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

by Angel Lawson

  How does he know that?

  “Are you stalking me or something?” I ask, hanging my towel on the hook. “Because if this is some kind of stalker fetish—”

  “I’m not stalking you, Adams.” He rubs his eyes. I can’t help but notice the dark circles underneath. A thick layer of stubble covers his sharp chin. “As someone stuck here on the weekend, it’s just pretty obvious that you take off every Sunday. And before you ask, no, I didn’t follow you down here. Coach asked me to fill out this heat sheet before time trials on Monday and I forgot.”

  His story checks out. I’d filled out my sheet on Friday, and he’s right. This campus is small. I know way more about my classmates’ schedules than I’d like. But could anyone blame me for being a little paranoid the day after having sex with Hamilton? This little game with him is making me lose my mind. I slide my feet into my shoes and reach for my jacket.

  “What do you think?” he asks suddenly, angling toward me with his sheet in hand. “Pierce or Bearman for the fifty-free?”

  I stop mid-zip and blink. “You... want my opinion?”

  He lifts an eyebrow. “I just asked you for it, didn’t I?”

  The hair prickles on the back of my neck and I discreetly look around for a camera. If anyone could pull a long-con, it’d be Hamilton. Is that what this is about? Him making me feel comfortable, then getting evidence to prove me and my sister are sluts?

  He drops the paper onto the desk, sighing. “I don’t know what’s running through that head of yours, Adams, but you seriously need to stop.”

  “Stop what?”

  He leans back in the chair, his long legs sprawled in front of him, and rubs a hand down his tired face. “Look, there’s no way to avoid fallout from last night. I get it, trust me. But you look like you’re waiting for a bomb to drop.”

  “Are you saying there isn’t one?” I cross my arms, watching him skeptically. “Because that’s the problem, Bates. I don’t trust you, and I don’t trust the Devils. I don’t get why you’re doing this, or why I’m caught up in it.”

  “It’s sex.” He raises his hands, palms out, hapless. “There’s not much more to it than that.” He runs his hand through his hair. “It’s just... it’s a distraction. That’s all.”

  “Distraction from what?”

  He glares at me for so long that I think he won’t answer. But he does. “From school, college applications, my parents, boredom. Pick one. Predictably, you’re overthinking it.”

  “I’m not predictable and I’m not overthinking it.”

  He laces his fingers behind his head, eyebrows raised. “Every day you get up and go to the carpool line to meet your brother and sister before school. You walk them to class. Then you put on that battle armor and head into the main building, where you get to class with exactly zero time to spare to interact with anyone. At night, during the off season, you sneak down here after water polo practice for extra swim time. You don’t go to parties. You don’t do social media. You don’t really like going home on weekends, except you clearly feel obligated. You’re obsessed with your grades. Probably more horrified at the blemish on your record for getting detention than having to do it with me. You’re so hung up on your fucking savior complex that you hardly have time to get off the cross to live your life.” He swivels in the chair. “You’re predictable and you need a distraction as much as I do.”

  His summary hits me like a punch in the gut. I can’t dispute any of it. I narrow my eyes. “I thought you weren’t stalking me.”

  He rolls his eyes. “I’m observant—particularly with the people trying to ruin my life. Don’t tell me you don’t keep track of me the same way. Know your enemy, isn’t that the saying?”

  There’s something wrong with me, because as he speaks, as he admits that he’s noticed me, watched me for all these months, something inside me flares to life again. Hamilton and I have been circling one another for ages, the push-pull of whatever keeps dragging us together impossible to ignore.

  Every interaction we’ve had has been on his terms. Every kiss, every touch, every meeting. But as I stand before him right now, it clicks.

  He’s right. I’m overthinking it. It’s just sex.

  Sex, with a little practice, that could be really, really good.

  Heart pounding, I walk to the door and close it, pushing the lock in with my thumb. I’m done being the poor little embarrassed girl all the time. If I want to fuck Hamilton, then why shouldn’t I?

  I turn and feel his gaze tracking my motions closely, carefully, as I throw caution to the wind and climb into his lap, straddling his hips.

