Rich Boys vs. Poor Boys (The Cruel Kings of Castle Hill Academy, Book 1) by Devon Hartford kd103

by Hartford, Devon

  Rob’s eyes ice over, “This isn’t a game, little girl. You’re lucky as fuck you’re in the work-study program and not lockup, same as me. If anyone finds out why you’re here, they will kick you out faster than you can blink.”

  I snort, “That’s ridiculous. They know why I’m here. Mr. Ralston signed the papers himself. I guess he told you, didn’t he? I mean, about why I was charged?”

  “Stop talking, Mouth. Listen like your life depends on it. Mr. Ralston isn’t the problem. They are.”

  “Who’s they? Has anyone ever told you you sound like a movie? You like conspiracy theories, don’t you?”

  Rob’s nostrils flare like he’s going to roar in my face so loud it blows my hair back, like the king T-Rex in Jurassic Park loud. He doesn’t. “I’m not talking about the faculty.”

  “They know too,” I say like I would know, which I don’t, but they must. It wasn’t like Mr. Ralston snuck me out of juvi. All those contracts and paperwork he and the notary had to sign with the people at the Sheriff’s office? My case file is probably a matter of public record at this point. Everybody knows.

  “The Alumni don’t. The students don’t. The parents don’t.”

  “What parents?”

  “Can you shut your mouth for more than two seconds? Is that possible?”

  I’m already opening my mouth to reply when I clamp it shut and silently sneer at him, arching an annoyed eyebrow.

  The evil crinkles around his nose decide to relax a tad. His meaty grip on my wrist doesn’t, and now it is actually starting to hurt. His hands are really hard.

  I almost say something, but think better of it.

  He whispers, “Do not tell anyone why you’re here.”

  “Who anyone?”

  His eyes fire.

  I roll mine and mime zipping my lips. When he doesn’t say anything, I again arch an annoyed eyebrow, waiting.

  “How are you not dead, Mouth?” he asks with unguarded sincerity.

  “Mm?” I’d say more but my lips are zipped.

  Suddenly, he’s a different person. “PTSD.”

  “Mm?”

  He nods. “Ralston said you were in foster care before juvi.”

  I shrug.

  “How bad was it?” he asks.

  ((((pitch black))))

  ((((pain))))

  I shrug again. What I can’t figure out is, where did Prison Ass-King Rob go? Now he’s like… Mr. Robbers Neighborhood Rob. Robbers because he could never pass as straight-laced Mr. Rogers, not even if you lasered off his neck tattoos. Rob exudes attitude and danger. Public Television wouldn’t know what to do with him.

  “Don’t want to talk about it?” he asks with real concern.

  I never want to talk about it. And no, I don’t have—

  ((((pain pain pain))))

  ((((it it it))))

  — PTSD. That’s ridiculous. I sigh through zipped lips and let my head loll a slow roll to show how bored I am. When I’m done, I glare at him and snark sharply, “When did you get so nice?”

  Out of nowhere, his Mr. Robbers nice guy look is clobbered away by a wall of fury, and his hot mahogany eyes fire once again. He looks ready to attack.

  I cringe.

  He says, “Did someone ever…” He can’t finish his sentence, like spitting the words out would be like spitting out barbed wire.

  I know, because I know exactly what he was going to say just now when he asked if someone had ever—

  ((((hurts hurts hurts))))

  —had ever, you know, but didn’t finish his sentence.

  This Rob is giving me emotional whiplash. I can’t decide if he hates me, or if he… I don’t know what. But this thing now isn’t hate.

  “Did they?” he asks softly.

  I know exactly which they he means this time.

  ((((please no))))

  “No,” I mutter meekly before I make the mistake of stupidly telling him the truth. If I do that, I might start crying and never stop.

  His hand wrenches down on my wrist.

  “Stop it!” I squeak. “What is wrong with you?!”

  “Sorry,” he says and releases me instantly. “It’s just that when I… it makes me want to… if anyone ever… to you… I would…” His angry eyes prowl through mine, latching onto the truth even though I don’t want him to.

  He knows.

  Damn it, he—

  ((((pain pain pain))))

  ((((it hurts!))))

  —knows.

