by Angel Lawson
Wow.
He shifts the box to his other hip, sighing. “Just... if you talk to her, could you let her know that?”
I nod silently, at a complete loss for words while I try to reconcile this guy with the one I’ve spent seven months hating. Because there’s no way—there’s no way—that was an act.
Without me needing to tell him, he seems to sense that I’m not going to talk about her. He nods once more, as if accepting that the conversation is over, and continues up the steps. When we reach the top, he says, “Bates’ room is down here. It’s the biggest one, of course.”
He quiets as we pass the lounge, where a few guys glance my way. Whatever moment Xavier and I shared on the stairs has left me unprepared for the discomfort of Ansel and Emory’s lingering gazes. They don’t look hostile, but they don’t look friendly, either. My skin feels prickly and hot and I can’t stop my shoulders from curling protectively inward. As we approach the—as promised—open door, I take a deep breath and give Xavier’s sleeve a small tug.
I wait for him to meet my gaze before quietly offering, “She’s doing... better. Healing.”
He smiles at me, but his eyes are sad. “Good. Thank you.”
With his foot he “knocks” on the door and calls, “Yo, Bates! Gwen’s here.”
Hamilton emerges from a separate room and I roll my eyes, because seriously, how does he have more than one room? I’m assuming it’s a bedroom, because the one we’re in now is clearly is a living room, with its couch and recliner. A flat screen hangs on the wall. A small kitchenette is even attached. It’s ridiculous, but it’s clear he has no idea how much so as he strolls over barefoot. He’s wearing obscenely loose sweatpants and a Preston Prep Swim hoodie.
His gaze darts between me and Xavier, eyes narrowing at whatever he finds there.
Xavier ignores this and dumps the box unceremoniously into his arms. He says, “Good luck! And remember, attempted murder charges don’t look good on college applications.” He throws us two thumbs-ups and leaves.
Hamilton’s eyes slide to me. “Did he say something to you?”
“No.” I fight the urge to hug my middle, still feeling spooked. “Why?”
He drops the box. “Your cheeks are red, and you’ve got that line on your forehead that you only get when you’re freaking out or something.”
“Probably has something to do with me walking in here,” I tick off on my fingers, “alone, with a room full of guys, who have never been anything but vocal about despising me, who blame me for their disciplinary problems, and are all bigger than me.”
“Bigger than you?” Hamilton’s expression grows more and more incredulous. “What the fuck did you think we were going to do, attack you or something? Jesus fucking Christ!”
“Excuse me for having a basic sense of self-preservation." I throw my hands in the air, frustrated. “At least Xavier was nice enough to walk up with me.”
His jaw clenches. “I didn’t think you needed an escort. Especially me as an escort. If anything would start the rumor mill, it’d be me walking a girl—any girl—up to my room.”
“The fact you think that’s normal tells me more about you than anything else, Bates.”
He shrugs, blank-faced, as though being a basic asshole is perfectly fine. For him, I guess it is. I’m not saying he doesn’t deal with any expectations in his life. Obviously, his father has plenty. But none are for standard manners or consideration of other people. No wonder he’s such a jerk.
Yet, as I’m unpacking the art supplies, he walks over to the little kitchenette and returns with a bag from the local market. He dumps it on the table. Inside, there is candy, protein bars, crackers, and a variety of other snacks.
“What’s all that?”
Those long fingers reach into the pocket of his hoodie and pluck out the cards I handed out earlier that day. “Since you don’t have a car, I went to the store and grabbed the stuff we needed.”
“Oh. Well... good,” I say, refusing to thank him for doing what needed to be done. “I should have everything else.”
He peers into the box. “Yeah, I’m going to have to establish one rule now: no glitter.”
No glitter.
“Okay, first of all?” I hold up a finger. “How dare you.”
“It’s a fucking nightmare, Adams. I don’t want to have to clean that shit up for the rest of the year.”
