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

by Hartford, Devon

Prince slowly closes his eyes and shakes his head. “Fine. Forget it. Let’s go inside.” He turns and offers his elbow, now smiling. “You know how it is when you get a bug up your ass.” He flicks his eyes at Tucker.

  Tucker snorts a laugh, “Had to get in the last jab, didn’t you? One free shot wasn’t enough?”

  I roll my eyes and wait for Prince to fire back.

  He doesn’t. Just smiles at me. “Shall we?”

  “Sure,” I smile.

  Do I glance back at Tucker?

  Only long enough to catch him winking at me. I also see Jonah rolling his eyes and offering me a sympathetic shrug.

  Prince calls out in a friendly voice, “If you two ants want to get paid, keep your eyes on my car, per our agreement.”

  Tucker smirks and is about to open his mouth when Jonah gives him a solid shove. Tucker goes flying.

  Jonah calls out, “Have fun, you two!” He means it.

  You gotta love Jonah.

  And Tucker, for obvious reasons I’m too guilty to admit I like.

  What a night, right?

  I have no idea at the time that the drama is just getting started.

  Chapter 26

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  Prince and I are walking through the bowels of Castle Hill Academy in a long tunnel. Pipes and conduits run overhead into the distance for a really long way.

  “To my underground dungeon lair,” he growls.

  “Obviously,” I giggle nervously. “So you can serial kill me. No, torture me in your torture chamber, then serial kill me.”

  “Who told you I had a torture chamber?”

  “Wait, do you?”

  He simply smiles his leonine smile and leads me deeper into the darkness. The farther we walk, the older the tunnel gets. We’re talking really old. Concrete turns to bricks and mortar to hewn stone.

  “What is this place?” I ask.

  “Among other things, Castle Hill was once home to a gunnery battery that stood guard over the coast in the second half of the nineteenth century. These tunnels connected the various cannon emplacements to the magazines where they stored the powder kegs and cannon balls.”

  “Nerd,” I snicker and bump his hip.

  “Everyone at this academy is a nerd, strumpet. Have you not noticed? We only accept the best and brightest, not the dimmest and dumbest.”

  “Is everything you say elitist rhetoric? Or is this just your usual claptrap?”

  “I see you’ve been practicing your SAT words,” he grins.

  We turn a hidden corner and find ourselves at a metal door with bolts around the frame. I can hear loud dance music thumping behind it. Prince knocks and it opens with a creaky Halloween squeal. Someone dressed as Alice’s White Rabbit motions us inside. Standing beside him is someone dressed as Jack Skellington.

  Prince says, “Welcome to my All Hallows’ Ball, strumpet. May it fulfill your wildest dreams.”

  We walk inside and I’m stunned.

  If Alice in Wonderland and The Nightmare Before Christmas were set in a real live dungeon, that would describe Prince’s party to a T. Every party I ever went to had only three things: kids, kegs, and plastic SOLO cups. That’s it.

  This?

  This is another world.

  I blurt, “Did you like, hire the Disney Imagineers to decorate this place?”

  “Some of them,” Prince grins.

  “Let me guess. You flew them in,” I laugh.

  He winks, “Right again, strumpet.”

  It’s not just the decor. It’s the people. Or should I say aliens from another planet or the crazy beasts you see in your daydreams and nightmares. From classic to fantastic, every costume looks as professional and expensive as Prince’s. One guy’s even wearing a shimmering suit of medieval armor worthy of a museum.

  As good as my costume is for being budget, it doesn’t hold a candle to what the Fundies are wearing. Even I’m impressed. Except for the fact that more than a few of the girls are topless. Not in a slutty way. Their costumes are obviously designed to be topless. Let it all hang out, ladies. Are they for real? I mean, half the breasts are obviously fake, but are they for real letting them all hang out just because it’s Slut-O-Ween? They are.

  Rich people.

  I mutter, “Am I the only work-study kid here?”

  “As far as I know,” Prince answers.

  “That’s not going to be a problem, is it?”

  “Not as long as you’re with me.”

  I hope he’s right.

