a lot of long weekends and practices spent with each other. This will be our last year on the team. We started the academic year with a pact to make this one the best, and not even this stupid Adams drama could dampen our determination. If anything, it’s just driven us harder.
“How’s the shoulder,” he asks, opening his own book.
I rotate it, out of reflex. The pulling ache has receded since last semester, leaving a tightness in its wake. “Better. The PT seems to be working. It’s stronger.”
“Good,” he replies, slouching in his seat. “I need my anchor.”
When we’re not competing against one another, Heston and I are on the same relay. He’s the first leg and he swims hard, pulling us ahead of the pack early. I’m the last leg, the anchor, the one who brings it home. It’s like this: if he fails, it means I need to work that much harder. But it’s not necessarily over. I’m clutch. We can come back from it. But if I fail, that’s it. All his effort—everyone’s effort—is wasted.
Story of my life.
We’ve won the state championship three years in a row, so we both need me to be healthy if we’re going to get a fourth.
I glance at the clock on the wall. There’s one minute left before class starts. Dr. Ross is already at the front of the room. She’s an old hag with a hard-on for punctuality and will assign detention if you’re even a single minute late. My gaze jumps a row and two seats over to the seat that’s always empty until right before the bell rings.
At twenty-five seconds ‘til, she walks into the room, skirt swishing against her long legs. She doesn’t look at anyone, not even Dr. Ross, before hooking her bag on the back of her chair. She sits, smoothing her skirt underneath her. She’s got a swimmer’s body. Lean, strong, long. When the bell rings a second later, she tosses her hair over her shoulder and stares straight ahead.
I flinch when I feel a sharp kick against my leg. Heston smirks at me and mouths, “Obsessed.”
“Fuck off.” I glare at my book and flip to the page written on the board.
“I will if you stop looking at her like you want to peel off her skin.” He whispers, but the laughter is clear in his voice. “Your name is Hamilton, Bates. Not Norman.”
My jaw tenses. Am I pissed at Gwen? Fuck yes. Do I want to make her pay for dragging me into all this? Absolutely. But obviously Heston is right. I seriously need to chill the hell out. I just don’t think she realizes how much she’s messed up my life. My dad wasn’t the only one upset about the party. My mother was convinced I was going down as a sex offender, that this will hit the news, that “people” (AKA: the women in at the club, at her charity groups, the Junior League) will know.
Bad PR?
Heaven forbid.
Gwendolyn Adams and her siblings are garbage picked up by her hippie parents out of some unfortunate need to show the world how charitable and virtuous they are. It’s a freak house over there. You can take the trash out of the trailer, but you can’t take the trailer out of the trash.
If anything, I blame the school board and my parents—all of the parents—for letting this happen in the first place. I remember when Brayden and Gwendolyn showed up at Preston Prep, back when we were all in the elementary wing together. Hell, we played on the playground together every day at recess. Brayden was cool, good at football. And Gwen—Jesus Christ. She was so pretty and unassuming... right up until she opened her mouth. The girl would fight about anything. I’m pretty sure she had whole treaties solving the line to the swing sets, an
d some of the kids were just outright over trying to use the monkey bars when she was around.
I figured, even then, she’d inherited that trait from her lawyer parents. We thought they were like the rest of us. Mark Adams’ name was on the alumni list. Why wouldn’t we assume? No one realized the truth until the twins appeared. Becca Adams just showed up one day with two new babies, and like, come on. It was obvious she’d never been pregnant, not like Ansel’s mom two years before. Instead, Mrs. Adams was as skinny as ever. But when she showed off those babies, she called them her own.
They weren’t hers. Not with the green eyes and creamy brown skin.
That’s when we knew.
All of the Adams kids were adopted.
They weren’t like us, they weren’t legacies.
They didn’t deserve to be here, to absorb our knowledge, to win our awards, to dictate our behavior. Gwendolyn Adams is the worst of the worst. That little play with her hot mess of a sister? That was aimed at us. The Devils. The popular people. The ones who belonged here. She’s determined to topple our system, our history, and anything else that makes us who we are.
