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

by Hartford, Devon

  None do.

  If I remember right, Prince said earlier that Elizabeth told him about my arrival, probably through text, and he didn’t acknowledge Azzie or even wink at her a moment ago. The growing body of evidence is suggesting Azzie and Eliza-bitch really are two different people.

  Or this is some elaborate gaslight aimed at me and everyone here is in on it? No, that sounds crazy on the face of it. Who does that? It’s not like I’m some rich heiress and they’re trying to swindle me out of my $2,320 fortune. That’s crazy. I’m just being paranoid.

  “Shouldn’t the class bell have rung by now?” I ask.

  Azzie says, “We have afternoon break for twenty minutes between sixth and seventh periods. We also get one between periods two and three.”

  “What about lunch?”

  “It’s forty-five minutes between four and five.”

  “Oh. Good to know. Hey, what’s that white tower over there? I keep noticing it wherever we go.” It’s so tall, you can see it anywhere you stand on campus.

  “That’s the Ivory Tower.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Castle Hill has four secret societies that run the school. Each has their own building. The Golden Circle, The Hidden Eye, The Locked Door, and The Ivory Tower.”

  “That sounds like Harry Potter,” I snort. “When do we try on the Sorting Hat?”

  “Never. We’re not allowed to join any of the secret societies.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because we’re work-study. Only Fundies can join.”

  “Fundies? What’s that again?”

  “Trust fund kids who pay tuition. A Fundy. Or multiple Fundies.”

  “Aren’t you one of those?” I smirk.

  “No,” she says, feigning embarrassment. “I’m work-study like you.”

  I still don’t quite believe Azzie when she says she’s not Elizabeth, but for the sake of simplicity, I’ll pretend she isn’t, that she is Elizabeth’s twin sister. Unless she’s an evil clone cyborg sent to sabotage me or whatever. No, that’s ridic. “You were saying only Fundies can join the secret clubs?”

  “Secret societies. Yeah. Just them.”

  “But not us?”

  “Uh uh,” she shakes her head.

  “That’s wrong.”

  She shrugs.

  “We should make our own secret work-study society,” I muse.

  “That’s against the rules,” she warns, eyes flicking from side to side like we’re being watched.

  “What, no organizing?”

  “I’m sorry?” she giggles.

  “You know, no organized labor unions. No working class uprisings or strikes against management for better pay or whatever?” I snicker.

  “Oh,” she giggles. “I guess not, no.”

  “That sucks. I’m not surprised after the way Ms. Skelter treated me. I am surprised I didn’t get whipped,” I laugh.

  “Don’t say that!” Azzie whispers.

  “Why? Do people actually get whipped around here?” I swallow the rock suddenly floating in my throat, because now I’m wondering. “Does this place have corporal punishment?”

  She hesitates. “I’m not… sure.”

  That’s a weird answer. When she doesn’t say more, I shrug, “I’ll try not to get whipped. So, if we can’t join these secret societies, does that mean any rich kid can?”

  “No. They have to get tapped.”

  “Tapped?”

  “Chosen. They do it the first week of school in the quadrangle inside the Palace every year.”

  “The Palace?”

  “Where the Fundies live. The quad is in the center. Tapping is when everyone gathers in the morning on a certain day each fall and they mill about, waiting to get tapped. If someone comes up to you and taps your shoulder, you go with them to join their group.” She says it with reverence and awe, as if she wishes she could join one of the clubs herself.

  “And you care because…?”

  “They pretty much run the school.”

  “Isn’t that the job of the administrators?”

  “Sure, they do the day-in day-out stuff of teaching the kids and keeping the lights on, stuff like that, but the secret societies make a lot of major decisions, like when to build new buildings, what to name them, what teachers work here, what electives are taught, changes to student conduct codes to keep them up with the times.”

  “The students decide that?”

  She shakes her head, “Not just any student. The Fundies in the secret societies. They also vote on who can go here and who can’t, that kind of thing.”

  “Isn’t that something parents usually do?”

  “Alumni parents, yes.”

  “Who’re they?”

