Devil May Care: Enemies-to-Lovers Standalone Romance: Boys of Preston Prep

by Angel Lawson

  All of it combines into this wicked maelstrom of heat building in the pit of my stomach and I know I’m close. I can feel it in him, too—how he gets impossibly harder in my hand, the way his breaths grow into these little punches of air against my mouth, the little crevice that forms between his eyebrows, almost like he’s in pain, but I know better.

  My own orgasm comes upon me in a hot shock, thighs clamping hard around his hand. I make a sound that’s too loud and surprised than I have any right to be, but I can’t help it, I just grab two tight fistfuls of the shirt covering his shoulders and go over that edge, shaking.

  He buries his face into my shoulder, and I feel more than see him take a biteful of my own shirt and gnash it between his teeth as he begins jerking beneath my hand.

  “I cannot fucking believe,” he says, wetting his lips as he stumbles back, “that I just came in my pants again. Jesus Christ, I’d forgotten how much this sucks.” He crams a hand in his pocket and seems to.... adjust things, face twisting into a grimace.

  I hastily pull up my panties, feeling red and embarrassed and sore and so fucking good that it’s a legitimate miracle I’m not visibly fluorescent with the glow of it.

  Still a bit breathless, Hamilton meets my glazed eyes and ticks off with his fingers, “Never happened. All my fault. You hate me. I’m the worst. Hasty post-coital exit.” He sweeps his own bag from the ground, throwing it over a shoulder. “There, covered all the bases for you. I’ll go ahead and take the last one.”

  And then he’s gone.

  12

  Hamilton

  I hear a long whistle as I walk out of the bathroom.

  “These are some sweet ass digs.”

  I pause, steam billowing from behind me, and see Heston sitting in one of the chairs with his feet kicked up on the desk. He’s wearing plaid flannel pants—red and black—with ‘PP Swim’ stamped on the hip. That had been quite the meme back in Freshman year.

  “I don’t remember inviting you in.” I knock his feet off the desk, and they land with a thud.

  He picks up a dry erase marker and spins it between his fingers. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about the co-captain thing.”

  “Coach wanted to make the announcement.” I rub my hair with the towel, shrugging. “It’s not a big deal.”

  He snorts. “You’re kidding, right? You and Adams partnering up? This, plus detention? You’re spending more time with her during the week than you are with Reagan.”

  I turn to hide my grimace. He doesn’t know just how right he is. “It’s not like I’m choosing to.” Although it’d be really nice to spend less time with Raegan. Unfortunately, this is the most inconvenient time to break up with her, what with all the awkward shit going on between me and Gwendolyn. It’s better that she thinks I’m already attached, that our little... encounters weren’t anything special. Just flukes.

  Were they?

  Of course, they were.

  “Have you told your dad?” Heston asks, interrupting my thoughts.

  “Not yet.” That’s something I plan to do in person. This is a particularly delicate situation, which will no doubt require improvisation strategy. I’ve been thinking on it for days now, weighing the different outcomes. I’d rather get a feel for what he’s really thinking, and I can’t do that over the phone. “We’re having dinner tomorrow night. I’ll let him know then.”

  “Smart.” He swivels in the chair, taking in the small space with a thoughtful expression. “You know, it’s too bad Adams is such a freak. Any other co-ed captain situation and this would be the perfect hook-up spot.” He spreads his hands on the desk, testing the sturdiness. “A little sexy secretary action? Damn, I bet her pussy is tighter than Beyonce’s jeans.”

  I react so fast, I don’t even have time to consider it. I lunge toward him and shove him against the wall, chair clattering over. I press my forearm against his throat and his eyes bulge, hands instantly struggling against me.

  He grunts, “What the fuck!”

  “This fucking hard-on you’ve got for Adams is getting real old,” I hiss, heart thundering in my chest.

  “What?!” His eyes grow wider, this panicked little crinkle growing between his eyebrows. “I don’t have a hard-on for Adams!”