  I don’t even know Rob, but he seems to know me, like he’s always known me, which is total romance novel nonsense. There’s no way he can know me. We just met. But I feel it anyway, a warm rainstorm of hope washing away the hate and hurt in my heart, cleansing my soul to the core, seeping past my defenses in a hot torrent of—

  That’s when I panic.

  Two horses pull me apart, one trying to steal me away to safety, to run away where I never have to think about the past. The other horse wants to take me and Rob to some fairy tale future where there is no pain, only love. Knowing that place definitely doesn’t exist, I jump on the first horse, ready to flee.

  The moment I turn my back on Rob, he grabs me from behind, spins me around, and pulls me into him. For a second, I think he’s attacking me, but he isn’t. He’s holding me in the tightest, warmest, lovingest hug I’ve felt since losing my parents. He’s really and truly hugging me with everything he has. The only way to describe it is as a safe embrace.

  That’s why I know it’s a lie.

  Since losing my parents, no embrace is ever safe.

  I struggle against Rob’s powerful arms and try not to whimper.

  He won’t let go.

  I don’t know if I want him to, and for a second I clutch the chest of his coveralls and—

  Let me go!

  I don’t want to be held by anybody!

  His arms are lying!

  When I try to tear myself away, the sound of high heels clack across the concrete, startling both of us.

  “Who’re you raping this time, Rob?” a conniving female voice laughs.

  Rob instantly lets me go, and practically hurls me out of his arms while spinning me around.

  I’m thinking: Rape? This time?

  Please don’t let that be why Rob is here at the Academy.

  Please don’t let rape be his crime.

  Please.

  Chapter 7

  Three female fashion models strut down the parking aisles between the luxury cars. The only thing they’re missing is the catwalk lighting, but they nail everything else. The walk, the couture clothes, the heels, the hair. They’ve got the hot, the haute, and the haughty attitude.

  Except it’s not actually couture. They’re wearing prep school uniforms, but they’re so fashionable it’s hard to tell. Pleated plaid burgundy skirts riding high enough over black silk stockings to show garters. Double-breasted navy blazers with flared cuffs, the blazers dangling open over half-buttoned blouses, starched and white. Loose burgundy neckties hanging like an invitation over what has to be breast implants for all three. Their boobs float like they don’t need bras, the black lace of which you can see popping out, obviously. Lastly, patent black leather stripper heels. Stilettos. As deadly as the rest of their costume, because that’s basically what they’re wearing. The Halloween version of slutty prep school girls, but everything is so obviously expensive and high-end, I know it’s the real deal.

  As one, they stop and cock hips like they’ve practiced this move a thousand times. Before I can ask who their choreographer is, the blonde in the middle snorts, “Another one of your sluts?”

  The brunette sneers, “Or does this one make you pay?”

  The redhead giggles, “Rob never pays. He rapes.”

  Are they joking? I sure hope they’re joking.

  The loud popping of knuckles causes me to glance at Rob beside me. His fists are straining white at his sides. How to describe his face? I’ve never been a matador, but I can easily imagine the
look in the black eyes of a bull before it charges and gores you with its horns because that is the exact look on Rob’s face right now, except his eyes are twice as dark as those bull’s.

  The blonde teases, “Aren’t you gonna say something, Rob?” There’s a familiarity in the way she says it. Something almost too familiar.

  I can’t pin it down, but it’s there. Are they a thing? No, that’s ridiculous. She’d never be into someone like him, or him her. She’s saving herself for an eighty year old billionaire. Rob doesn’t look like he’s saving himself for anyone or anything.

  The brunette snarks, “This scratched up alley cat has his tongue.” Her hateful gaze says I’m the alley cat with the face scratches and the tongue is… Rob’s, and its location is—

  “Right where she wants it,” the redhead adds, looking me over like I’m slutty scum.

  The blonde is taking in my outfit with a sneer. “Isn’t this one a little too dykey for your tastes, Rob? I know you like them young, but… this dykey?”

  I glance down at my band shirt, ripped jeans, and studded leather jacket. What’s wrong with being a lesbian? Or looking like one? Nothing.

  I glare at the girls.

