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

by Hartford, Devon

  Prince leads me out along the empty and narrow Convent corridor toward the exit. It’s late, so all of the work-study girls are in their rooms for the night.

  Someone jumps out of the shadows and bellows.

  “Where do you think you’re going, Missy?!” It’s Ms. Braunschott. She stands there like a military blockade, one fist on her big hips. Her other hand holds a flickering candle in a brass holder. She wears a tent of a white nightgown, but the sleeves are rolled up to her elbows. Did I mention she literally has Popeye forearms? She scowls when she recognizes me. “Where could you possibly be going at this hour in any sort of official academy work-study capacity?”

  “Um, out?” I cringe hopefully. “To clean?”

  “To clean, she says,” Ms. B snorts to herself. “Where out?”

  I look to Prince for that answer.

  He says, “To my party.”

  “Over my dead body,” Ms. B says. “It’s an hour before light’s out. Mary is on thin ice already. She should be in her room, not out with the likes of you.” She looks us both over, her face screwed tight in a twist of disdain. “Back to your room, Mary, and I just might overlook what is surely a very bad decision on your part.”

  Prince says smugly, “I will be taking her with me, Ms. Braunschott, and you will like it.”

  I hold back a laugh.

  Ms. B’s eyes bug. “You do not talk to me like that, young man!”

  “Oh, but I do, Ms. Braunschott,” Prince says tenderly. “I can tell my beastly makeup is confusing you, and the candlelight is not enough for your tired old eyes. I am Prince J. Lancaster the third, and you will do as I say.”

  Ms. B’s face burns bright red and she almost glows brighter than the candle light. “Do I need to wake Ms. Skelter? Would you like that, master Lancaster? Do you think Ms. Skelter would approve of your backtalk and flagrant disregard of academy rules? One word from me and Mary here is out on her ear. How would you like that, master Lancaster?”

  Now I’m worried. Ms. Skelter has the power to kick me back to prison.

  Prince says, “I don’t care what Ms. Skelter thinks, Ms. Braunschott. I am going to take Mary away from here, and you, my dear lady, will say nothing about it. If you do, you will find yourself shipped out on a fishing trawler to Antarctica. I hope you like the cold.”

  Ms. B’s eyes are on the verge of popping out of her skull.

  “Good night, Ms. Braunschott,” Prince says politely and leads me out of the Convent.

  That was F-bombing awesome!

  Chapter 25

  “So, um, where’s the party?” I ask as Prince leads me across the dark campus. At this hour, it’s dead empty.

  “That is a surprise.”

  “Oh, crap! I left my invitation back in my room!”

  “Not to worry. I’ll be your ticket to anywhere you want to go.”

  “Anywhere?”

  “Even Fiji,” he grins. “We can go right now, if you want.”

  “What about your party? And your costume?”

  He shrugs, “If you want to go to Fiji, we’ll go to Fiji.” He sounds serious. “It’s just a party. I throw one every year. Do you know how to surf?”

  “I wish I did,” I sigh. “I’ve never lived close to the beach.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll teach you.”

  I can practically see the ocean waves in his blue eyes, and he’s surfing them with me. Talk about hot.

  “What’ll it be, strumpet? Halloween or surf lessons in Fiji?”

  “Erm,” I laugh. “You’re kidding, right?”

  He smiles widely, “I never kid about surfing. Surfing is sacred.”

  I’m giddy just thinking about it. “Don’t you need a passport to leave the country? I don’t have one.”

  “I’ll make the necessary arrangements.”

  “Won’t that take weeks or whatever?”

  “Not in my world, strumpet. I’ll have the US Embassy in Fiji make the necessary accommodations to get you into the country. They’ll issue you a temporary passport. If we have to, we’ll get an official letter of entry from someone in parliament.” He looks at his wrist watch. “If we leave now and take my plane, we can get there by sunrise.”

  “No way,” I laugh. “How can you, I mean, it’s like, there’s no way, it just can’t, can you actually do that?”

  “I can do anything I want, strumpet.”

