by Angel Lawson
“Then why are you doing it?” He wonders, eyebrows pulled together in confusion. “Is it worth it?”
Why? Because he talked me into it.
No, he orgasmed me into it.
I realize now that I probably just fell into his trap. I handed him the perfect opportunity to humiliate me on a weekly basis. None of the faculty or students could blame him for suddenly acknowledging my existence—Coach James was taking all the blame for that. This is just giving him VIP access to be a bigger dick to me than usual.
Except, of course, if it was a trap, he wasn’t the one setting it. I’m the one who hit him. I’m the one who jumped him. I’m the one who grinded on his dick until I came.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
“I don’t know,” I tell Tyson, stabbing my fork into my salad, “maybe it’ll be fine. Or maybe it’ll be the dumbest decision I’ve made yet.”
This is doubtful. I’m pretty sure that ship already sailed last night in the locker room.
How much worse can things get?
Practice was hard. Everyone is tired and distracted once they’re gathered together following cooling down, hopefully enough that this goes more smoothly than I’m expecting. Hamilton’s already out of the water, the trainer strapping a bag of ice over his shoulder.
“Meet me after?” I whisper nervously to Tyson when he and the other divers join us.
“Sure,” he says, squeezing my hand.
It’s not enough to settle my nerves. I have a feeling this isn’t going to go well and my stomach twists anxiously. It only gets worse when I step up to stand next to Hamilton, which is better than facing him, because I don’t actually have to see his expression when Coach tells the team the decision.
Unfortunately, I can see Heston Wilcox’s face, along with most of the team. Heston looks absolutely floored, his regal blue eyes darting to Hamilton’s. It’s a mixture of shock and disbelief. I feel a little surprised, myself. I’d thought Hamilton would have told him.
My teammates are smart enough to keep their mouths shut while coach is around, but on the way back to the locker room, I hear whispers.
“Her? Seriously? What’s she going to do, guilt us to a championship?”
“God, we’ll have to watch everything we do now. Fucking snitch.”
“I feel so bad for Hamilton, now he’s gotta work with that bitch. She probably just wants to fuck him.”
“Heh, right? Who doesn’t?”
“You know Coach just did it because he feels sorry for her.”
It gets progressively worse. Snide remarks about my body, my hair, my face. Then they go into my swimming abilities, how I’m not nearly good enough to be captain of a kiddie pool, let alone varsity-level. And eventually—as it always does—they start in on my family, how we’re mutts and trash. They don’t say Sky’s name specifically, they can’t. But the word slut is tossed about in enough hissed inflections that they don’t even need to.
Hot tears prick at my eyes—something that rarely happens. But I know why. I put my mask on for a reason. I lay low and stay out of the fray. This is why. If I ignore them—if on some level, even superficial, I don’t exist—then I can’t get hurt. But the second I pull off that mask, the instant I try to be present.... here I am. A target all over again.
I duck into the captain’s office, which is a perk that comes with the position. It’s just a small room with a desk and two chairs. A big board hangs on the wall with the season’s schedule and a graph to plug swimmers into position. The nicest addition is being able to leave my suit and other accessories here between practices, as there’s a private bathroom with a shower. This is a big deal after having to share common facilities in the locker room.
I can’t even really take it all in and enjoy it. I can’t feel proud. I can’t even push my shoulders back and lift my wobbling chin. I barely dry off, tugging on my shorts and a shirt and hastily packing my bag. I’ll shower later. I want to get out of there as fast as possible.
I will not let these people see me cry.
Movement shifts in the doorway and I freeze, trying desperately to swallow down the lump in my throat.
I will definitely not fucking let him see me cry.
Wiggling my arms into my bag’s straps, I keep my eyes on the ground, avoiding his gaze, but he blocks the door with the solid wall of his bare-chested body. I stare at the fine trail of hair snaking down from his belly button and clench my teeth.
“Running off?”
My voice is thick and low. “Move.”