  Beside me, Rob is cracking his knuckles and looks ready to bull-charge and start goring these whores with his horns.

  No need.

  I’ll handle it.

  I set down my backpack and march up to the blonde because she’s obviously the leader, and slap her across the face as hard as I—

  Except Rob stops me before I connect, hooking his arm around mine from behind. My fingernails are short, but come within an inch of clawing the blonde’s nose off. The wind from my hand makes her blink her eyelash extensions and smoky eyes.

  “Did she just…?” the brunette asks.

  “I think she did,” the redhead gasps.

  I’m already kicking out at the blonde with my Docs, but Rob is pulling me back too quick for my boots to kick her professionally whitened teeth in.

  “Leash your dyke dog, Rob,” Blondie says, her perfect lips curling in disgust. Otherwise, she appears unfrazzled.

  Brunette says, “Do it quick. I think she has rabies.”

  “And syphilis,” Redhead adds.

  “She’s not mine,” Rob growls and I’m crushed.

  Not that I want to be his, but who doesn’t want to be wanted?

  “Someone oughta neuter her,” Redhead says.

  “It’s spay!” I snarl. “Spaying is for girls! Neutering is for boys!”

  “Like I said, dyke,” Redhead smirks.

  I admit, my mohawk isn’t exactly feminine. But it is pink. “What’re you doing!” I snarl at Rob. “I can take all three of these bitches! Let me go and I’ll show them!”

  “SHUT UP!” he roars, pulling me far enough away that the Silicones are safely out of reach.

  “No!” I shout. “Why are you protecting them?!” I am so mad at him right now. “They deserve it!” I’m not usually this un-ladylike, but Rob and I were having a moment that was a little bit mystical, and they barged in and ruined it in the meanest way possible. I didn’t make it this far in life giving in to entitled plastic Barbies like these three.

  Rob hisses in my ear, “Do you want to get kicked out of here?”

  “I want to kick their teeth in!” Since I’m too far away to do that, I spit. I don’t have much spitting practice, because I’m not entirely un-ladylike, so my spit falls short, landing on the pavement a foot away from Blitchy the blonde bitch.

  Blitchy’s eyes slit and she scowls, “Do that again, and I will have you removed. Permanently.”

  “You and what army!” I yell. “I’m not afraid of you and your platinum blowout! Those are extensions, aren’t they! As fake as your boobs! I can tell!”

  “Muzzle her,” Blitchy threatens Rob. “Or I will have her sent back to whatever garbage dump you took her from.”

  Rob’s eyes lower like he’s afraid to meet her gaze. “She doesn’t mean it,” he says, meaning me, that I am the she who doesn’t mean it.

  But I do! I really do! I’m practically gnashing my teeth when I say to him, “Don’t apologize for me! She’s asking for it!”

  “Shut up!” he hisses in my ear. “Do you wanna go back and stand trial? Is that what you want?”

  “Oooooh, I get it,” Blitchy sneers. “She’s in the work-study program, isn’t she? Yet another one of your disposable Connie Convicts.”

  “Screw you!” I growl at her, noticing Blitchy has a delicate silver nose ring circling one nostril, and a silver tongue stud, both of which I would absolutely love to rip out. In a very ladylike way, of course. After, I’d hand them to her nicely and even curtsy for the honor.

  “Let’s go, girls,” Blitchy says to the other two and they pile into a nearby Bentley. The car’s engine purrs to life and it backs out of the space, pulls alongside us, and stops. The power window lowers silently. In a calm but commanding tone, Blitchy says, “I’m not kidding, Rob. Muzzle this bitch or she’s done here.”

  I say, “You’re the bitch, you Barbie-faced bitch! I dare you to step out of your limousine and fight me! No? Too scared? That’s what I thought, you prissy little bitch!”

  Blitchy stares at me, her face relaxed like she’s on the verge of falling asleep, like she hardly notices my existence. It’s probably from too much Botox. She yawns, “Are you done?”

  I roll my eyes.

  She frowns, “Don’t you roll your eyes at me, gutter slut. I own this place and I own you, and don’t you forget it.”

  “You don’t own me!”

  “Don’t I? Lesson one, gutter slut. No back-talk to your betters.”

