Wicked Idol: A Hellfire Club Novel

by Becker Gray

  “Sounds amazing,” Aurora remarked. “Except that you’ll be here at Pembroke that entire time.”

  “I could graduate right now if I wanted,” I said, a little wistfully. “I’ve got the credits. But . . .”

  “But?”

  I sighed. “My father doesn’t want me to go to Paris or study photography. He wants me to go to Harvard or somewhere like that. Go into law.”

  Aurora wrinkled her nose. “Good god. Why?”

  I gave a cynical laugh. “Because it would be excellent for his career. If he can run a school well enough that one of his kids is an Ivy-educated lawyer on her way to the Supreme Court? If he can show off that both his disciplined, grounded daughters are working hard at Very Serious and Important majors? Then what school board wouldn’t consider hiring him?”

  “The Sorbonne is hardly an unaccredited community college,” Aurora pointed out. “It’s the oldest university in Europe.”

  “Oh, I know. But if I’m in Paris, then he can’t control my life like he did my sister’s, and he hates that. And photography is a joke to him.”

  “But—”

  I didn’t find out what Aurora was about to say, because at just that moment, the door to the classroom opened and Keaton Constantine insolently strolled in with his leather bag slung across his chest and his typical arrogant smirk tilting his lips.

  He didn’t see me at first, which meant I had time to observe how a thick lock of hair had dropped out of its classic, all-American style to drift over his forehead. I had time to see how his tailored school blazer showed off his firm chest and broad shoulders.

  I had time to remember how those big hands—which were currently handing Ms. Sanderson a note—felt as they moved through my hair and as they curled around my hips.

  My entire body felt like it was on fire.

  He gave the classroom a bored once-over as Ms. Sanderson read the note. When his eyes lit on me, his entire body went rigid.

  His blue eyes were turbulent—incensed—as he narrowed them at me, as if I’d somehow known he would be in this classroom today and had manipulated my entire schedule in order to be here just to annoy him.

  “What. A. Bastard,” Aurora muttered under her breath, catching his glare at me.

  I agreed, and I wasn’t having it. Not today. Not after he dropped me in the library and left me like so much forgettable trash.

  I glared right back at him.

  “Well, welcome to the class, Mr. Constantine,” Ms. Sanderson said. “Luckily for you, last week was only an orientation, and so you haven’t missed much. Take a seat anywhere, and if I can have you all put down your phones now—yes, thank you—I’ve got this presentation fired up now, and we can get started.”

  Ms. Sanderson started talking about representational interpretations versus abstraction as Keaton strode to the back of the classroom, giving me a final glower as he passed my desk.

  I was about to breathe a sigh of relief when he dropped into the empty desk right behind mine and propped his shoes against the legs of my chair.

  I turned while Ms. Sanderson kept lecturing, keeping my voice in a low hiss. “You know, there’re other empty desks if you’re so opposed to being near me.”

  “I’m fine right here,” he said softly. Defiantly. His eyes glittered as he spoke.

  I turned back around, livid. And a little bit hurt.

  We didn’t see each other for a week after that kiss, and this was how he acted when he saw me again?

  Fine.

  I guess I knew where things stood then.

  “The partnered semester project will involve an interpretation of landscapes,” Ms. Sanderson was saying at the front of the room.

  I heard a faint, collective murmur of discontent ripple up around me, and Ms. Sanderson held up her hands. “I know, I know, landscapes are boring, but hear me out. The word interpretation is key, because I’ll be asking you to step outside your comfort zone and add an element of illustration to your images. You will not only have to capture twelve stunning images of your landscape, but then you will have to use art and design to transform these images into something that tells a story. And you must do this all collaboratively—the photography and the design are to be a joint effort. I expect both partners to influence the project with their individual perspectives.”

  I looked over to Aurora, who was already looking over at me. She tilted her head and gave me a smile—the universal signal for let’s do this.

  I’d only just smiled back at her when Ms. Sanderson ruined the moment.