“I thought maybe we could go over the new roster, divide up the duties and shit.”
“I’ll do whatever. I don’t care,” I say to his sternum.
There’s a beat of silence before two fingers press under my chin, forcing my eyes upward. His hard gaze wavers when he takes me in, face going slack. My nose is probably neon-red by now, and I can’t stop my eyes from swimming. He grows blurrier with each passing second, until finally, the tears run over, tracking hot, embarrassing lines down my cheeks.
His jaw tics, the muscle in the back tightening into a hard ball, then he drops my chin like he’s been burned and steps aside.
I bolt out the door like an animal being released from a cage, instantly catching sight of Tyson and darting toward him.
“Hey, whoa.” Throwing his arm around my shoulder, he quietly asks, “You okay?”
“No.”
“Did he say something to you?” His voice is harder now, dark with the promise of retaliation.
“No,” I promise. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay.” Tyson frowns, giving my shoulder a squeeze. “But I told you. I’ve got your back. You can do this, got it?”
I nod, hating how this feels, but thankful I have a friend supporting me. A couple months ago, this would have been unbearable. But I’m not alone anymore. I may not have on my mask, but Tyson provides a shield, one I won’t refuse.
Stairway to Hell, 3pm
I take a slow, incredulous glance around the hallway, but no one’s watching me to see it. The note was sitting on top of my history textbook, had obviously been slipped into the slats on my locker. I don’t need to really wonder, though.
I know exactly who it’s from.
I crumple the paper in a tight fist and spike it into the locker before slamming it shut. I don’t know what possibility makes me angrier about Hamilton summoning me to the Devil’s notorious campus make-out spot—the thought of him actually trying to schedule a hook up with me, or the thought of him just wanting a nice private place to rub salt in my wounds from yesterday’s co-captain announcement.
Weirdly, it’s the first possibility that vexes me most of all. Like I’d ever be one of his playthings. Like I’m just going to drop what I’m doing and climb seven flights of stairs in the south wing’s bell tower for the privilege of hooking up with him. I’d sooner gouge my own eyes out with a spoon. It’s completely vile.
I’m planning to tell him this and so much more as I stomp up the steps of the tower. I have a whole essay planned in my head. A lot of it goes into the fact that he might not be used to girls who actually harbor even a trace of self-respect, but here’s what it looks like. And that our last time together wasn’t even all that good—who cares if it’s a lie—and that I know what he’s doing. He saw that one moment of weakness from me as I left practice and thinks he can wriggle in and get another piece of me, but he’s wrong.
“You’re wrong,” I seethe as I enter the top of the tower. He whips around from where he’s standing, gazing through one of the open arches to the campus below. There’s a pile of leaves in the corner, but I can still see where someone tossed a spent condom. Gross.
“I’m probably not,” he answers, lounging casually back against the wall. It’s windy up here and his hair is all mussed. “But what am I not being wrong about, specifically?”
I drop my bag, feeling sweaty and sore from the long climb up. “I’m not one of your fucking bimbos, Bates. You can’t
just call me up here like I’m some rank booty call. For one, it’s disgusting, and for two, the answer is no.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “You think I asked you to come up here so we could fuck?”
I open and close my mouth a few times, stunned a little speechless, because that—us fucking—hadn’t even crossed my mind. I just figured he wanted to make out or something. But now the idea of it invades my mind, the thought of the two of us up against this stone wall, my legs wrapped around his waist as he—
I try to shake it from my head. “Whatever you wanted, it’s not happening. That’s all I came here to say.”
Before I can even pick up my bag, Hamilton is laughing. “You’re really full of yourself, Adams.”
I whip up to gape at him, open-mouthed. “I’m full of myself?!”
“I didn’t bring you up here to fuck you,” he clarifies, eyes dragging snidely down my body. “I can get pussy any time I want, I don’t need to waste my energy arguing with you to get some.”
“Then what?” I swallow, my face heating. “What the hell do you want, Bates?”
