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

by Hartford, Devon

  The bull is back in Rob’s eyes and I’m caught in a standoff. My chest seizes as I wait for him to charge Prince. I’m torn between wanting to cheer Rob on and protect Prince from certain death at Rob’s manly hands.

  “You’re dismissed, Fletcher,” Prince says with authority.

  Rob doesn’t budge. He’s furious, jaw muscles ticking, knuckles popping again, his granite fists clenched at his sides.

  Prince says, “Be a good little janitor and go find a mop or a broom and do what’s expected of you while I escort Mary here to— Where is she going again, Mr. Ralston?”

  “To see the headmistress,” Mr. Ralston says, now standing beside us.

  “Of course. She needs a bit of discipline, doesn’t she?” Prince’s terrifying eyes roam over me and pull at my clothes.

  It’s an awful invasion that part of me… welcomes.

  “I’ll take her,” Rob seethes in a voice that is almost deadly silent.

  I nearly gasp, imagining angry Prison Rob taking me… wherever and however he wants. And then I realize Mr. Robbers means take me away from Prince, not take me.

  “You still here?” Prince quips, staring down his nose at Rob through carefree and drowsy half-lidded eyes. Suddenly, Prince scowls. “What’s that foul smell? Is that you, Fletcher? Or the toilets you should be cleaning?”

  Rob is shaking so hard he’s about to snap. His face is bright red and his neck tattoos are writhing tentacles as his big muscles clench. He hisses, “If you—”

  “If I what, Fletcher?” Prince challenges. “If I have you thrown out of Castle Hill Academy? Have you sent back to prison? How many years did they give you for what you did?”

  The war on Rob’s face turns into a massacre. Not Prince’s. His. There’s nothing Rob can do and it’s obvious he’s dying inside where he stands.

  Meanwhile, I’m a mess of mixed emotions. I’m also stunned that Mr. Ralston isn’t doing anything. Is he as afraid of Prince as Rob is? Sure seems like it.

  “Run along and plunge a few filthy toilets, Fletcher,” Prince says. He reaches out and tenderly grabs my wrist, pulling me away from Rob and toward him. For reasons I can’t explain, I go willingly. “Get your hands dirty and do your dooooty.” Prince chuckles at his own wit.

  Mr. Ralston finally speaks, no, cowers, “I suggest you do as he says, Mr. Fletcher. Mr. Lancaster and I can manage Miss Angerman without your assistance, I think.”

  Rob’s eyes dart to Mr. Ralston and he growls, “Make sure she gets where she needs to go.”

  “But of course,” Mr. Ralston smiles.

  “You may go, Fletcher.” Prince taunts.

  Rob gives me a last desperate look before spinning on the heel of his work boot and charging off. If there were any fearless matadors waiting with red capes, they’re long gone when I look. No doubt too scared to face off with Rob. Shortly after he turns a corner, there’s a slam followed by a boom, and I picture Rob punching his fist through a steel door or knocking down an entire wall with one punch, but that’s just my imagination.

  Prince sniffs the air and smiles, “Much better. Mr. Ralston, you might want to go check on Rob. Make sure he’s not destroying anything irreplaceable. We wouldn’t want Elizabeth mentioning it to her parents, would we?”

  “Certainly not.” Mr. Ralston nods dutifully, “I’ll go make sure nothing is amiss. You will escort Miss Angerman to see Ms. Skelter, won’t you?”

  “With pleasure, Mr. Ralston.” Prince’s sensual smile is undeniable.

  Chapter 9

  I am so stupid.

  Now I’m all alone with Prince and we’re walking down an isolated walkway with a roof on top, a wall of bushes on one side, and columns on the other. Past the columns is a long hillside that drops quickly down into a river valley. The only sound is the warm summer breeze blowing in and the chirping of birds as they flutter and flap from one bush to the next.

  If I knew Prince better, and knew he wasn’t a complete prick, this moment might be romantic. Instead, it’s totally scary. Then again, I wouldn’t be here if Prince wasn’t so scary hot. If it wasn’t for that, I would’ve run already or insisted Mr. Ralston take me with him. Anything sensible except this.