  “We’re going to pair up alphabetically,” she said. “Which means—oh, that’s right, Mr. Constantine has joined us. Okay, one minute…” She bent over a stack of folders on the teacher’s table at the front of the room, writing on Post-It notes and tapping in notes onto her tablet, then she straightened up after two or three minutes. “All fixed!”

  She started to walk up and down the rows of desks as she handed us each a folder. “You’ll see your partner’s name on the front of your folder. Now, the assignment gives you three weeks to prepare your prospectus, but may I suggest you start working on it now . . .”

  Ms. Sanderson’s voice faded away as I looked down at the folder on my desk. There, written in Ms. Sanderson’s spiky, rushed handwriting, was the last name I ever wanted to see.

  Keaton Constantine.

  Briggs. Constantine.

  Alphabetically close.

  Ugh.

  My stomach dropped right to the floor—and my heart along with it. I couldn’t be his partner, I just couldn’t. To have to see him, talk with him, work with him . . . In close proximity?

  To have to share my photography with him, which was the one thing I kept for myself, the one thing that made me happy and the one thing my father couldn’t control . . .

  No. I couldn’t do it. Not when Keaton was so cruel, so angry. Not when he could kiss me like he did and then just walk away like it meant nothing.

  I didn’t turn around to see what Keaton’s reaction to this was, but I didn’t have to. He leaned forward and said in a low voice I could barely hear, “Guess it’s a good thing I joined the class when I did. Partner.” He sounded utterly furious.

  “You may spend this time getting acquainted with your collaborator and discussing plans for your project,” Ms. Sanderson announced, reaching the front of the room and sitting at her desk, presumably to spend the next twenty minutes surreptitiously updating her resume.

  I spun around immediately and gave Keaton my fiercest glare. “This might be a blow-off class for you, Mr. Rugby Captain, but this is important to me. You may rule the school, but you don’t rule me, and especially not when it comes to this project. Got it?”

  He blinked once, like I’d surprised him, and then a slow, cocky grin slid over his face.

  And God help me, when he smiled like that, I could have gone up in flames.

  Because when Keaton scowled, he was sexy as hell, but when he smiled?

  It was like a fallen angel had come to claim my heart.

  “You’re afraid of me,” he said confidently. “That’s what this is.”

  “I’m not afr—that’s ridiculous—” Who the hell did he think he was?

  He nodded, stroking his jaw in mock-thoughtfulness. “You’re afraid that if we work together, you won’t be able to keep from kissing me again.”

  “Again?” I sputtered. “You kissed me! Remember?” The arrogant...insufferable…egotistical…jackass had another think coming. I wasn’t kissing him again.

  Aurora looked over at him, her gaze murderous. I realized I’d been talking a little loudly, so I lowered my voice after giving her a quick all clear smile. “Remember? I was minding my own business, and then you leaned in and kissed me. I had nothing to do with it.”

  He leaned forward over his desk, his smile fading into something darker. More intense. “Nothing to do with it? So that wasn’t you licking your lips while you stared at my mouth? That wasn’t you purring into my kiss as I he
lped you grind against my cock?”

  I flushed so bright that I knew my cheeks probably matched my hair. I could feel the beads of sweat forming on my skin as my temperature reached peak embarrassment levels.

  “That’s what I thought,” he said, sitting back. His voice held a note of satisfaction, but there was a predatory glint to his eyes that was anything but satisfied.

  “Well, it’s not going to happen again,” I said sharply. No way was I going to be that vulnerable—that needy—again, and then watch him walk away. Again.

  “Fine by me, Miss Perfect,” Keaton snapped. The scowl was back in full force again, like whatever I’d said had displeased him. Which couldn’t be true—I didn’t have that kind of power over him. And he had a girlfriend anyway. And he hated me.

  “So now that that’s out of the way, should we get started?” My voice was still sharp, and I kept my face down so he couldn’t see my eyes. So he couldn’t see all the stupid hope and hurt there.