  This time, him calling me that doesn’t bother me at all. His smirk doesn’t hurt. It’s truly priceless, a treasured work of art deserving of being immortalized on canvas and hanging next to Mona Lisa’s infamous smile in the Louvre.

  I am flabbergasted. The most exciting date any boy ever offered me before this moment was Grayson saying he could get us two tickets to either Coachella or Lollapalooza one summer, my choice. We would’ve gone, but neither of us were old enough to drive and you can bet our foster parents weren’t going to drive us there and let the two of us run wild at a music festival. What Prince is offering now is way beyond that. It’s something out of a fairytale. “Are you shitting me, Prince?”

  “Not one bit of shit,” he grins.

  “Should we go pack our bags or go in costume?”

  Prince chuckles, “It might be a tad bit more difficult getting you into Fiji looking like a Mad Max villain.”

  “Furiosa was the heroine not the villain.”

  “I don’t care what she was. Which is it, strumpet?”

  “Um,” I laugh. “I’d hate to throw away all this hard work on my costume. Can we go to Fiji next time?”

  “We can. Now let’s get you to my party. Shall we?” He offers his arm.

  “We shall.” I bite my lower lip and hold him by the elbow as we walk along. It takes everything I have not to giggle and lean into him. Prince is dangerously attractive when he’s not being an ass.

  We end up in the parking garage where all the million dollar cars are parked. He leads me to a black car that may as well be the Batmobile, it’s so exotic. It’s parked in a corner where there are only three spaces. It’s in the middle, and the adjacent spaces are empty, blocked off with orange traffic cones.

  “Is this yours?”

  He nods. “Bugatti La Voiture Noire.” He says it with a perfect French accent.

  “A what?”

  “Bugatti’s one-off hypercar, inspired by the legendary Type 57 Atalante.”

  “I can see that,” I lie, having no idea about exotic sports cars, “but what’s it called?”

  “La Voiture Noire.” His French accent is impeccably buttery and a little bit hypnotic, with a devilish edge that’s definitely delish.

  “Translation?”

  “The black car.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it,” he grins.

  “The way you say it sounds like, I don’t know, it should mean ‘the dark angel,’ or ‘the shadow demon.’ Not ‘the black car’,” I snicker.

  He grins, “I didn’t name it. I just bought it.”

  “With what? Your allowance?” I smirk.

  “No, the profits from the company I sold last year.”

  “How much was that?”

  “The profits or the car?”

  “Either.”

  “The price of the car was a mere nineteen million.”

  “A mere,” I mock.

  He nods, “The profits from selling my company were substantially more.”

  “How can someone as young as you have sold a company already?”

  “You know how some families start their kids skiing or riding horses or playing piano at age three?”

  “No,” I snort. “We couldn’t afford those things.”

  He nods. “In my family’s case, we start businesses from a very young age.”

  “What, like a lemonade stand or whatever?”

  “For me it was a lemonade business. My first summer I was managing twenty stands. A hundred stands by the time I was nine.”

  “Is that even true?”

  He shr
ugs.

  I roll my eyes. “You said this car was a one off? There’s only one?”

  “Mine,” he grins that cocky grin and checks his wristwatch, which matches the medallion on the car.

  “Are we late or something?”

  “No, I was just getting your door for you.”

  “With your watch?”

  “Yup.” He taps the watch screen and the passenger opens slowly backward instead of forward. He grins and walks me around and helps me slide in. The interior is a black leather cocoon that swallows me into the seat. “Don’t touch anything.”

  “Shut up,” I frown.

  He winks and presses buttons on his watch, closing my door and opening his. He dashes around and drops in. When his door closes it’s dead silent inside.

  “It’s so quiet in here,” I whisper.

  “That’s so nobody can here you scream.” He flashes a wicked grin.

  “I knew it! You are a serial killer!” I laugh nervously because part of me thinks he is.

  “I didn’t mean that kind of screaming.” His blue eyes burn into mine.

  A wave of heat hits me, washing over me and penetrating me to my core. Ladies, even with his lion makeup, which really is minimal, Prince is so hot I’d let him do anything he wants right now. The surf trip to Fiji and this car don’t hurt his chances either. What am I saying? Get a grip! I’m supposed to be Imperator Furiosa, not Pushover Bendovera!