  “The parents who went here when they were young and joined one of the four secret societies as kids. Once a member, always a member. They make academy decisions too. Them and their kids. The secret societies pretty much control everything.”

  “And they vote who goes here?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Wait, did we get voted in? Us work-study kids?”

  “No. They don’t care about us. They vote on which tuition kids can go here.” She bites her lower lip and her eyes water ever so slightly. Either she’s a really good actor, or she’s hiding something, I mean, other than that she’s actually Elizabeth.

  “Who votes us in?”

  “Ms. Skelter chooses the work-study kids based on suggestions from juvenile courts across the country.”

  “You went to juvi?”

  Azzie lowers her head in shame. In a tiny whisper that a mouse would struggle to hear, she says, “Can we not talk about it? Please?”

  “Sure.” After the way she let the rich boys grab at her, I feel bad for her. She doesn’t need me making her life more difficult.

  Chapter 13

  “Here we are,” Azzie says. “The Lancaster Auditorium.”

  I say, “Wait, Lancaster? As in Prince Lancaster?”

  She nods, “The same. His family donated the funds a few years ago. They built it before I got here.”

  “It sure is nice.” I admire the architecture, which is totally in keeping with the overall San Simeon theme, with modern hints but lots of rich historical flavor. “Should we go inside?”

  “Not until the Fundies do.” Azzie glances at the steps. There are two flights of stairs leading up to a terrace and the entrance doors beyond. Kids congregate on either flight in two distinct groups: one gathers on the various steps and the terrace on top, the other remains on the ground at the bottom. Guess which kids are on the steps and terrace? Not the ones in the gray work-study uniforms. Those kids are on the ground. The prettiest kids wearing burgundy and navy are spread out on the steps from bottom to top, with less and less the higher they go. “The higher up on the steps you are, the richer and more powerful and more popular you and your family are.”

  I’ve been a loner since I lost my parents. I have no interest in climbing the pyramid of popularity. But I’ll be damned if I let some ridiculous social hierarchy stop me from climbing a stupid staircase.

  I start toward it.

  Azzie grabs my arm, “Don’t. You have to wait for the Fundies to go first. You’re not allowed on the steps until they leave.”

  “Says who? Ms. Skelter?” I sneer. “Is it in the student code?”

  “Yes.”

  “No it’s not,” I laugh.

  “It is,” she says with total sincerity.

  What do I know? I haven’t read the student handbook, which is weighing down my book bag like an old and unnecessary telephone book. I smirk at Azzie, “Aren’t you one of the Fundies?”

  “I was…” Her blue eyes go gray with pain. “It’s complicated.”

  “I’m sure it is,” I say with more sarcasm than I intend. I don’t mean to be rude, and her feelings seem to be genuine, but I can’t escape the feeling she’s a total liar.

  “We should just wait until the bell.”

  “
Screw that.” I walk past several work-study kids. When I step foot on the stairs, they gasp. The boy Fundies on the stairs goggle and the girl Fundies glare, snort, and snark as I march my way past them to the top.

  “Nice hair,” one titters.

  “Thank youuuuu,” I gush sarcastically and keep going. I have to hop a few tripping feet, which is harder in low heels than my Doc boots, but I make it to the last step and the landing without falling. Call it a symbolic journey.

  Grating giggles catch my attention.

  Vicious Victoria and Jack-ess Jacqueline, the female jackass. The brunette and the redhead from the parking garage. Eliza-bitch’s friends. Or Azzie’s. Anyway, the two of them are leaning against the railing between the two flights of stairs and hanging off some guy. I can’t see his face because Victoria appears to be kissing him and her hair extensions are in the way, but I can see the guy is wearing the standard men’s dark gray work-study uniform. It has a white Castle Hill crest over the breast pocket, and black piping along the edges. I almost want to say his uniform looks like an anime prep school uniform, but it’s too nice for that.

  Curious, I step past a few hateful gazes to get a better look at the boy. He breaks the kiss with Victoria and looks right at me. When I see his scarlet red hair draped over his dark chocolate eyes, I literally can’t believe mine. I blurt, “Red?”

  “War Paint,” he grins. “What’re you doing here?”