  “Screw you,” I growl.

  Blitchy twists in her seat, grabs what at first appears to be a Starbucks cup, but the logo actually reads Castle Hill Cafe, and peels off the lid. Before I can react, she splashes the cold coffee at me, hitting my face and drenching my band shirt and studded leather jacket.

  “Bitch!” I shriek, and launch myself at her, but Rob holds me tight from behind. “Stop protecting her!” I rage at him and kick for her car, trying to scuff the paint with my Docs. If only they were steel-toed. Either way, I can’t quite reach the car, but I flail anyway.

  “STOP FIGHTING!” Rob roars.

  “I told you! It has rabies!” Brunette squeals gleefully.

  “It does!” Redhead laughs.

  At that point I realize I have a hint of whipped cream from Blitchy’s cup stuck to my face. I can see the white fluff from the corners of my eyes.

  Inside the Bentley, Blitchy and the Silicones laugh their asses off.

  Again, I try to tear away from Rob and attack them, but he won’t let go. Eventually, I give up.

  “Pick that up,” Blitchy says, glancing at the coffee cup on the pavement.

  “Screw you!” I snarl.

  “I wasn’t talking to you, gutter slut. Speak only when spoken to. Rob, pick up the cup.”

  “Don’t do it!” I plead. “She threw it!”

  Rob growls behind me, clamps one hand around my bicep like a vise, and leans down to grab the cup.

  “No!” I moan, coffee dripping off me. “Why’d you do that?”

  Rob doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even look mad. He looks… vacant.

  Honestly, I’m embarrassed. I mutter, “How can you let them treat you like that?”

  A wicked smile spreads across Blitchy’s plump lips and she says, “Because he knows his place. You’ll learn yours soon enough, gutter slut.”

  I’m humiliated.

  <(—)>

  The Silicones laugh and I watch the car drive slowly out of the parking garage, glaring daggers at the Bentley’s tires in hopes that they’ll pop, which they don’t. Mr. Ralston already said they don’t teach wizardry here, but this girl never stops dreaming.

  Rob is fuming beside me, his body a coiled spring.

  I say, “You want to hit something, don’t you?”

  “What?!” he barks at me.

/>   “Punch one of these cars. It’ll make you feel better.”

  He looks at me like I’m stupid.

  I smirk, “Don’t believe me? Here. Watch.” I dig into my backpack until I find the key to Dwight’s Kawasaki, which the deputies let me keep for some reason. I hold it up so it catches the light. “Is one of these other cars those other girl’s? The brunette’s or the redhead’s maybe?”

  Rob glares.

  I stroll over to a nearby Range Rover. “How about this one?” I’m about to drag the key along the front fender when Rob leaps forward and stops me, grabbing my wrist again. This time, it’s gentle but firm and sends a spiral of desire sizzling through my body and I don’t want him to ever let go.

  “Put that away!” he whispers. “They have cameras everywhere!”

  I wait for him to make me, to wrestle the key away or something equally foreplayish.

  Instead, he lets go of my wrist, but he’s mad. “How many times do I have to tell you, Mouth? Stop fucking around! If you do one wrong thing, you’ll get kicked back to jail. You’re already on Elizabeth’s shit list. If you piss her off again, you’re gone. She wasn’t kidding. You’re lucky you caught her on a good day.” Now he’s lecturing me and I can’t stand it.

  I snort, “That was her on a good day?”

  “Are you hearing me, Mouth? This is serious.”

  “Fine! Whatever!” I stuff the key in my backpack, secretly gleeful he’s again calling me Mouth. “I don’t care what she thinks.”

  “You better start caring.”

  “Screw her. Eliza-bitch can suck my lady dick.”

  Rob’s brows are knit into an angry frown, but one of the seams pops and he tries not to smile. “What did you just call her?”

  I giggle, “You heard me.”

  “Eliza-bitch?” He’s grinning like he’s never heard anyone say it.

  “Has no one seriously thought of that until now?”

  “They think it, but nobody has the balls to say it that I’ve heard. If word got back to… Elizabeth—” he says it like he wants to say Eliza-bitch, but he’s afraid to, “—she would go ballistic. Heads would roll.”