  But no. Prince’s presence scrambles my lady brains. Okay, that isn’t quite true. The way he asserted his power back there, I’m afraid of him. For my sake and Rob’s. After you spend the night in an adult jail, and narrowly avoid getting charged with a felony, you quickly realize the people in power can do just about anything they want to you, and it’s best to do what they tell you.

  I have a pretty good idea what Prince wants from me, and it isn’t sending me to jail. When you’re faced with a choice between that or living with the likes of Queen LaQueefa, the choice isn’t too difficult. It’s shameful, but it isn’t difficult.

  I mean, look at Prince now. See the breeze blowing through his blond locks, making them dance across his face in mesmerizing swirls. Not even anime hair is this picture perfect. I’m dying to run my fingers through his.

  Even so, I just can’t do this.

  Prince ordered me to kiss his shoe. He made Rob kiss it.

  That is a hundred different flavors of effed the eff up.

  My impulse now is to scream for Rob, but I don’t need Rob. I can run. If Mr. Ralston hadn’t taken Grayson’s knife, I wouldn’t even bother to run. I’d wait for Prince to try anything unwelcome, and if he did, I’d cut his dick off.

  “What do you think of the view?” Prince asks nonchalantly, stopping to look at the birds and bushes.

  “Erm, what?”

  “The view. The birds are always more active this time of day when the winds start to blow. The hillside creates an updraft. They love to play in it.”

  I snort a confused laugh, “Are you serious?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” He offers a million dollar smirk.

  “It’s just, I’m, are you, why’d you take me here?”

  “To see the birds.”

  I can’t make sense of this young man. My head and heart are spinning like runaway yo-yos. I blurt, “That’s bull crap! That’s not why you took me here.”

  His eyes, which I had mistaken for a deceptively cool blue until this exact moment, suddenly harden and darken into what is most definitely a cold cobalt. His smirk flattens into a tight white line and he glares at me.

  Looking at it actually hurts.

  He chuckles, “You’re right. I took you here to have my way with you.”

  I’m shocked. I can’t believe he actually says it!

  I tense, ready to run.

  Before I do, he slides his hands into the pockets of his tailored slacks and that smirk is back. “Well?” He just stands there waiting.

  “Well what?” My anger explodes. “What is wrong with you?! Why would you say something like that?!”

  “Why not?”

  “Do you hear yourself? I’m not your toy! I’m a person! Why do you treat people like this?! Me, Rob, Mr. Ralston! You’re an asshole, Prince! A complete jerk!”

  His lips loosen into a full smile and he snorts a laugh, “Did you think I was serious, strumpet? Do you think I would risk my future on you? For what, a quick tryst here in the portico? You are sorely mistaken, and you’re not half as bright as I hoped. Let’s go. Ms. Skelter is waiting.” He turns his back on me and walks away. His ass is perfection in those tailored slacks. He stops after a few paces and glances over his shoulder, his blond locks hiding a genuine smile. “I suggest you come quickly.” This time there isn’t a hint of innuendo. “Ms. Skelter doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

  “Who’s Ms. Skelter again?”

  “The headmistress.” He resumes his walk, which seems… strained? It’s the only word I can think of.

  Did I… did I hurt his feelings?

  Is that what just happened?

  Did he actually bring me out here to show me a bunch of stupid birds? If he did, that’s… actually romantic. But he couldn’t have. He was going to… No, he didn’t even
try anything.

  “Move it, strumpet,” Prince hollers without looking back. “I may not have you sent to jail, but if you keep her waiting, Ms. Skelter certainly will. She’s a bit of a bitch.” This time he stops and turns. His nose crinkles in a genuinely charming smile that I can’t resist.

  Screw that. I can resist it.

  Why? Because this Prince is psycho.

  Psycho hot, but still psycho.

  What did I get myself into coming here?

  <(—)>

  Have you ever watched one of those really old black and white movies, the romantic gauzy ones with the elaborate sets, the impossibly long night gowns, the dashing men wearing tuxedos to breakfast, and thought you would do anything to step inside that world and live there for a minute?

  I just did.