He pushes off the wall, loping toward me. “Yesterday, at swim practice—”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. “So it’s the second one, then.”
“The second what?”
“You want to rub salt into my wounds,” I explain, crossing my arms. “Hate to rain on your parade, but I’m already over it. So go ahead, give it your best shot.”
He stops in front of me, his expression some tight marriage of exasperation and annoyance. “You know what? In case you missed it, I didn’t do anything to you yesterday. I was the one trying to actually get some shit done while you scurried away. I just wanted to know who was fucking with you.”
“Who was fucking with me?” I look around the tower, gesturing widely toward the window where, below, the entire campus is milling about. “Why don’t I tell you everyone who isn’t fucking with me? It’d take two seconds as opposed to all night.”
He rolls his eyes, shifting his weight. “Yes, your persecution complex is still in fine form. I’m glad to see you haven’t forgotten to oil it daily. Doesn’t really give me anything to go off of, though.”
“Oh my god, you’re so dense that light bends around you.” I can feel my anger swelling until my nostrils are flaring, and I’m probably already getting red again. At this point, any anger at Hamilton has somehow connected itself directly to my freak of a libido. “It’s not one person. It’s an entire culture. I can’t even tell you who said my ass was fat, or that Coach only made me co-captain because he pitied me, or who called my sister a slut, or who said I’m not even good enough at swimming to captain a kiddie pool. It’s everyone, Bates. Because you might suck at treating people like human beings, but when it comes to turning the whole school against someone? You’re the master.” I bow mockingly. “Master Bates.”
He seems to be getting just as worked up, that muscle in his jaw getting tenser and sharper. “I didn’t come here to fight with you. Believe it or not, I was actually trying to make shit better. Which is pretty big of me, considering that ridiculous lecture you gave me about not wanting to carry my half of another responsibility, and here I am carrying yours."
I scoff. “What do you even care?”
“Because this is half my job, too!” he insists, jabbing a finger into his chest. “This is my first year as captain and my last season swimming for this team. I want us to get a title, and we can’t do that if you’re running off crying after every fucking practice.”
I go rigid, furious with myself for giving that to him—for giving him the ammo he needed to regard me as some weak little crybaby. “That’s not going to happen again. I don’t need you to save me.”
He drops that rigid defensive posture, face going blank. “Wait…you came up here to fight with me, didn’t you?”
“Well...” I try adjusting to the weird, sudden shift in energy, but can’t quite manage it. “Yeah.”
“Yeah,” he says, breathing a laugh as his gaze shifts toward the open windows. “We could do that, or...” He steps closer, and closer, hand slipping forward to brush against the hem of my skirt. When his gaze meets mine again, his mouth is curved into a mean smirk. “Or we could skip the part where you hit me or push me and just get right to the good stuff.”
My jaw drops at the realization that he thinks I want to hookup. It makes me indignant enough that my palms come up to his chest, shoving—
Oh, shit.
He stumbles back a few steps, eyes flashing in triumph. “I fucking knew it,” he says, stalking his way back to me. “That’s why you’re here.”
“Is not!” I insist, but it’s a laughably weak denial.
I take a moment to internally panic, because did I? Did I really come up here hoping to get in a fight with him, knowing where those fights have been leading?
No, my mind provides sarcastically. You got a note asking you to come to the prime make-out spot and decided to show up, just to talk.
I’m such an idiot.
“You know what I’m going to do for you, Adams?” He steps closer, until he’s near enough to smell, until the heat of his breath just barely washes over my mouth. His eyes are heavy-lidded now, knowing. “I’m not even going to make you ask for it this time.”
The kiss is some bastard amalgamation of the one in the dorm room and the ones from last night. It isn’t tender, but there’s no fury in it, either. When his tongue seeks entrance, I give it to him, letting him lick into my mouth, licking back into his.