  Eerie but danceable electronic music fills the air as we walk through the maze of the massive space. The girls are tossing jealousy bombs at me left and right for obvious reasons. I’m with Prince. They aren’t. Sucks to be them. Tee. Hee. I’m happy to report, their jealous bombs disappear into the actual fog floating on the floor and swirling up to everyone’s knees. I’m also happy none of them are calling me Chemo or cancer cunt or gutter slut for once. Probably because I’m in costume and they haven’t figured out who I am. It won’t take them long to recognize me from my hair. Until they do, I’m basking in this moment of reprieve however brief.

  Someone dressed as Captain Jack Sparrow from Pirates of the Caribbean is staring at me like he knows me. He looks almost exactly like Johnny Depp from the movie, except hotter. He says, “Is that you, mugshot?”

  “Chase?” I ask.

  “At your service, m’lady.” Chase doffs his pirate hat and bows low, causing the floor fog to billow out around him. I must admit, it’s rather magical. So are his abs, which are showing because he isn’t wearing a pirate shirt under his pirate coat.

  “Wow, Chase! You look great!”

  “I always do,” he grins, winking a heavily eye-shadowed topaz eye. “Would you like to parley now or parley later?” When he says it, he emphasizes the “ley” in parley with enough innuendo to get an old lady pregnant.

  I snort a laugh.

  Prince barks, “Back off, Chase. She’s my date.”

  Chase offers a rakish grin. “I don’t need to date her. I just want to par-ley her.”

  Before I can say anything, Prince drags me farther into the party. I immediately see someone dressed up as a very imposing and movie-accurate Darth Vader.

  “Who’s that?” I wonder.

  “Darth Vader,” Prince quips.

  “Duh! I meant, who is it?”

  “Duke.”

  “Who’s that with him dressed as Katniss Everdeen?” I’m referring to the girl with the perfect body hanging off Duke’s arm wearing the Mockingjay movie costume, complete with bow and quiver of arrows. She also has a black masquerade mask hiding her face.

  “That’s Victoria.”

  “Are they back together?” I ask innocently.

  “Funny you should ask,” Prince smirks.

  “Did you hear too?” I grouse.

  “Everyone heard about what you did, homewrecker,” he chuckles and winks.

  I roll my eyes. “I didn’t do anything! They did it to themselves! It’s not my problem they’re insane.” The spitting from the Fundy girls has subsided in the past few weeks, but I still bear the emotional scars. “You believe me, don’t you? I had nothing to do with their breakup.”

  “Duke and Victoria are very volatile.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  “Yes, strumpet. I don’t blame you for their relationship problems.”

  “Thank you!” I say victoriously. “At least someone around here has some sense.”

  Prince leads me over to the bar. It’s set up like a mad scientist’s laboratory. The bottles and beakers are bubbling with a rainbow of colorful under-lit liquids steaming out from their tops. Probably dry ice or whatever.

  “Pick your poison,” Prince says, motioning to the bar.

  I smile, “Do they have any cyanide?”

  “No.”

  “Arsenic?”

  He simply smirks.

  “You said poison,” I grin.

  “How about I order for both of
us?”

  “Don’t put any ruffies in it.”

  “Why would I need to do that? I’m already enough of an aphrodisiac on my own.” He offers a flirty wink.

  I roll my eyes and try not to laugh.

  Even though there are a dozen other people waiting in line for drinks, everyone parts deferentially as Prince steps up to order. Even the bar tender, who looks like Dr. Emmet Brown from Back to the Future, stops what he’s doing to make drinks for Prince.

  “Here you go,” Prince says, handing me a drink glowing green.

  “Is this radioactive?” I titter. “How’s it light up?”

  “There’s a green glow stick inside.”

  “That is so cool!”

  “Thank you.”

  “Who’d you pay to come up with that idea?” I ask sarcastically.

  “Myself.”

  “Nuh uh.”

  He nods and holds up his drink. “To what do we toast?”

  “Um, new beginnings?”

  “I’ll drink to that.” He clinks my glass with his and pounds half of it.

  I hesitate.

  “Don’t leave me hanging, strumpet.”