  “No?” I press harder, my voice low and dangerous. “Because with the way you’re always talking about her tits and pussy, it’s starting to feel like maybe you do.” I hold him there for a second longer, our eyes locked, and then release him.

  “What the hell, Bates!” He rubs his neck. “I know you hate her, but seriously, I can’t even joke about her?”

  “No,” I reply, trying to tamp down this insane fucking urge to just beat this fucker bloody. “You know the rules. She doesn’t exist. She’s fucking cancelled.”

  Heston rights the chair, and we both know he literally can’t be pissed off at me. Not outwardly. Regardless, his movements are jerky and curt, eyes ablaze. “And how exactly do you plan on pulling that off while you’re working with her all the time?”

  I take a moment while my back is turned to stare blankly in the direction of the bathroom.

  Shit.

  How am I supposed to keep her in her place—keep fucking letches like Heston away from her—while doing this job? How am I supposed to tell people she’s cancelled when I’m talking to her every day, listening to her, doing shit with her?

  More importantly, why is the faculty so determined to ruin all my efforts? Don’t they see that Adams being an invisible nobody is better for everyone?

  “Dealing with that is my job,” I decide, pulling a shirt from my bag. “Yours is to fall in line.” I level him with a warning look.

  I can count on one hand the amount of times I’ve pulled rank like this. It’s known that I’m the leader of the Devils, I rarely need to. Whipping out my dick every week and lording it over them has never been appealing to me. Not since last spring, when everything went down with Sky, have I had to step up. But Gwendolyn? No way I’m letting these assholes talk about her like that—especially not Heston, who’s already sketchy enough.

  “Act the way I act. That means if I ignore Adams, you do, too. If I listen to her, so do you. Coach wants us to look cohesive and cooperative, and that’s doable. But it also means you can’t act like a fucking degenerate. Understood?”

  “Yes, Jesus.” He stalks toward the door, but thankfully, most of that angry energy seems to have been sapped. “Next time just use your words instead of your fists, bro.”

  “Yeah, well...” I cram my towel into my bag and throw it over my shoulder. “Next time use your brain and not your dick.”

  Before we walk out, he insists, “I don’t want to fuck her.” The thing about Heston is that most people think he’s a really good liar. He has this way of turning on the charm, of sounding perfectly sincere. When it’s down to strictly voice performance, Heston is second to none.

  But face-to-face, I know his tells.

  There’s the smallest wrinkle near his left eye, almost like a crow’s foot. It’s only ever there when he’s lying.

  “No one does,” I tell him, flipping off the light. “And I’m here to make sure you don’t forget it.”

  The next day at practice, it’s pretty clear that Gwendolyn is drowning—figuratively, not literally, because even I have to admit she’s a fucking fantastic swimmer. This is drowning of the purely social variety.

  It’s not that she doesn’t try. She comes in all bold voice and straight posture, and the strong commanding artifice is only mostly obvious. I watch from the shallow end as she stashes her belongings in the office and strides across the pool deck with her chin lifted, clipboard clutched to her chest.

  As she gets near, John Martin, fastest in breast-stroke, mutters something vaguely crude and elbows Heston. Heston’s responding smile is enough to earn my cold, sharp glare. His jaw snaps shut, and he busies himself with putting on his cap.

  “What’s that?” I ask, pointing to the clipboard in her hand.
Best to get the train-wreck over with.

  “I want to get everyone’s phone number so we can start a group text,” she explains. “I’ll split it down by subcategories, like relays and strokes. It’ll be easier to contact people that way and might also be good for reminders if people start slacking off or skipping practice.”

  It all seems a bit tedious to me. I mean, most everyone on the team already follows each other on ChattySnap or some other social media. Why reinvent the wheel? I open my mouth to tell her that, but then I remember. Gwendolyn doesn’t participate in social media, at all. Not after what happened with her sister. She’s completely out of the loop.

  “Go for it,” I sigh, reaching for my goggles.

  “Listen up!” she calls, her voice drowned out by everyone talking. “Hey! I need your attention, please!”