As we kiss, I wonder if this is what I came for. And then he starts backing me up, guiding me until my back meets the wall between two of the opened archways. We’re still hidden from view—if anyone looked up to the tower, they wouldn’t see a thing. But I can still hear them all down there beneath us, the raucous sounds of campus life, laughter and yelling.
He pulls back from the kiss with dark eyes and a red mouth. “Well?”
I swallow, letting my head fall back against the wall, and then close my eyes in shame. “I thought you weren’t going to make me ask for it.”
He lets out a low laugh. “I won’t. But you have to give me something.” His fingers reach down to touch my bare thigh, skimming it up until it’s just beneath the hem of my skirt. “Just say ‘yes’.”
I open my eyes and see the massive bell behind him. A faded, graffitied Devil has been scrubbed off the bronze—marking the territory. I wonder how many girls have been here before, how many people have had sex right where I’m standing? My eyes dart to the fabled wooden beam holding up the bell. Dozens of initials are gouged into the century old wood, under those notches. If gossip is to be believed, each one represents a conquest.
Gwen Adams isn’t the kind of girl that would ever be up in the Devil’s Lair.
Yet here I am.
I meet his dark gaze. “Yes.”
His fingers drag up at the same time our mouths meet, and it’s almost impossible to track any one thing. The press of his nose against my cheek as he deepens the kiss, the tickle of his fingers as they climb my thigh and go... inward, between my legs. When he finally touches me—finally rubs his fingers against my damp, hot center—I moan into his mouth, my nerves suddenly more alight than ever. It’s different from the other night, those nimble, skilled fingers of his able to find my clit even through my panties.
I rock into it, urging him forward. He responds by fisting the crotch of my panties and yanking them down my thighs. I throw my head back against the wall, gasping wildly for air, and the fingers return, skin to skin this time, nothing between us.
He buries a long, ragged sound into my throat. “God, look at you. Fucking soaked for me.” I can feel it in the way his fingers glide deftly between my folds, my toes curling at the sensations. “Come on,” he says, nudging my face to his before taking my mouth in another kiss. He doesn’t close his eyes, and neither do I. We trade kisses like that as his fingers explore me, pressing harder when my knees shake, pu
lling back when I try to grind into them.
He’s still holding my gaze when his finger finds my entrance. We stop kissing. I can tell he’s waiting—waiting for me to say ‘no’, waiting for me to push him away, to tell him it’s too far, too much.
I don’t.
His finger sinks slowly into me and I feel like if I shook any harder, I’d just fall to pieces right here in the tower. He watches me closely, almost carefully, our mouths barely touching. I’m not sure what he’s looking for, but when I feel the heel of his hand meet my mound, his breath comes out in a hot rush.
“Fuck,” he growls, eyes dropping closed. “Knew you’d be tight.”
I rock into his palm, testing the feel of him against me, inside me. “Oh, god,” I breathe, but my moan is swallowed by his kiss.
The whole thing is so entirely ridiculous—me fighting to rock against his palm as he fights to fuck me with his finger—and it’s still the most erotic thing I’ve ever felt. When his other hand takes mine, I know instantly what he wants. He doesn’t even need to guide my hand to the obscene bulge at the front of his pants, but he does it anyway, pressing my palm against it. I curl my fingers around him through the fabric of his pants and he groans, breaking the kiss to rest his forehead against mine, rocking against my hand the same way I’m rocking against his.
“Should have worn one of the red shirts,” he pants, eyes staring down the neck of my shirt. Preston has a small variety of uniforms, but the red one is the only fully button-down shirt for girls. The one I’m wearing would have to be pulled over my head to be taken off. No way am I doing that up here.
I bite my lip, remembering how good it felt the night before, his hands cupping my boobs, thumbs rough against my nipples, and mutter a curse.
I struggle to pull the tail of my shirt from the waist of my skirt one-handed, but once I do, Hamilton’s ready. He shoves his hand up the front of it and it’s not quite as good—over my bra—but it’s thin enough that the pad of his thumb flicking over my nipple makes me shudder.