  I reach up absently to the scratches on my face but make sure not to touch them. Him calling me that is proof Rob is Alpha. I don’t care what Rob says. I wonder if Wicked Eyes and Giant are here too? That would be fantastic. Even if they’re not, Red being here means I have at least one friend, two if you count Rob.

  I can’t help but notice Victoria’s glittery lipstick is smeared all over Red’s face. Er, wait. Based on the color, and the smudges on Jacqueline’s mouth, it might be hers too. “Were you just—?” I stop myself from asking Red if he was kissing both of them.

  The sultry smirk on Red’s full mouth and smoking hot chocolate eyes both say yes.

  I feel a stab of jealousy. What is he doing kissing them? If he should be kissing anyone, it should be me.

  “The trash is back,” Jacqueline sneers, glowering at me.

  “Shouldn’t you be cleaning something, ant?” Victoria asks, eyeing my gray uniform.

  I smirk, “I have drama class.”

  “You have no class,” Jacqueline laughs.

  “Li-trally,” Vicious giggles.

  “No,” I snort, “I literally do have class. This one right here. Drama class.”

  “What happened to your hair?” Red asks.

  “Ms. Skelter,” I say sourly and feel the hot flush of embarrassment.

  Vicious titters, “Did she put your head in a blender?”

  “No,” I scowl. “I cut it myself. I can do your hair if you want.”

  “Hmph. I wouldn’t let you touch my hair with someone else’s hands, gutter slut,” Vicious sneers and spits out a wad of bright pink gum at me. “Pick that up, ant.”

  “Screw you,” I drawl. “There’s a trash can right there,” I point.

  “You were closer,” Vicious giggles, arching a superior eyebrow.

  Red sighs, “Was that really necessary, Vick?”

  “What?” she sneers. “I was done with it. Pick it up, gutter slut.”

  “Do your job, trash,” Jackess Jacqueline adds.

  I glance at Red, expecting him to come to my rescue because that’s his thing.

  He shrugs and smirks a cocky grin at me, “It’s not going to pick itself up, War Paint.”

  My body lights up with surprise and a hint of rage. Did he actually say that? I thought he was on my side.

  “That’s a good boy,” Vicious purrs sensually and goes back to kissing Red.

  He happily obliges.

  Jackess says, “If you don’t pick it up, trash, I’m calling Ms. Skelter.”

  “Go ahead,” I bark. “She’s the one who spit out the gum. I’m sure Ms. Skelter will be happy to hear about that.” I fold my arms across my gray uniform jacket, which is either too hot for summer, or I’m burning with righteous anger because of these two Silicone nitwits and the way Red chose now to totally throw me under the bus.

  “Oh, you think?” Jackess challenges. “You think Ms. Skelter’ll listen to you, ant?”

  “Gutter slut,” Vicious mutters, still kissing Red, who seems to have forgotten my existence as his tongue twines with hers.

  I can’t decide which is making me angrier: them kissing or how the Silicones are treating me.

  “Yeah, gutter slut,” Jackess says. “Do you think Ms. Skelter likes it when the help disobeys? How about I call her and we find out together?”

  I’m about to say go for it and laugh in her face. Instead I have flashbacks of arguing with Ms. Skelter. She was this close to sending me back to jail, and she meant it.

  “Pick it up, gutter slut,” Jackess chides. “Go ahead. You can do it. Bend over and take it. I know you’re good at that.” She and Vicious both laugh.

  Red keeps on kissing, grabbing Victoria’s unbuttoned blouse like he’s ready to rip it open in front of everyone and kiss the rest of her. I bet she’d like that.

  I know I wouldn’t. No, scratch that. He can have her. Red is no better than them. A rope of disgust ties my guts in knots. I tell myself the way he treated me the other night was a fluke. A one time thing. I get it. He doesn’t need me, obviously, and I definitely don’t need him. Even as I think it, I know I only half mean it. Who wouldn’t want a man like Red? I hate myself for thinking it, but it’s true. He’s gorgeous, he literally saved my life, and he can be generous to a fault, tossing me $2,320 like it was nothing to him. He didn’t have to, but he did. Was he being kind? Or just teasing? Why do I even care? He’s kissing Vicious like he likes her.