  “It’s not alcoholic, is it? Drinking is against the student handbook rules. I don’t want Ms. Brawny booting me out of the Convent if I come home buzzed, or Ms. Skelter haunting me from beyond the grave or whatever. She is a skeleton, you know. This is her night.”

  “I promise, Ms. Skelter will not jump out of your closet with a breathalyzer and Brawny won’t either. Anyway, it’s non-alcoholic. I don’t want you thinking I need to get you drunk to get in your pants, strumpet.”

  “You did not!” I gasp a laugh.

  “Did too.” He flashes a winning grin. “Drink up.”

  I sniff the liquid. Doesn’t smell like alcohol. I taste it. “Yummy! It’s like candy apples or something.”

  “Virgin Appletini.”

  “I love it!”

  “Shall we find a seat so you can sip and stare into my eyes?”

  “Sure,” I snort.

  Like any good nightclub, there’s a high ceiling and multiple levels and roped-off areas with seats and tables aplenty where you can watch the crowd and the dance floor from above. The only difference is the stone walls. It really is like a dungeon. We make our way up stone steps past dozens of sitting areas. Hanging from the ceiling are spotlit sash dancers defying gravity, spinning and twirling in their sexy tights.

  “I wish I could do that,” I grouse jealously.

  Prince leans into my ear and mutters, “I’ll talk to administration about adding rope dancing to the PE curriculum next term. We’ll hire whoever teaches this troupe.”

  “What?! You can do that?”

  Prince leans around so his eyes meet mine. “Do you have to ask, strumpet?”

  “You’re too much, Prince.” It’s a good too much.

  “My reputation precedes me.” He’s obviously referring to his skills as a lover. On top of that, his closeness and his heat and impossible promises are hitting me harder than any alcohol.

  I sniff my glowing Appletini and take another sip. It really is virgin. You wouldn’t know it from the way my head is soaring through the clouds. Imagine the things I could do in life with someone like Prince as my boyfriend?

  You know what’s sad?

  I can’t imagine it because all I ever think about is barely scraping by on my own. Prince is offering me the opportunity to do literally anything I can dream of.

  Or he’s lying to get laid.

  Who am I kidding?

  Of course that’s what he’s doing! It’s what every guy does. Except this place and his car are real. Maybe he isn’t lying? I don’t know.

  “Here we are,” Prince says as he leads me up to the highest seating area in the entire cave. We’re eye level with the rope dancers. “My private box.”

  Elizabeth Morgan-Hearst is lounging in said box. When she sees Prince come up the steps, she titters, “Is that any way to refer to your girlfriend?”

  I cringe for a couple reasons. First, she’s topless. It would be disgusting if she wasn’t so stunningly beautiful. She’s dressed entirely in white, some sort of sexy wedding angel. The gossamer gown is bodycon chiffon and slippery satin with white lace wings and a matching veil. If she hadn’t turned the slut-o-meter up to eleven with the topless look, I’d say she was the picture of feminine perfection. Okay, her breasts are literally perfect, possibly even real now that I see them, and if mine looked like hers, I’d show them off every chance I got. But still.

  I’m also cringing because I distinctly heard her call herself Prince’s girlfriend. I knew it.

  Knew! It!

  He is too good to be true.

  And that’s why she’s up here with her top off.

  Prince sighs, “What are you doing here, Elizabeth?”

  “Waiting for you, sweetheart.”

  “I’ve asked you to stop calling me that. We broke up a year ago, Elizabeth. It’s time you move on. If you would be so kind, Mary and I would like the use of my private booth.” He motions down the stairs, hinting that Elizabeth should leave.

  Elizabeth glares at me. “Who’s this garbage? She looks like a walking dump.”

  “The only walking I’m worried about,” he says, “is you walking yourself out of here immediately. Goodbye, Elizabeth.” Despite his politeness, his voice comes out cold and cruel, his words a silent slap.

  I want to add, “And take your tits with you,” but I manage to keep my mouth shut.

  Elizabeth shoots to her feet and pouts, “Fine! Have fun with the auto-mechanic! I hope she knows how to turn your crank as well as I do!” She storms past me in a huff, stopping short to glare at me. “Gutter slut. I should’ve known. What’re you doing here?”