I’m sure as fuck not going to let her.
3
Gwen
Thwwwiiiick
The dome of mac n’ cheese on my tray wiggles once it’s released from the scoop. Bev, the lunch lady, adds a watery spoonful of green beans and plops a greasy piece of chicken next to it.
You’d think rich kid school would have better food, but cafeteria fare may be one of the world’s great equalizers.
“Here you go, hon,” she says, after adding a large, square brownie.
“Thank you.” My voice sounds small and weird. It may be the first thing I’ve said since seeing the twins that morning. Exiting the line, I turn and face the room. Every move has become a landmine. This is part of the plan, obviously. They can’t get back at me and Sky the traditional way, but they can make every little thing as difficult as possible. I kind of have to hand it to them. It’s almost impressive how these people truly excel at the art of ostracism.
As I walk past each table, empty seats are immediately swallowed by shifting bodies. There’s no eye contact. No invitation. For a while there, I secretly ate in the library. I could get my homework done and have a little respite from all the intensely aggressive being-ignored. But that came to a sharp and sudden end following an announcement over the intercom letting the student body know that eating outside the cafeteria was now prohibited. Now, to the casual observer this might have seemed like an unfortunate coincidence.
I know better.
I make my way across the room to a small table by the vending machines. It’s not the worst seat. There’s a window that looks over the middle school wing’s garden and sometimes I can catch a glimpse of the twins. Opening my juice, I peer out the window and—what the hell?
A reflection hovers on the glass—like I’m staring right at him.
Hamilton Bates.
It’s not like I don’t know he watches me. I feel his laser sharp gaze on me all the time. At first, I was inwardly pretty paranoid about it, but now it’s like an eerie comfort. Keep your enemies close, right? Hamilton is definitely my enemy. He loathes me, blames me. The feeling is mutual.
I always make an effort not to look, no matter how much I want to, how much my instincts itch or my spidey-senses go on alert. I pretend like I’m not even aware of his focus on me in the hallway, or in the classes we share. I pretend like he’s not tracking my times at swim or observing me across the quad. It’s Hamilton. He’s a raging asshole, but he knows not to cross a line, or his daddy will crack the whip.
He’d also never, ever touch me.
God, he may get infected by my inferior genes.
But in this moment, I can see him in the reflection. As he’s completely unaware of this, I take a moment to resentfully soak in the Devil. He’s tragically beautiful, truth be told. He has the face and body of a god, and these cold eyes that could pin you even when they aren’t trying to drill a hole into your skull. As someone who’s been exposed to his nearly naked body since we started swimming together, I can definitely attest that he’s genetically superior—there’s no doubt about that. He’s got the perfect swimmer’s physique; long, lean, and ripped with muscles. His wing-span allows him to glide across the pool like he was born in the water. His entire torso is just frankly ridiculous.
And his face?
Well, his features are striking, created from generations of perfect unions. The guy is basically a walking, talking CW star, like...it’s just obnoxious. But his looks are diminished by the perpetual, unnerving scowl on his face. His eyebrows are always pulled low in anger, making his eyes seem even darker than usual. Soulless. Lost. And his full bottom lip is always raw and chapped from worrying it with his teeth.
I stare so long, so hard at his reflection that I don’t realize the moment our eyes meet, caught with one another, until it’s too late. His lip curves up into an evil smirk, as if I’m the one being busted by watching him. The heat of embarrassment rushes up my neck, but I don’t blink, I don’t look away, he’s not going to win—
“Can I sit here?”
I blink, poorly recovering my flinch. “Huh?”
The stranger repeats, “Is it cool if I take this seat?”
I glance back at the window, searching once again for Hamilton’s reflection, but he’s already gone, vanished like a spiteful mirage. With a steeling inhale, I finally take in the guy standing before me. He’s not incredibly tall—compact, but the fit lines of his upper body are visible through his white button-down shirt. His tie is askew and I smell the hint of chlorine when he moves.