  His eyes widen, hands flying up. “Adams, what the—”

  “You really don’t need to talk for this.” I grab a fistful of his hair and say, “Shut the fuck up.” I register his shock, the way his mouth parts on an inhale, and then the slow transformation as his eyes drags over my body, hands landing on my hips.

  He meets my gaze, mouth twisting into dark smirk. “Make me,” he replies, hands sliding down to cup my ass.

  I do, crashing my mouth into his, sinking into this boy—this trouble—pushing aside my fear and paranoia. His tongue is hot and his hands are greedy, and he’s right.

  Hamilton Bates is very, very distracting.

  If I’m going to play with fire, I figure I may as well do it with the Devil himself.

  16

  Hamilton

  “Hey man, where were you all weekend? You missed a killer party at Mason’s lake house on Saturday night.”

  Xavier falls into step as we cross the quad. It’s the Monday morning following a weekend mostly spent with Gwendolyn, and a good portion of that spent in Gwendolyn’s pants. In short, it’s really fucking surreal to be walking around like it’s any other day when I’ve clearly fallen into some twisted alternate porn-universe.

  I’d totally forgotten about that party. “Busy,” I reply, not explaining further.

  “Getting all that paint off?” Ansel says, catching up. “How long did that take?”

  I roll my eyes. It seems like a lifetime ago that Gwendolyn covered my face in paint. Since then, I’ve confirmed that her pussy is definitely not haunted or filled with cobwebs.

  Twice.

  I confirmed it twice.

  “What are we talking about?” Heston asks, walking over from the student parking lot.

  Ansel gestures to me with a nod. “Hamilton’s paint job the other day.”

  Heston grins. “She completely nailed you with that one. Although, you shouldn’t be surprised. You’re lucky she didn’t cut your balls off, too.”

  I open my mouth, ready to tell them that she didn’t cut off my balls, but she certainly knew how to handle them. I stop myself, grinding my teeth together instead. Normally, I would have been chomping at the bit to brag about having banged a girl over the weekend. Yes, I’m one of those guys. Sue me. My sexual exploits are pretty well known. Honestly, usually the gossip travels for me. Girls want people to know they slept with a Devil. The Devil. That’s how that idiotic “blow job test” rumor got started in the first place.

  Obviously, Gwendolyn is different. They can’t ever know. She wouldn’t want them to, that’s for sure, and I don’t want them to, either.

  Not because I’m embarrassed. She’s hot, and frankly, quite the conquest. It just figures I’d bag someone actually interesting and then have to keep my mouth shut about it. If she didn’t have the “Freak” label, she’d be a hot commodity. She’s gorgeous, athletic, smart. I’d put her notch beneath my name on the Stairway to Hell beam in a skinny fucking minute. No, it’s not because of that. It’s because right now she’s mine, and I want to keep her like that.

  I hadn’t lied to her in the office the day before. I needed a distraction, and Gwendolyn Adams was doing the job.

  “I had dinner with my parents Saturday night. Once it was over, I wasn’t in the mood to party,” I say, trying not to grimace when I see Reagan walking over. “I wouldn’t have been good company,
anyway.”

  “So it wasn’t just me you blew off,” she pouts, tugging at my collar.

  “Nah, just—family shit.” I smile tightly, trying to subtly extricate myself from her clutched. “It got intense. My dad is pissed off about me getting detention, and don’t even get me started on the co-captain bullshit.”

  “Can’t he just call the school and tell them you can’t work with her.” When she says ‘her,’ Reagan’s eyes dart across the quad to where Gwendolyn’s walking, returning from the middle school building. “Especially after that bullshit with the paint. She could have blinded you or something.”

  I try to ignore my weird hyper-awareness of Gwen in my periphery, rolling my shoulders to shrug it off. “Right now, my plan is to lay low and just get through it.”

  “Seriously, Reag, don’t make a stink,” Heston says. “Adams is proving to be a pretty worthy co-captain with the whole t-shirt stunt. Which, now that I think about it, really reeks of a Hamilton Bates stunt.”