  Prince says, “Go, Elizabeth.”

  She ignores him and knifes me with her eyes. “Who let you in, cancer cunt?”

  I’m not playing into her hand. I smirk sarcastically, “Good to see you too, Azzie.”

  “Why do you keep calling me that, gutter slut?” She’s no less beautiful as her face wrinkles in irritation.

  “Because you’re Azzie. Duh.”

  “No I’m not!”

  “You are such a liar,” I snort.

  She sneers, “Has syphilis eaten your entire brain already, gutter slut?” She tosses a glance at Prince. “Don’t fuck this one without a bodysuit condom. She probably has AIDS and every strain of hepatitis known to man.”

  I smile and point, “The stairs are that way.” A sudden breeze surprises me. When I turn my head back, I see Prince rushing toward Elizabeth to pull her away from me.

  “Let me go!” she screams. “She does not talk to me like that!”

  Prince wrestles her down the stairs.

  I want to tell him to throw her over the railing. It’s like a forty foot drop to the fog floating on the bottom floor. He doesn’t, but he forces her down to the next level. She immediately starts arguing with him. They’re far enough away, I can’t hear what they’re saying.

  I sigh and wait, already knowing where this is going. Prince is going to talk to Elizabeth at length while she manipulates him into ignoring me by arguing and arguing until he completely forgets I’m here. They’ll end up fucking in a dungeon corridor somewhere, and I’ll regret I didn’t go trick-or-treating with Mimi back in the Convent. I don’t even know if that’s a thing, but I’d rather be doing that than this.

  Elizabeth’s voice cuts above the music and I hear her saying, “…just because you’re the youngest ever magister of the Ivory Tower, you think you can date whoever you want?! A dirty work-study slut?!”

  Prince responds, but he’s facing away and I can’t hear what he says except for, “…of your business!” He’s pissed.

  Then I remember. Elizabeth, erm, Azzie, isn’t talking about just any ivory tower. She’s talking about the Ivory Tower, the one Azzie, erm, her pointed out to me my first day here. The one that looms over the entire academy like a br
ooding monolith. The secret society Ivory Tower. Is Prince in that? What’s a magister? Is that a magician? Or just some snooty title for the president of the club or whatever? I don’t know, but it sounds like Prince is the shit there and everywhere else.

  Elizabeth is still bickering with Prince and I hear her grumbling, “…see what the Golden Circle has to say about that! Oh wait, let me guess. The Hidden Eye already knows, don’t they?! They’re just waiting for you to—”

  “STOP TALKING AND GO!” Prince shouts loud enough you can’t miss it, even with the loud dance music. He points past Elizabeth like he’s sending her to the penitentiary.

  She glares, “You’re going to regret this, Prince! I’ll make damn sure!” She shakes both her fists like a little baby, which shakes her boobs. I expect her to cover herself, but she doesn’t. She spins around and marches off in a heavenly huff, barging past the knight in shimmering armor I saw earlier, who is up here for some reason.

  Prince heaves himself back up the stairs like he’s carrying a very heavy load. “Sorry about that,” he says when he’s back in the private box with me.

  “Do you need to go after her?”

  “I’m not falling for that trick. It would’ve worked when we were together, but I’m done with her.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He reaches up to brush his thumb across my cheek. “Completely. This is our night, strumpet. No one else’s.”

  When he touches me, I start to float. The butterflies inside me are lifting me up. At least it feels like it as Prince glides me over to sit down.

  For the next hour, Prince has me on the edge of my seat and laughing. He has countless surfing stories from around the world, some exciting and hair-raising, others hilarious and side-splitting. Whoever dreamt up the story of Prince Charming clearly had Prince Lancaster in mind when they wrote it.

  At some point, I realize I have been holding Prince’s hand for quite some time. He’s been stroking mine with his and it’s the hottest, most erotic thing I’ve ever done, I swear. His hand is quite rugged for someone so refined. I can’t get enough of touching him.

  There’s no denying it. I am in very, very heavy like with Prince. I’ve completely forgotten every bit of bad behavior I’ve seen from him since I got to the academy.

  This is the real Prince.