  She visibly flounders for a moment, eyebrows knitting together, teeth beginning to worry at her lip. I can see the wheels in there moving. Her insecurity is being broadcast like a fucking billboard, and the second they see it, they’ll eat her ass alive. I just can’t watch it any longer.

  Turning toward the crowd, I bark, “Devils!”

  The room falls silent.

  I make a gesture to Gwendolyn, who gives me a look of reluctant appreciation, but doesn’t waste the opportunity.

  At least a little of her poise has returned. “Before you get wet, I need you to fill out your information on this clipboard. It’ll make communication a lot more efficient,” she says. Her voice wavers a bit halfway through, nerves obviously getting the best of her, not that she’d ever acknowledge it. Not stubborn-as-nails Gwendolyn Adams.

  The diver is the first one to step forward, of course, loping forward with a fond grin. She smiles at him so gratefully that it’s like the tension just pours right out of her frame. Like he’s done something heroic. Like he’s the one who got everyone paying attention and spared her from an afternoon of being ignored. What’s with him anyway? Does he want to fuck her, too? And why is everyone suddenly wanting under Adam’s swimsuit?

  She smiles at him appreciatively and a stark realization hits me like a punch in the gut.

  Maybe she’s already screwing him.

  I yank on my cap and adjust my goggles, diving into the water to cool off. I should be focusing on training. Nothing else.

  Nothing else.

  “Tight enough?”

  I wince, more from the cold than the pain. “Yeah, it should hold.”

  Icing my shoulder is part of the daily process and Janet, the trainer, attaches the heavy bag over my shoulder with tape. Truthfully, now that we’re back to regular practices, there are days where the pain is bad enough that just looking at my book bag in the mornings is enough to make me want to scream.

  Obviously, no one can know this.

  “Twenty minutes,” she says, and I nod in reply.

  I walk out of the training room and down the empty pool deck to the office, willing my shoulder to stop aching. I’m somewhere between ‘grin and bear it’ and ‘just ignore the pain’ when an object flies from out of nowhere, landing inches from the edge of the pool.

  Or... not from nowhere. From the office I share with Gwen.

  Upon closer inspection, the object in question is the clipboard from earlier. Out of curiosity I go over, pick it up, and skim the list.

  Tyson Riggings

  Neil Down

  Harry Dong

  Anita Dick

  Ben N. Syder

  Curley Pubes

  Eaton Beaver

  Buster Himen

  Ima Hoare

  I take a deep inhale.

  Assholes.

  After running a long-suffering hand down my face, I carry the clipboard back into the office. Gwen’s wearing an oversized sweatshirt, but her legs are still bare underneath and her hair is still wet, a dark lump that’s been twisted into a knot on top of her head. I get this sudden, weird feeling at the notion that I’m the only one who can see her like this, all crazy-eyed and sexy-frumpy, storming around.

  Her wild-eyed look of fury transforms into a narrow scowl when she sees me. “I told you,” she growls, thrusting a finger at me, “I told you I didn’t want to do this. And now, look!”

  I toss the clipboard on the desk. “Are you forgetting the fact that we’re in high school? They’re assholes. Everyone in high school is an asshole. It’s not a big deal.”

  “No one respects me. They think I’m a joke. If they’re not mocking me loudly enough to barely be considered ‘behind my back’, then they’re doing shit like this. There’s no point in me being co-captain if no one wants to listen to me.” She exhales, all of the anger seeming to drain out of her at once. “You want this title so bad, then you take it.”

  Oh, if only. Coach made it clear it’s both of us or neither of us. “Don’t you think you’re being a little dramatic?”

  Her arms cross over her chest, making the hem of her shirt rise. It’s a legitimate battle not to drop my gaze to the milky expanse of her thighs. “You wouldn’t understand. None of them ever step out of line with you! Like today. You speak and they jump. Even Heston follows your orders.”