  I break eye contact and snort, “Are we going? Or are you just going to sit there staring at me with that pervy look all night?”

  “I’m game if you are,” he chuckles.

  “Go already,” I snicker and wave my fingers at the windshield, refusing to look at him lest I end up hypnotized.

  He starts the engine and it rumbles through the car. Not like it’s shaking it. Nothing so crude. More like it vibrates straight through to where you’re sitting on your—

  “Go!” I whine. “I’m getting bored!”

  “Is that what you call it?” He inches the car out of the space and we rumble out to the automatic gate. After it raises, the car slides onto the pavement of the road leading out. He winks at me, “Don’t get the seat wet.”

  “What?”

  He drops the hammer and I explode.

  I mean, the car, it explodes, the engine roars and we shoot forward so fast I’m forced into my seat by the savage hands of acceleration.

  I’ve only been on this road one time with Mr. Ralston, and that was during the day. Now it’s night, it’s dark, and we whip viciously around one corner after the other. I can’t decide if I’m scared out of my panties or… the other thing.

  Prince sure knows how to drive. We may as well be flying. I just hope we don’t end up dying. There’s a few turns where I’m absolutely positively convinced I’ve died and gone to heaven, but that’s just Prince’s driving.

  Minutes later, we’re rolling to a stop in a well-lit parking area for delivery trucks with a bunch of rollup metal garage doors. We’re somewhere on the back side of campus, not far from Plant Services. A couple of huge men are standing there waiting in the shadows.

  “Who’re those guys?” I ask.

  “Security.”

  “For the party?”

  “For my car.”

  “Wait, we’re here?”

  He nods.

  “We haven’t even left campus,” I laugh. “We could have walked here.”

  “You kidding? A lady can’t arrive at a masquerade on foot. She has to take a chariot or carriage at the very least.”

  “This chariot?” I grin.

  “The one and only. Wait in your seat,” he commands.

  The doors open and Prince trots around to help me out.

  I glance back at my seat.

  “Did you get it wet?” he quips.

  “No-a,” I giggle. “I, um, my costume. I forgot. It’s kind of dirty. Sorry. I’ll clean it up.” I turn to start dusting off the leather.

  He grabs me and stops me, spinning me around before I start. Then he snarls. The lion makeup enhances the effect. Seriously, he snarls. Fangs and everything, like he wants to physically eat me.

  “What?” I say timidly wavering on whether or not I’ll let him take a bite because I can’t quite tell where his head is at. “It’s just dirt. I said I’d clean it.”

  The hot hatred in his eyes turns to humor. “When you’re with me, Mary, you never clean anything.”

  “Huh?” I almost think he’s offended to be going out with a maid like me and doesn’t want anybody knowing. I’m about to tell him to F off when his eyes burst into a soothing blue grin.

  “You heard me,” he chuckles. “I didn’t bring you here to work. It’s a party, strumpet. I brought you here to enjoy yourself.”

  “Now that I can do,” I grin.

  He offers his elbow and leads me toward the building.

  “Mary?” says the larger of the two shadowed men. “Is that you?”

  “Jonah?” I smile.

  “Yeah,” he says, stepping into the light.

  The other guy steps forward too. It’s Wicked Eyes. Er, Tucker, if I remember correctly. It’s been weeks since I saw him that night with Dwight’s motorcycle and the cannibals’ GTO. I wouldn’t know he was here at Castle Hill except for Jonah mentioning it. But I haven’t forgotten Tucker’s gorgeous good looks and his wicked sapphire eyes.

  “Nice hair,” he winks at me. His is clipped shorter than mine, same as the night we met.

  “Yours too,” I offer.

  “You look badass,” Tucker grins and steps boldly forward, fingering the chainmail piece between my legs dangling from my waist belt.

  A jolt bolts up my body and puffs of pleasure caress up through my breasts. I titter in surprise, “Stop it!” even though I don’t mean it.