“Who are you?” I ask, not unkindly.
“Tyson Riggins.” He brushes his blond hair out of his eyes and offers me his hand. I stare at it for a moment and then remember my manners, shaking it. He explains, “I’m new. A transfer from Northridge.”
“A transfer?” From Northridge? I study his face, trying frantically to draw a memory of him from that line of boys waiting to have a go at my sister. Fortunately for both of us, I come up blank.
I glance around and wonder if this is some kind of setup. Typically, no one pays me any attention, so it has that faint whiff of deceit.
“I got a scholarship for the diving team. My coach pulled some strings and got me on the Red Devils. Seems like you were short a diver this year and they needed to fill the gap.”
“Oh,” I say, still a little confused. “Okay?”
He sits across from me and picks up his plastic fork. “You’re Gwendolyn Adams.”
“Gwen,” I correct, feeling the pull of tension in my shoulders. “Do we know one another?”
He shovels a spoonful of mac n’ cheese into his mouth, talking around it. “I watched you swim at the state finals last year and take the record in the two hundred free. You’re really good.”
I search his eyes for a long moment, looking for any sign of malice or artifice. But the gaze that holds mine is warm, casual. I look away, clearing my throat. “That’s... I mean, thank you.”
He tears off a piece of chicken, pops it in his mouth and licks the grease from his fingers. “Sorry you have to see this. I’m starving. Morning practice and all.”
“I have brothers,” I reply, fighting a smile. “I’m familiar with the repulsive eating habits of growing boys.”
He grins and bites off a chunk of roll.
I lean forward, deciding he seems earnest enough. Probably a nice kid. Probably fun to hang around. Probably not someone who wants their reputation ruined on the first day at a new school. “Look, it’s nice of you to come over and everything, and I don’t want to seem like a bitch, but I’m not really sure sitting with me is going to put you on the right foot around here. You may want to find another seat.”
“Oh, the fact you were sitting alone was a big plus for me.” His blue eyes scan around the room. “I might not go here, but trust me, I know these assholes. Been competing agai
nst them for years. It’s like all those generations of in-breeding turned their brains into toxic mush. When I walked in here, recognized you, and saw you sitting alone, it was like a sign from god.”
He lifts the chain on his neck, revealing a silver cross, and presses it to his lips.
Interesting.
I sigh down at my lunch tray. “You’re putting such a massive target on your back right now, you have no idea.”
By now, enough people have noticed the new kid. And they’ve definitely noticed him talking to me.
“Eh,” he shrugs and wipes his mouth with a napkin. “I don’t really care what everyone else thinks, do you?”
A bubble of laughter bursts from my throat and escapes in an awkward squawk. I know it’s not exactly that easy. But hey, that is my usual mantra, isn’t it?
“No.” I pick up my fork, supposing an appetite won’t be the hardest thing to muster.
“Good. I mean, I’m new and I’m going to need a friend. You’re not new and,” he looks around and makes a face, “well, it looks like you’ve got some wiggle room for friends. If you want, I mean. You may totally be into this isolated, hot-girl thing, though. Which is also perfectly respectable.”
A wave of warmth floods my cheeks at him calling me hot. Years of diving practice must have deprived his brain of oxygen at some point, because no one thinks I’m hot. I’ve never been anything but the human embodiment of shoe-scum to these people, and it might be fine and well to decide not to care what everyone else thinks, but it doesn’t make it any easier to look in the mirror every morning and see myself as anything but.
“If there’s one thing I want,” I decide, shaking off the negative mood before it can find a toehold, “it’s to have the best senior swim season yet. Diving included. And yeah, it’d be nice to have someone to hang with.”
He grins, tucking back into his lunch, and my grin comes strangely easy, natural. I lean back and marvel at how such a minor thing can change an entire psychological trajectory. I don’t know who or what sent Tyson Riggins into my life. I’m not religious, but who knows? Maybe it was divine intervention. My eyes skim the room for the red and black jackets, seeing them clustered across the room, and I know one thing for sure.