I chuckle under my breath, but it transforms into a peal of mocking laughter.
He blinks at me. “What?”
“Like you clean.”
His eyes flash, and just like that, I feel the tell-tale tingle of a spark igniting in the pit of my stomach. This is what gets us into trouble. The bickering and challenges and little prickly jabs. It escalates into something bigger, snowballs, evolves into something frantic and desperate.
I take a deep breath and say, “Fine, no glitter. But I’m using as many paint pens as I want.”
His eyes narrow, but he takes the compromise, fully aware that keeping the peace also means keeping our clothes on.
I think.
The next night, all twenty of us meet at the main hall, everyone weighed down with supplies for decorating the lockers.
“I’m serious about not making a mess, sneaking into classrooms, or any other bullshit, got it?” Hamilton says.
“Loud and clear, Master Bates.” Heston gives a dramatic salute. His brilliant blue eyes pass between me and Hamilton when he adds, “That goes for ya’ll, too, right?”
I freeze, eyes darting to Hamilton.
“What does that mean?” Hamilton asks, coolly.
“You’re the two delinquents around here. Are we sure we can trust you not to get in more trouble? Maybe you like all that Saturday detention.”
“Fuck off,” Hamilton mutters, before adding to the rest of the group, “we get an hour, don’t waste it.”
I don’t speak—don’t even breathe—before Heston and the others have turned the corner toward the underclassmen hallways.
“What was that about?” I ask in a rush. “Do you think he—”
“No.” He runs his hand through his hair, sighing. “He’s full of shit. He just loves getting a rise out of me, he does this shit all the time.”
“Oh.” I let myself relax, falling into step beside him. “So, there’s dissension among the Devil’s ranks, huh?”
He stops in front of our first locker and sets the box on the floor. I grab the poster we made, woefully sans glitter, while he fishes out the tape. “Heston wants it both ways. He wants to be in charge yet have no accountability.”
“And you’re accountable?” I scoff. “In what way?”
He pulls off a piece of tape, dragging it across the sharp edge to cut it, then hands it to me, eyes pensive. “It’s complicated.”
“I sincerely doubt it is, but okay.”
He leans against the bank of lockers and pulls off another piece of tape, waiting for me to need it. “I know you think the Devils run wild, but trust me. Things could be a hell of a lot worse. There’s plenty of shit I put a stop to.”
I attach the poster, jaw clenching. “Like not letting Xavier date my sister?”
“I did let him date your sister.” He looks away, something cold and dark passing over his face. “Look what happened.”
I’m instantly taken by a tide of white-hot anger. He’s so blasé about it. At least Xavier had the guts to apologize, to man up and admit his faults in it. That’s more than I ever expected from any Devil. But Hamilton? It’s like he just doesn’t get it. He doesn’t understand that his actions have consequences, and that people outside his little circle of hell are worthy, too.
We both sense that this isn’t the time to go into it, so we move on to the next names on our lists. Regardless, the tension ebbing between us is a thick, palpable thing, and not the kind of strain we’ve grown used to lately. This one is filled with a much darker bitterness and the awareness that neither will budge.
The hour ticks by
, silent save for the sounds of tape and paper, the crinkle of wrappers, our footsteps in the empty hall, the clanks of lockers opening and closing.
When we get to the last locker, he hands me a candy bar to tie to the handle. Our fingers graze each other's, and he suddenly says, “I’m the one that told them to cancel you.” His voice is even—matter-of-fact. “It was a punishment for squealing about the Devils being at that party.”
“No shit,” I mutter, trying to fight down a hot prickle behind my eyelids. “Tell me something I don’t know.” The admission isn’t a surprise, but it still hurts to hear, and my hands shake as I struggle to secure the candy bar with ribbon.