  “Fine then,” he drawled. He gave his pen a contemptuous click and then flipped open his folder. “Let’s get fucking started.”

  4

  Keaton

  “You want to get drinks? Phineas is in one of his moods, and I can’t handle it without a properly made martini.”

  I shook my head at Owen. “Can’t.” I held up my phone and waggled it. “Monthly penance.”

  Owen winced.

  He was probably my closest friend in the Hellfire Club—which, might I add, was a dumb name for us, but I hadn’t started it, so who was I to judge? At any rate, as my closest friend, Owen was the only one who knew how complicated the Constantines really were. And like any good friend, he kept his mouth shut and didn’t say too much. But I had a feeling that later today, I’d find a bottle of Don Q Reserva Rum in my room.

  No note or explanation, just one friend saying to another: God, life sucks. Here is this insanely expensive bottle of rum with which to chase that shit away.

  I was a senior, so I’d earned the right to one of the coveted corner single rooms with its own shower. The rooms were passed down from seniors to those deserving. My friends and I had begged, borrowed, stolen, and forged to have these rooms. But it was well worth it to not have anyone around for the shit show that was about to take place.

  After the shower, I grabbed my sports drink from my fridge, tossed myself onto my bed, and prepared for hell.

  Outside the window, something caught my eye, sinking my already dour mood and making my lips turn down. There she was . . . fucking Iris. The reason I’d taken to two-a-day spank sessions.

  Didn’t matter how much I drank or worked out; I could still taste her. I could practically feel her under my skin. And you want more.

  My situation wasn’t entirely my fault though. She’d been there in my space with her smart mouth and her fucking freckles and I’d just . . . lost it. With irritation, I glanced down and realized I was hard. Goddamn it.

  What the hell was it about that girl?

  You better figure it out because you’re going to be trapped with her for months.

  Fucking hell.

  Tomorrow, I would see if Ms. Sanderson would pair me with someone else. While my mother seemed to think the only thing I was good for was eventually filling a suit at one of Winston’s offices, I was damn good at multimedia and design. If I wanted, I could go to college and study it. Design was nothing that would make her proud though, which meant I still hadn’t made up my mind what I was going to do after I graduated. It was dumb—because I did still want to make her proud—but the idea of working for Winston . . . working for the family . . .

  Ugh.

  Either way, no matter what I ended up choosing, I was not going to have my opportunities tainted by some no-name girl.

  I dragged my eyes away from her because all she was, was a fucking distraction. And she wasn’t even that hot.

  Then why are we hard?

  My dick twitched as if to argue the fact. But what the hell did he know? I deliberately pulled my blinds down so I wouldn’t be tempted to look out on the lawn at her, Serafina, and Sloane enjoying the sunny day.

  Instead, I turned my attention to my phone, hit the speed dial, and waited. Sometimes I had to call twice because my mother forgot. This was not one of those days though, thankfully. But my mother still sounded confused. “Keaton?”

  “Yes, Mother, you know, your son? Sadly, we have a standing date, same time every second Saturday of the month.”

  She gave me an exasperated sigh. “Of course I know we have a standing call. I have just been busy, that’s all.” Each word was laced with something too well-mannered to be overt irritation, but too clipped to be true politeness. “Well, are you fine?”

  “Yeah, Mom. Just fine.”

  “Keaton, there is no reason for the attitude.”

  I sighed. I should have been used to this. The way she spoke to me as if I was a chart of statistics. “Classes are going well. Straight As. Top of the class. No problems. Rugby is fine. We have a pre-season match against Croft Wells Academy in a few weeks, and I was hoping you could attend.”

  She sighed. “I’d love to, but I’ve got too much on my plate with the gala. You know how it is.”

  I swallowed the bite of irritation. I did know how it was, and I hated it. The Constantine Foundation was one of my mother’s pet projects, and every year they hosted a massive gala to raise money for whatever the charity du jour was. It took months to plan, and then all that hard work was wasted on four boozy hours in a boutique art museum.