  I shrug. “I guess she has more game than we realized.”

  The bell tower chimes, which is a five-minute warning. As a group we start toward the main building. I keep one eye on Gwendolyn as she enters the front door, barely aware that Reagan has linked her fingers with mine.

  “When you didn’t come to the party,” she says, pressing against my side, “I came by your room to make sure you were okay.”

  I glance down at her arm, her hand, clutched to me like a fucking monkey. “Captain duties. I was in the office.”

  “I’m just kind of getting the feeling you may be avoiding me lately.” She squeezes my hand and blinks at me with those wide blue eyes. She’s a cute girl. She’s... fun. She’s more than willing to do whatever I want. Yet, when I focus on the way her hand feels in mine, there’s nothing. No tingle. No flicker of want. No desire. It’s like holding hands with a cousin.

  “Hey,” she continues, eyes twinkling, “maybe you and I could make use of the office some time?”

  A wave of images crashes over me. Gwendolyn climbing into my lap, her mouth pressed against mine, the quiver in her belly as she stood before me, letting me drag her panties down her legs. The slack look of rapture as she sank down onto me, hair tumbling down her shoulders. The way she gave a few experimental rocks against me before lifting and dropping, learning way too quickly exactly how to ride my dick. How her tits looked—god, her tits—right in my face, and how she arched them into me, urging me to lick them. And then later, when we were both completely on the edge, how it felt to come inside of her again as she tightened and shuddered around me. The sound she made—this little jagged mewl—and how flushed she looked after.

  “Hamilton.” Reagan yanks my arm.

  “Huh?” I rub my neck and feel the prickle of sweat that’s beaded there, my pants feeling tight just from the memory. Reagan looks beyond irritated. I clear my throat. “So that’s a ‘no’ on the office. Coach would kill me. The last thing I need right now is more detention, or to lose my half-captainship.”

  “Then figure something out, okay?” She blows out sharply, eyes narrowed. “Because you’re the one with all the limitations and parameters. I’m here for you—ready and willing—but if you’re not into it…”

  I nod, not knowing what to say or do. Usually, if I’m distant or sharp toward a girl, she just fucks off. For someone with as long of a sexual rap sheet as me, I somehow have developed zero rejection skillsets. And Reagan just isn’t taking the hint.

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  That seems to appease her, which is all I want at the moment. I’ll just kick that can down the road. Once we’ve entered the classroom, I brace myself for Gwendolyn’s entrance. I’m going to have to sit mere feet away from her for the next hour, all the while somehow pretending I don’t know what it feels like to be inside of her, to see the way her face spasms when she comes, as if I haven’t tasted her, taken her.

  I cast a furtive, exasperated glance down at my swelling dick.

  I slouch in my desk, tapping my pen on the notebook in front of me, doing my best to remain calm and casual. Reagan leans over to unzip her backpack and her collar shifts, revealing a fresh hickey on her neck.

  I raise an eyebrow.

  Maybe she didn’t miss me this weekend as much as she claims.

  That line of thought vanishes when Gwendolyn walks in and all my attention is focused on pretending like I’m looking at anything—anyone but her.

  There’s no doubt she’s under my skin and for the first time in my life, I feel completely and totally out of control.

  The crazy thing is that I kind of like it.

  Fourth period. Library. I spot Gwendolyn across the room with her headphones on, as usual, blocking out the world.

  I’m supposed to be researching for a history paper on the Battle of Gettysburg. Instead I pull up the Preston Prep instant messaging system.

  H: Hey.

  G: Hi?

  H: So listen… can we meet?

  G: For what?

  H: You know what.

  G: You’re seriously IM’ing me about this.

  H: I don’t have your phone number or I’d text.

  G: No, you wouldn’t.

  H: Sure I would, why not?

  G: Because your friends would find out. Or your girlfriend.

  Ouch.

  H: Anyway, let’s meet.

  G: I have tutoring today, then swim, then I’m busy.

  H: You’re getting tutored?