He takes it from me, our fingers brushing once again. Facing the locker, he loops the string through the small hole of the handle. While he works, he says, “What you don’t know is that being canceled was a mercy. What some of the guys wanted to do…” His eyes flick over to me and I see dark rage in the steel gray. “Wiping you from the collective consciousness of the student body was the only way to keep you safe, Gwendolyn, and I used every bit of leverage I had to enforce it.”
He secures the candy and picks up the empty box, holding it like a shield between us. His expression is wary.
It should be.
“I’m sorry.” I laugh meanly. “Are you trying to be the hero in all this? Like what you did to me for the last seven months was some kind of fucking favor?”
“No,” he shouts, voice bouncing off the metal lockers, “I’m not a goddamned hero. I let shit get out of control. I let Xavier’s eye wander. I let him have his fun. I had no fucking idea that your sister—” He clamps his mouth shut.
My voice is pitched dangerously, violently low when I ask, “My sister what?”
He works his mouth silently for a moment, as if carefully choosing his words. “I had no idea that she had so many problems. You’re sisters, okay? I thought she was tough, like you. I thought she could handle herself. I had no clue shit would go wrong, and I’m not a hero.” His smile is sharp and bitter. “I’m a fucking idiot for letting it happen. You think I don’t remember the way you looked at me that night, in the hallway? You think it makes me happy that you’re scared for your own fucking safety just being around us now? That you thought I somehow orchestrated the whole thing, because you actually think that low of me?” He flings his arms out, letting them fall limply, loudly, against his thighs. “And the thing is, you’re right to. I can’t even blame you. Because even if I didn’t set it up, it was still on me.”
He turns and walks off, shoulders curved dejectedly.
I stare at the locker in something akin to shock. I’ve seen him naked, I’ve even seen him in the throes of an orgasm, but that. That was Hamilton Bates, stripped bare. And fuck.
Fuck him.
Fuck Hamilton fucking Bates.
I kick the nearest locker, taking a moment to rearrange the shape of the universe in my head. It’s not a neat and tidy thing, not like having Hamilton to blame for what happened to Sky. But that’s the way it always is, isn’t it? Messy and complicated and completely maddening.
I turn and follow him, walking at first, and then breaking into a sprint to run him down.
When I do, darting in front of him, he stumbles back, looking down at me with dark, stormy eyes.
“Skylar does have problems,” I begin quietly, putting a hand on the box he’s holding between us as a gesture. Stay, listen. “And what happened that night proved they were worse than I knew—than any of us knew. And if you want to beat yourself up for treating us like dirt all these years, then trust me, I’ll find you a bat myself. But if what you’re saying is true—if you really didn’t have anything to do with that—then you can’t take the blame for her being there.” I inhale, chest shuddering. “I’m the one who could have stopped her. I never should have let her go.”
He stares at me, hard, eyes boring into me, searching. And then he bursts into a long, wheezing laughter. He laughs so hard he nearly doubles over, back convulsing with it.
I gape at him. “Are you laughing at me?”
He rears up, snorting. “Adams, you’ve been blaming this shit on me for seven months. I finally take a little responsibility and you want to take the blame yourself? You are the most fucking self-righteous martyr I’ve ever met.” He drops the box and it lands with a thud, the remaining supplies clanking together. He steps over it and approaches me. “What do you want me to do? Fight you for who should take the most blame?”
“No.” My heart hammers, because I know that look in his eye. It’s evil. Twisted. Aroused. I feel it in my belly.
He swipes a thumb over the corner of his lips, eyes scanning me. “What do you want then?” He looms over me, my back pressed up against the lockers, and his searching eyes lock right on my mouth.
All I have to do is ask for it.
I take a shallow breath. “I want—"
“Bates!” Heston’s voice carries down the hall. “Where you at, fucker? We’re all finished, and nobody drew dicks on the girls’ toilet stalls.” After a suspended moment of Hamilton and I staring at one another, Heston cautiously adds, “But if they had, the artistic rendition would have been impeccable.”