  “My turn,” Jacqueline whines, pulling on Red’s arm.

  He finally breaks the kiss with Vicious. Then he attacks Jacqueline with abandon.

  Victoria watches, giggling and blushing bright red, biting her lower lip like she’s hungry for more. It doesn’t take long for her impatience to get the best of her and she tugs on Red’s arm.

  He turns to her with sleepy sex eyes and chuckles low in his throat, leaning in.

  “WHAT THE FUCK YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING TO MY GIRL, SKILL?!” A baritone voice barks from behind me.

  I’m so startled I practically jump out of my sensible low-heeled shoes in surprise.

  Chapter 14

  As I’m spinning around, I hear the rustling of clothes as two broad-shouldered tall boys in academy uniforms rush past me, both of them burgundy blurs. Victoria and Jacqueline scatter, leaving Red on his own with his back to the railing. Behind him, it’s like a two story drop to the paved bricks below. The two bigger boys hover over him like they’re dying to throw Red over. If I was them, I’d be worried. I saw what Red did to those two cannibals the other night.

  One of the Burgundy Boys cocks his arm back and clocks Red across the jaw with a meaty thwack.

  Red’s head snaps back violently.

  “Stop it!” Victoria screams. “You’ll hurt him!”

  “That’s the fucking point,” the Burgundy Puncher growls and punches Red in the gut.

  Red collapses around Puncher’s fist with a loud oof. I wince in shock. Why isn’t he fighting back?! He knows how!

  “Leave him alone, Duke!” Victoria pleads, pulling on his burgundy jacket. “You’ll get kicked out!”

  “For hitting this peon?!” laughs the Burgundy Puncher, who I guess is named Duke? “I can hit him all I want!”

  Is that true?

  He punches at Red again.

  Red dodges and rolls sideways over the wide Greek-style railing. Jacqueline and Victoria both gasp. Everyone leans over to look. My heart is in my throat as I watch Red drop a few feet. He slaps his hands on the edge of the terrace level like he’s doing a pull-up, slides his shoes down the face of the wall until
he’s hanging halfway down to the ground, then drops, his leather shoes slapping the bricks. When he lands, he looks up, smirks and salutes, then trots off, disappearing around the corner of a distant building.

  “If I ever see that prick again,” Duke growls, leaning against the railing, “I’m going to kill his ass.” He whirls on Victoria and glares, “Was he kissing you?”

  “No!” she lies. I’m assuming she and Duke are a thing. Unless he’s her over-protective brother? No, they look nothing alike.

  “She wasn’t,” Jacqueline insists. “I was.”

  Duke glares at them both, not sure who to believe.

  I notice other kids smirking behind the backs of Vicious, Jackess, Duke, and the other Burgundy Boy. The kids know the truth. So do I. I consider throwing Vicious Victoria under her boyfriend’s bus. It’s the least she deserves for spitting her gum at me.

  No, I can’t do that. Their drama is not my problem. I turn to go. Someone grabs my arm and turns me around.

  The one named Duke.

  I finally get a good look at him. He’s so tall, I have to crane my neck to see his face. The first thing I notice are his eyes. Dark and burning black. Not in a bad way. They have an endless depth you could lose yourself in, and I swear, they’re not hiding rage. They’re hiding pain. His features are sculpted but rough. I can’t explain it. His face is a precise balance of hard strength and vulnerable compassion, like it hurts him that he cares so much. His spiked hair is dark too, definitely black and a dangerous counterpoint to the emotion in his eyes.

  Quiet, almost embarrassed, he says to me, “Was Vicky kissing Skill?”

  “Who?”

  “The peon with the red hair. The jumper. Was he kissing Vicky?”

  I guess Red is Skill? “Oh, uh…” I glance at Vicious Vicky. She’s glaring warning daggers at me from behind Duke. I did say I don’t want to get sucked into their drama. But Duke is… he’s freaking beautiful. Who cares what Vicious thinks? I blurt, “Yes. She was all over him before you got here.”