  “Jesus, get off the cross, Adams.” I roll my eyes. “I didn’t ask to be in charge of the Devils. It’s not like it’s the best thing to ever happen to me, either. They might be quick to look to me for leadership, but I also know that when something goes wrong, they’re just as quick to blame me for it. Like, fucking Xavier, right?” I gesture behind me, even knowing he’s not here. “When my dad forced me to move onto campus, his parents figured... hey, why not? If the Bateses can do it, so can we. So now he’s looking at me like it’s my fault. Do I take the blame? Hell no. Do I act guilty? Not a chance. Like, Jesus, if they only knew—”

  My mouth snaps shut, lips forming a grim line.

  She tilts her head curiously. “Knew what?”

  About what you and me do together. About my moments of weakness.

  No, I can’t give her that leverage. “Nothing. If you ask me, you need to just not let it bother you so much. You getting all worked up like this is just blood in the water. And while we’re at it, the other extreme isn’t much better.”

  “What other extreme?” She seems genuinely interested.

  “That thing where you turn into a fucking robot. It’s weird! If you walk around acting inhuman, that’s exactly how they’re going to treat you. Just act normal. Casual. If they don’t think you care, they’ll chill out. But at the same time, don’t let them run you over. I’m not sitting next to a co-captain with no balls.”

  Her eyebrow raises and I see a hint of a smile on her face. “I don’t have balls, Bates, you of all people should know that.”

  Our eyes hold one another for a moment and that flicker of energy ebbs between us. I pull at the tape and yank off the ice. “Put on some pants,” I say, halfway to get out of this little room, halfway because I have a genius idea, “and come with me.”

  “Where are we going?” she asks warily.

  “If these jackoffs want to play games, then they picked the wrong people.” I pick up the clipboard and wink.

  13

  Gwen

  “This is your car?” I ask, running my hands over the smooth leather. I’m not one of those girls who gets all hot for nice cars, but if I were? I’d probably be fanning myself or something. The leather smells new and the seat warmer is making me warm and all relaxed—a perk after being in the water for practice. It usually takes me an hour to shake the chill.

  “Yep.” He flashes me a smug grin. “Technically I’m not allowed to drive it anywhere but home. But this is an official team duty, so I feel like it qualifies as acceptable.”

  Between the comfy seat and the exhaustion of a crappy practice, I don’t even have it in me to muster anything more snide than a sarcastic smile when I say, “You can justify anything, can’t you?”

  His eyes sweep over me so furtively, that if I would have blinked, I might have missed it. He hums in response,
clearing his throat. That weird feeling I keep getting in my belly around Hamilton these days starts swelling up. It’s some unholy mixture of excitement, nausea, and embarrassment. I just don’t even know what’s going on with me and Hamilton right now. Every interaction we have is fraught with so many conflicting emotions, it’s like daily whiplash.

  “Where are we going again?” I casually ignore what his reaction seems to be suggesting. Hamilton can justify a lot. But he can’t justify what he does with me any more than I can.

  Against all my instincts, I agreed to sneak off campus with him, to get in the car with him, to go somewhere unspecified with him. I discreetly check the GPS tracker on my phone, because seriously, if this were an elaborate ruse to get me somewhere isolated and do shitty things to me, it just might be the most normal thing to happen this month.

  Hamilton doesn’t answer but pulls into a parking lot ablaze with light. It’s the 24-hour print shop. He takes the clipboard off my lap and a spark rushes through my body when his fingers graze my legs.

  Nope.

  No.

  That is not what this is about.

  He unbuckles and I do the same, but then he reaches across me suddenly, and my heart lunges into my throat. I can’t help but think that this is it. He’s going to do something to me—hurt me.

  I flinch.

  I know he sees it when he freezes, our gazes meeting just long enough for the strange, shocked look in his eyes to register. If I didn’t know better, I’d almost say he looks guilty when his long fingers pull at my door lever, opening it from the inside. While I’m processing the gesture, he exits the car.

  He stops to lean back in. “Look, they wanted to be assholes,” he says in explanation. “We’re just going to give them what they asked for. That’s all.”

  Payback?

  Well, that’s something I can get behind.

  I follow two steps behind him through the parking lot toward the shop, and I only gawk at him a little bit when he holds the door open for me as I enter.