“Yeah,” Hamilton says, tongue flicking out to lick his bottom lip. “We’re finished, too.”
He bends and picks up the box, not giving me another look. They turn the corner and walk down the darkened hall. I follow behind, far enough that they can’t see me, but not too far that I can’t hear Heston ask, “What the hell was that all about?”
“Nothing. You know how she is. That goddamned mouth never stops flapping.”
“That’s what you get for talking to her like she’s real people.”
“Wilcox, I swear to God.”
Heston shrugs. “I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again. That bitch needs a good hard fuck. Something to knock her down a few pegs, put her in her place. I would’ve taken a shot at her by now if it weren’t for—”
I don’t get to hear what comes out of his mouth next, because all I hear is the crack of Hamilton’s fist crashing into Heston’s jaw. The snap is loud, jarring in the dark silence of the hallways.
Heston lets out a pained squawk, and then, “Motherfucker! Are you kidding me?”
Hamilton doesn’t answer, he just keeps walking, leaving Heston leaning against the wall, holding his jaw. He spits on the floor—gross—before ducking into the bathroom. I use the opportunity to run down the hall and burst from the doors of the school. My feet stumble on the steps and I fall, except I don’t. Strong arms catch me before I hit the ground. I barely have time to regain my balance before he drags me off the sidewalk and under one of the massive living oaks.
“Did you hear that?” he asks, hand flexing around my shoulder.
“Yes.” I swallow. “Thank you.”
“For what?” I can see the outline of his features in the moonlight, his eyebrows pulled together. “Punching Heston? I’d do it every day if I could.”
“For... defending me,” I say, “and for looking out for me, even if I didn’t know or understand it.”
“It wasn’t just for you.” He sounds stilted, uncomfortable. “If they came after you and something happened… we’d all pay the price.”
I press my back into the tree, sliding my hands around his waist. The move makes him look down at me, gaze meeting my own. I concede, “You were right. Being a Devil, being an Adams—it’s complicated.”
He laughs darkly, running his hands down my back until they rest just above my waist. “The less questions, probably the better, don’t you think?”
Making a point, he cuts my reply off with a soft and coaxing kiss. I return it, despite my fears and reservations, my fingers slipping to the nape of his neck, pulling at the fringe of hair there. His movements are restrained, gentler than usual, like he understands that this is a delicate, fragile thing, like he's afraid of scaring me off. If only he could hear the crazy percussion of my heart or feel the ball of tension
in my belly, he wouldn’t play it so safe.
Who knew his soft kisses were as tempting as the harder ones?
He breaks away, moving his lips to my neck. His hot tongue flicks out to taste me, and I release a gasp as his fingers toy at the hem of my shirt. I squirm when he touches a ticklish spot, and he does it again, grinning mischievously against my collarbone. He surges into me, pressing into the bark hard enough that I feel his desire, hard and excited against my hip.
I feel myself slipping, flooded with the sudden awareness that I’m thoroughly unopposed to having sex right here, against this tree. To having sex with Hamilton Bates, at all, anywhere. I don’t care.
Wait, no, I do care.
I want this. I want him.
His hands wander lower, to the swell of my backside and further, just below, to the backs of my thighs. He hooks his palms around them and lifts me up. It’s pure instinct to wrap my legs around his hip. I feel his erection against my core and throw my head back against the scratchy tree trunk, exhaling a keening moan.
It’s the creak of the thick, wooden door from the main building that halts us—an anomaly in the quiet night. Hamilton freezes, his mouth inches from mine. We look into one another’s eyes as footsteps carry down the steps and onto the sidewalk a few feet away. I hold my breath, which only seems to make my heart pound harder. Hamilton fingers gouge into me with the strength of his death grip.
Sure, we both may want this, but having someone else find out—having Heston find out?
Not a chance.
Time passes—seconds, maybe minutes—and Hamilton tilts his head to peer around the trunk of the tree. He exhales and says, “He’s gone.”