  “Well, if that’s all, I’ll just hop off the phone then.”

  A tsk. “I do not understand why you have to be like this. It’s just busy here. One day you’ll be home, working for the family like Winston is, and then you’ll see.”

  I waited for it. The weight of disappointment. The guilt of not being like Winston—driven and ambitious and controlled.

  I didn’t feel it today though. After all these years, I’d finally become numb to it.

  When I was younger and Dad was alive, Mom had spent more time with me—at least, that’s how I’d remembered it. But as I got older, she distanced herself. Not cruelly, not coldly, nothing like that. But just like I was a scotch that hadn’t finished distilling yet, a cake that hadn’t finished baking. Which was her prerogative, I guess. After all, what the fuck did I care? I’d be free in a year. I could go wherever and do whatever I wanted, and nobody would give a fuck.

  I was a Constantine and the world would be mine for the taking, whether I did what my family wanted or not.

  For some inexplicable reason, my gaze darted to my pulled blinds, and I tugged them open because I had to know what Iris was doing. Glutton for punishment. It had to be the call with my mother. I might as well distract myself. And Little Miss Perfect was going to have to do for now.

  My mother was still talking about how busy she was and how I had to understand, when she called my name. “Keaton?”

  “Mom.”

  “I really do wish I could come to your game, you know.” I could hear her trying to think of the next conciliatory thing to say. “Has there been any more interest from scouts?”

  “Coach says yes. But I won’t know more until the preseason games get closer.”

  “Are you still thinking about . . . doing it professionally?”

  It had been a fight when I’d first brought up the possibility at a memorable family dinner a couple years ago. She wanted me working for Winston, period. Married well, period.

  In her eyes, none of that would happen if I was travelling the world playing a sport with common people.

  But despite what everyone else assumed about a Constantine kid, I didn’t want to spend my days doing fuck-all nothing in a suit, handshaking and moving money around. I needed purpose. Something to do. A reason for existing. And if I didn’t do design, then going pro with rugby wouldn’t be the worst thing, right? Binding myself to some kind of family, artificial though it may be?

  But do I r
eally want to play rugby for the rest of my life…?

  “I haven’t made any decisions yet,” I told her honestly.

  “Good.” She sounded relieved. “And your cousin Cash? Have you checked in with him?”

  Cash was a lanky sophomore with great hair and no sense of self-preservation, which I deduced from his immediate attraction to Sloane Lauder—who was basically a knife in the shape of a human girl.

  And for better or for worse, he was also my cousin.

  “Cash is fine,” I told her. “Same as last year. Not getting into any trouble.” Yet.

  “Good,” Mom said. And then paused. “So . . .”

  Oh god. Here it comes.

  “Are things with Clara going well?”

  “Fine.”

  Maybe less fine ever since you shoved your tongue in Iris’s mouth.

  That had been like a week ago. I hadn’t done it again, so maybe I wasn’t a shitty pseudo-cheater. “But I’ve been thinking.”

  She was quiet for a breath. “What do you mean?”

  “Clara’s a great girl, but it’s not like we’re getting married or anything. She’s very sweet. I care about her a lot. But I don’t really think that there’s a point in continuing to date her.”

  “Keaton Constantine, what the hell?”

  My brows popped. My mother rarely swore. “Wow, Mom. I didn’t even know you knew that word.”

  “That relationship is important,” Mom explained, sounding like she was struggling for patience. “It’s your future.”

  “Mom, I’m eighteen. You can’t really expect me to date the same girl for the rest of my life.”

  “I can, and I do. You’ve been raised together. Groomed to be together. It’s not like you need to get to know her. You know exactly what kind of family she comes from. You should know that the expectation is that you two will get married.”

  I laughed at that. “Again, we’re eighteen. We’re not going to marry anyone any time soon. And while I care about her, I don’t love her.”

  I could envision her pinched face. “You’re being very naïve,” my mother said in a brittle voice. “Constantines marry well. That’s what we do. And it’s your role in the family to connect us with the Blairs.”