  Prince takes me into one of the Spanish mission-style buildings where everything is overly ornamented in gold, stone, and dark hardwood. The impossibly high vaulted ceiling is like the Sistine Chapel, except instead of being covered in oil paintings or frescoes or whatever it has, it’s coffered and carved wood, hundreds of bas relief royals, one king after another, each one in repose on an elegant throne. And that’s just the ceiling. Instead of a chapel, it’s a dining hall, and there are in fact waiters in tuxedos setting places at an impossibly long dining table.

  “Who eats here?” I ask.

  “Your betters,” Prince says flatly.

  Before I can ask what that means specifically, Prince takes me deeper into the building and we cut through a huge kitchen. I’m expecting fast food uniforms or something, but everyone is wearing fancy kitchen whites that are impeccably clean, and the chefs wear those tall hats like it’s a gourmet kitchen.

  The men ignore us but the women’s admiring eyes are all over Prince.

  He winks at every one and they blush or giggle like you would expect.

  Then we’re out and crossing a courtyard, and into another building through brass and glass doors. The decor here is different. More modern, but equally embellished, this time in straight lines, like I’ve stepped into an Ayn Rand novel set in the early 20th century.

  There, Prince tells me to take a seat in a square chair of hardwood and leather.

  Across from me, several women sit behind fantastic wooden desks typing. On actual typewriters.

  I kid you not.

  Ticka-ding! Ticka-ticka-ding!

  Prince chats with the women young and old alike, some of them grandma old, obviously flirting shamelessly with all. He may be a classist ass, but at least he isn’t ageist. Eventually, he walks back to me.

  “I told them you’re here,” he says.

  “Thanks.” I lean toward him and mutter, “Why don’t they have computers?”

  “Ms. Skelter is old-fashioned. It’s not just the typewriters. We have to write our term papers by hand. They don’t just grade you on your content, they grade you on your handwriting. If they don’t like it, they make you take a penmanship class.”

  “No way. Do you have to write in cursive?”

  “If you don’t, they make you write with a calligraphy pen and make you grid out the letters so they’re spaced perfectly.” He curls a grin.

  “Really?”

  “No,” he chuckles. “Just cursive. In fountain pen.” In an official sounding voice, he says, “Black ink only. No ball point, gel, pencil, or otherwise. I’m quoting the student handbook on that.”

  “What about printing? My printing is really neat.”

  “Nope.” He shakes his head, “Cursive only. Like I said, Ms. Skelter is old-fashioned. She blames computers for the decline of civil society.”

  I like the woman already. I also realize I like this version of Prince just fine. If he had acted like this from first impressions, we could be friends. His loss.

  “Good luck, strumpet,” he says abruptly. “You’ll need it.”

  Before I can ask why, he’s gone.

  I sit back in the square leather chair and wait.

  “There you are, Miss Angerman,” Mr. Ralston says as he walks in. “Shall I assume Prince was a perfect gentleman?”

  I blurt a laugh because I have no idea how to answer. “I guess.”

  “Excellent. I have a few things to attend in my office. When Ms. Skelter is ready, I will join you in her office.”

  “Okay, great.”

  While I wait, my mind drifts back to Prince. To Rob kissing his shoe. When Rob knelt down, I could see his big back muscles straining his coveralls. They swelled against the rugged material like they might split it apart. Underneath his clothes, Rob is a beast, but he hides it. I’m pretty sure, if it was him and Prince in a fight, Prince would lose, hands down. Erm, unless Prince knows ninja moves like Red when he fought those two cannibals at the GTO. Because even in a tight tailored suit, Prince obviously has a killer swimmer’s body. I have no doubt he’s cut and chiseled underneath those clothes, but I still think Rob would easily beat Prince in a fair fight. Especially if Rob is really Alpha. I remember his glistening hands black with blood.

  If Rob is him, why didn’t he stand up to Prince?

  And why am I embarrassed for Rob, whether or not he’s Alpha? He didn’t even say anything about not kissing Prince’s shoe. He just let him humiliate him like it was business as usual. I mean, I know why on a mental level, but it made Rob look pathetic. Like Rob is a big wimp who can’t stand up for himself. I know that’s ridiculous, because look at Rob. He would seriously give the Terminator a run for his money. But… I don’t know. Some part of me, which I know I should be ashamed of, is telling me Prince is the better man.