  Something about Tucker is, I don’t know, raw. It’s very appealing. He doesn’t have Rob’s restrained rage, or Skill’s lady’s man charm, or Jonah’s monumental and yet soft confidence, or even Prince’s dazzling it-factor. Tucker is just hard and raw and I really like it. It’s probably enhanced in the moment by his scent of sage and cypress, which I don’t remember from the night we met, but it definitely reminds me now of a walking human forest fire ravaging the woods as a horde of shirtless fireman attack the blaze and fight it back, their oiled abs flexing and—

  You get the idea.

  I’m giggling dumbly as I search Tucker’s fiery eyes.

  “Stop what?” he chuckles, closing the gap until he’s an inch away, practically consuming me with his savage heat.

  Before I can respond, Prince barges between Tucker and I and barks harshly, “Hands the fuck off, ant!” He’s right in Tucker’s face. “I’m paying you to watch my fucking car, not to take a fucking joyride!”

  When did I become the joyride?

  Tucker swells his chest forward into Prince’s and laughs, “I don’t give a fuck what you’re paying me. This girl is nobody’s joyride, princess.” He isn’t calling me princess. He’s calling Prince princess. An obvious insult.

  “What did you call me?!” Prince rages.

  “You heard me, turd,” Tucker chuckles, totally unafraid.

  Me? I’m giddy these two are fighting over me, so giddy I blurt a laugh, “I call him that!”

  Without breaking eye contact with Prince, Tucker says to me, “You call him turd?”

  “Yes!” I laugh because I’m a little bit scared Prince will have Tucker thrown out of the academy for standing up to him, or Tucker might kill Prince with his bare hands. I don’t want either happening. To distract, I add, “Does everyone call him that?”

  Tucker smirks. “The Fundies don’t. They’re all pussies for the prissy Prince. Bending over whenever he tells them. Me and the boys, we never bend over for anybody. Isn’t that right, turd?” Tucker looks ready to bite Prince’s nose off, and he’s close enough to do it.

  Is Tucker including Rob in the list of people who don’t bend over for anybody? Because I clearly remember Rob
bending over for Prince the day I got here.

  Without backing down a single millimeter from Tucker, Prince seethes at him, “Call me that again and I will see to it that you and your inseparable friends are kicked out of Castle Hill so fast and far you never see each other again. How does that sound, ant? Would you and your precious pals like that? I’ll put one of you in Alaska and one in North Dakota so you’ll freeze your dicks off. The other two I’ll put in New Mexico and Georgia so you’ll die from the heat. How does that sound, ant?”

  “Like you got an A in geography,” Tucker chuckles.

  Prince cracks Tucker across the jaw with a blinding fast punch.

  Tucker stumbles back laughing and shaking it off like it was nothing. “Are we doing this, princess? I’ve got nothing to lose and you know it. You? You’ve got everything to lose, don’t you?”

  Prince stands there, fists knotted in rocks at his sides. “You’ve got your freedom to lose, you fucking ant brain.”

  “Freedom’s an illusion, turd.” Tucker starts to circle. “You’re only in prison if you think you are. Unless you’re dead. Then, you’re fucking dead. You wanna end up dead, princess?” Tucker’s fluid moves are effortlessly dangerous. If he can fight anything like Skill, and it sure looks like it, Prince should be worried.

  Prince is turning to face Tucker as he moves, his hands now up like maybe he knows how to fight. In his beastly costume, he definitely looks ready to pounce.

  Jonah watches carefully like he might step in to stop the fight, but he hasn’t done anything yet.

  I have no doubt, if Prince and Tucker fight, and setting aside either young man’s survival, Prince will ruin his costume at the very least. I don’t want a stupid fight ruining my night.

  “You guys,” I whine, “It’s Halloween! Can we not do this right now? Please?”

  Tucker says, “Your call, princess.” He’s obviously talking to Prince. “You calmed down yet? You already got a free shot. You gonna try for another? See how that works out for you?”

  Prince looks ready to roar, his jaw muscles ticking on the fine fangs of his rage, his leonine snout crinkling in restrained fury.

  “Prince?” I say gently. “Can we just…?”