  G: I am the tutor, asshole.

  H: Of course, more good deeds to add to your karmic martyr list.

  G: Shut up. I’m signing off.

  H: WAIT!

  G: What?

  H: I have the music room reserved from 3-4.

  I wait, having put it out there. A time and a place. Private. Secluded. All manner of things could go down in there.

  After a minute of no response, my hands start to itch and shit, shit, shit, what if I pushed too hard and fucked this up for good?

  My finger hovers over the icon to go offline, to lick my wounds and pretend this never happened.

  Ding!

  G: We’ll see.

  It’s not a yes, but it’s not a no. I sign off and gather my things, leaving the library to get some air. No girl has ever given me a maybe before.

  Why does that make her even more impossibly hot?

  The music hall is a safe space. None of the Devils play an instrument. They’re all focused on sports and girls. Not that I’m not focused on those things, too, but the best colleges like a little culture added to the mix. Plenty of kids with high GPAs are either athletic or creatively gifted, but few check all three boxes. Playing an instrument was my mother’s idea. She had grand ideas of me performing on the piano for her friends at junior league functions, so naturally, I chose a string instrument. I’m already my father’s show dog, there’s no way in hell I’m being hers, too.

  I don’t mind playing, though. It’s kind of chill, despite being another way of challenging myself. Not everyone can do it. It’s just one more step toward being elite—part of a small few with specific skills.

  The rooms are private, padded and soundproofed not to bother the rest of the musicians. There’s a small desk and a couple of chairs, but not much else. I open up my case and remove my cello. I sit, positioning the instrument between my legs, and place my music on the stand. I pick up my bow and test the strings, making sure it’s in tune. It’s probably some great tragedy that I find playing music more centering than swimming. There’s no competition here—not even against myself. It’s all about creating sound, following the notes, letting it sweep me away. But swimming has totally ass-fucked my shoulder, which means that I can only stand to play for an hour, at most.

  Today, it’s not so easy to settle into the song. I’m frustrated when I miss the first few notes, distracted as I have been for days, by the thought of Gwendolyn Adams. What if she doesn’t show? What if I made a fool of myself? Seriously, I can’t reme
mber the last time I even asked a girl to meet me.

  Not that this is a date.

  It’s definitely not a date. Hook-ups come naturally. I could snap my fingers and Reagan would be there. Everything about this situation with Gwendolyn is confusing. Infuriating. Goddamn frustrating.

  My bow drops, producing a loud, earsplitting screech.

  “Goddamnit.”

  “Wow, I expected better of you, Master Bates.”

  I whip my head around and see Gwendolyn standing in the doorway, bag hanging casually from her shoulder. She enters and closes the door behind her quickly, pulling down the shade. That move alone clears up any question I had about her wanting to be seen with me.

  I run my hand down the neck of my cello. “I guess I don’t play well when I’m agitated.”

  She leans against the desk, skirt rising slightly up her thigh. “What’s got you so bothered?”

  “Well,” I carefully place the cello in its stand, “there’s this girl. My nemesis, really. I asked her to meet me and she was pretty non-committal.”

  Her eyebrows lift. “That must have been catastrophic for your ego.”

  “Don’t worry, it takes a lot more than that to bruise my ego.” She’s so sexy like this—bantering and smart, without all the righteous artifice. It makes my pulse quicken and my dick hard. “But surprise, surprise, she showed up after all.”

  “Yeah.” She frowns, gaze falling to her shoes. “She must be a real moron, right?”

  The room is small. We’re close together, while at a distance. It’d be so easy to flip her over and bend her over the desk, bury myself in her, but it’s clear that she’s skittish today—enough that I know I could blow this completely if I’m not careful. I’ll have to treat this delicately. What I’ve learned over the last few days is that I need Gwendolyn Adams, in a way I never could have anticipated.

  “Tell me something,” she says suddenly, eyebrows furrowed as she studies me, “did you really mean it?”

  I search my mind, half convinced I missed some important part of the conversation while I was fantasizing about banging her against that desk. “Did I mean what?”