  Before you call me crazy, seriously, who won that duel?

  Prince did.

  He made Rob kiss his shoe.

  So what if Rob did it willingly?

  It’s… ew.

  I’d never do it.

  I know it’s wrong to think that about Rob, but seriously.

  Ew.

  His shoe?

  I know, I know. I’m terrible. But I can’t deny my feelings, even when I know better. If you’re a girl, you can relate. Sorry, guys. Not sorry.

  “Ms. Skelter will see you now,” says one of the women behind the typewriters.

  Chapter 10

  Mr. Ralston darts out of his office and leads me past the typing pool to a very large office. It’s half art deco library and half art deco museum. Bookcases, abstract paintings, elegant streamlined statues. The hardwood floor is laid out in an intricate geometric pattern that obviously cost a fortune.

  A frail old woman sits behind a dark wood desk with a design that combines curves and lines. She has gray Greta Garbo hair that could be a wig or her real hair, I don’t know which.

  She is writing with a fountain pen in a leather-bound ledger. Probably the “permanent record” where everyone’s demerits go when they misbehave. I couldn’t care less. The only “permanent record” I’m worried about is the one the state keeps for felony convictions, whether or not you do time.

  “Is that her?” I whisper to Mr. Ralston.

  He doesn’t answer.

  The old lady continues writing as if we aren’t there.

  I whisper, “Is she hard of hearing? Does she need one of those old-timey ear horns?”

  Mr. Ralston cringes and shakes his head imperceptibly for my benefit. A warning.

  The semi-skeletal woman caps the fountain pen with a click, sets it down on the green desk blotter, and closes the ledger respectfully. She stands up from her desk and says with authority, “I am your headmistress, young lady, and you will address me as Mizz Skelter.” Her voice is so strong, I expect it to shake her bones apart.

  Mr. Ralston cowers slightly at the power of her voice.

  Not backing down, I smirk at her, “Is that with one Z or two?”

  Her eyes fire. She walks around the desk wearing not the Victorian-era dress I would expect on someone like her, but something a 1920s flapper would wear. Silk, sequins, and tassels. It actually shows a little bit of leg below the
knee. She probably bought the dress in 1920. News flash! Your dress doesn’t make you look twenty! It makes you look ancient!

  That doesn’t stop her from wearing it with confidence. And her shoes? Her heels are so high she’s practically on her toes like a ballerina. Like, she actually was a ballerina at some point. It would explain the stylized ballet statues mixed in with the rest of the art deco statues.

  Me, I hate heels. I can’t imagine walking in her shoes, and I’m not even a living skeleton. I don’t know how she does it.

  She stops inches in front of me and asks, “Pardon me, Mizz Angerman?”

  “Mizz,” I quip. “Do you spell it with one Z or two?”

  She clasps her hands together and her face tightens into an evil smile. “You can audition for the theater on your own time, Mizz Angerman, not mine. Perhaps they’ll give you the part of Puck in next year’s production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

  “I can’t act,” I say seriously.

  “I beg to differ. You have already demonstrated a native talent for playing the fool.”

  This bitch is good, I’ll give her that.

  Headmistress Skelter continues, “Has Mr. Ralston explained your work-study arrangement with the academy?”

  “Not really,” I admit.

  She nods, tosses an eye dagger his way, which causes him to flinch, then says to me, “If he had, he would have informed you that your continued enrollment here is contingent upon three things. One, you must maintain a three point five GPA or higher.”

  “No problem. My GPA is a three-nine,” I say casually because my GPA has never slipped below a 3.8 since sixth grade after I lost my parents. That counts all of middle school and freshman year in high school too, and that was with me bouncing from one public school to the next since I started foster care.

  “Don’t interrupt. Two, you will work twenty hours weekly. Three hours daily, Mondays thru Fridays. An hour before classes each morning and two hours after classes each evening. Five hours each Saturday, from seven each morning until noon. Sundays are yours to use as you see fit. I suggest you devote yours to your studies.”