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

by Hartford, Devon

  “Hey, Marianne,” he says. “I’m going out for a few hours.”

  “Oh?” I look up from my books. “Where to?”

  “To a meeting.”

  “What kind of meeting?”

  He forces a smile. “I can’t say.”

  “Erm, okay.” I shouldn’t have asked. I wonder if he’s going to a meeting at The Ivory Tower. I can’t say decisively that he doesn’t have some weird magister’s cult leader uniform hidden under the suit he’s wearing, and a creepy hood hidden in his jacket pocket, but he might.

  “I’ll be back in a few hours. Will you be okay here?”

  “Of course,” I smile.

  Fifteen minutes after Prince leaves, when I’m confident he hasn’t forgotten anything and won’t make a surprise return, I switch out the wifi router in Prince’s office upstairs with the one Skill gave me.

  Did I mention Prince has the best office ever? It’s like a stylish executive’s corner office with windows on two corner walls and a terrific view, like he’s already practicing being a CEO.

  I plant Skill’s little cameras throughout the penthouse, hiding them on shelves behind sculptures or in bookcases on top of dusty books that haven’t been moved (they look like decorations nobody ever bothers to read), or wherever I can put them that’s inconspicuous, except in my bedroom. I don’t put any there. I like my privacy. I don’t want Rob and the Poor Boys spying on me. Call me hypocritical. I don’t care. I’m not helping them make any pervy videos of me in bed or whatever.

  I don’t think they’ll be making any sex tapes of Prince either. There’s nothing to tape. It’s not like he’s sneaking women into his bedroom at night. I’d hear. All he does is sleep. You can’t make a sex tape without any sex.

  I ignore my misgivings about this process and place more cameras throughout the penthouse. Surprisingly, it takes over an hour. The whole time, I cringe every time I hear the slightest creak, thinking Prince came back early, but he never does.

  When I’m done, I make myself some tea in the kitchen to relax for a moment before I go back to studying.

  I sure hope spying on Prince won’t come back to haunt me. Nobody likes a spy.

  <(—)>

  Nearly every evening that week, Prince and I spend time studying together. Usually it’s after dinner or later because he’s got so many extra-curricular activities in his life, but he does have to study, and he hits the books hard each night, same as me.

  When I admit I’ve been struggling with physics and trig, he is happy to help explain things. Turns out he’s a bit of a math whiz and he took trig last year. Now he’s in calculus, a year ahead of me and most kids at the academy.

  Somehow, he makes math enjoyable. Normally, I just slog through it and hope for the best, but Prince makes it a game, turning every problem into a fun puzzle.

  Does it hurt that he’s so handsome?

  Not one bit.

  Every girl should have a hot surfer for a tutor.

  The only thing stopping us from fooling around each night after studying is both our grades. I need to keep mine up to stay at the academy, and he needs to keep his up to stay competitive, or so he says.

  “What do your grades matter?” I ask one evening. We’re both lying on my bed in the guest bedroom with our books spread out between us. I always make sure we have books between us. If I didn’t, I’m pretty sure we’d never get any studying done. “It’s not like you need to be more successful. You already have everything you want in life.”

  “Not everything.” He tosses me a sexy smirk, leaning on one elbow. “Some things take work.” He gives me a pointed look.

  I roll my eyes, pretty sure he means me. I’m not sure what he’s working up to, but I am flattered. One good thing about Prince I can’t say enough is, no matter how bold and brash and arrogant and entitled he may be, he never pressures me for anything. Especially not sex. I mean, he’s been a saint since I moved in with him. He teases the crap out of me, sure, always flashing his abs, but he never pressures me.

  He really is the perfect gentleman.

  Which makes me feel like a total and complete ass for helping Rob spy on him. I never should’ve agreed to hide all those cameras. I have a sudden urge to walk around the penthouse giving every camera a one-finger salute, which I know Rob and company will see me doing. Good thing there aren’t any in my bedroom, otherwise I might do it now, and Prince would ask questions about why I’m flipping off nothing. Don’t want that.

  “Something bothering you?” Prince asks.

  “No,” I lie. “Just tired.”

  “We should go to bed.”

  I blush brightly.

  “You know what I mean,” he chuckles, standing up from the bed. He picks up his books and notebooks. “Sleep tight, princess.” He closes the door gently on his way out.

  He really is perfect.

  And I’m a perfect liar.

  I don’t know how long I can keep living like this. Sooner or later, the truth is going to rear its ugly head and take a bite out of my criminal activities.

  <(—)>

  That weekend, Prince disappears without explanation.

  When I realize he isn’t coming home Saturday night, I start to worry, which is stupid. He’s probably doing some secret Ivory Tower thing, which is totally none of my business.

  Unless he has a secret girlfriend here on campus?

  I know he and Elizabeth, or Azzie or whatever she’s calling herself today, used to be a thing, but I thought that stopped on Halloween. No, sooner. He said like a year ago. I mean, he didn’t get back together with her, did he?

  Not that I care.

  I mean, I really don’t care.

  It’s not like Prince and I are a thing. I’m his guest, not his girlfriend. And I’m spying on him! I’m sure he’d love to know that. Then I’d never be his girlfriend. Not that I want to.

  Anyway, I’m sure it’s nothing.

  I’m sure he’s not on some surfing getaway in Fiji or wherever and sleeping with every beach bunny he sees lounging on white sand beaches in their bikinis. He’d never be interested in that.

  What I’m not sure about is whether or not he has a secret girlfriend in Fiji. And another in Australia. And Maui. And ten other countries I haven’t thought of.

  I tell myself I’m worrying over nothing.

  We aren’t even dating!

  Not that I want to.

  Nope.

  I titter nervously to myself.

  I hope he comes home soon.

  Chapter 35

  “What should I do about my hair?” I ask Mimi.

  We’re in her drafty Convent room studying one night after work. To help keep the cold out, she has stuffed the tiny open window with a pillow. It’s actually a Fundy pillow she stole from the laundry room. Technically, she’s not supposed to have it. Whenever Brawny Braunschott comes by, Mimi has to hide the pillow in the closet until she’s gone.

  My hair has grown out to almost two inches.

  I say, “I was thinking I could bleach it, shave the sides, and spike the top.”

  Mimi rolls her eyes, “And violate hair policy in the student handbook. Ms. Skelter would never allow it.”

  I groan, “This place! It’s like 1984 around here!”

  “You mean the George Orwell book?”

  “Yeah,” I nod in disgust. “It’s like they’ve criminalized happiness and any form of personal expression.”

  “Not if you’re a rich kid.”

  “Don’t remind me,” I scowl.

  “Too bad it’s not The Hunger Games.”

  “Right? Give me a bow and some arrows and I’ll go Fundy hunting.”

  “Two bows,” she laughs. “We’ll go hunting together. We’ll hang the Silicones’ heads over our beds like taxidermy trophies.”

  “Wouldn’t that be nice,” I sigh in defeat and run my fingers through my hair. “I should shave it all off again. At least then I’m unique, and that’s allowed.”

  “Uh uh,”
she shakes her head. “Check the handbook. No shaved heads.”

  “I thought that’s for boys.”

  “No, I think it’s for everyone. Ms. Skelter probably let it slide for you when you got here because she didn’t have a choice. Now you’ll piss her off if you shave it again. Best thing to do is let it grow out.”

  “Whatever.”

  We go back to studying.

  A short while later, Mimi says sarcastically, “Have you picked out your dress for the winter formal?”

  My thoughts go to Chase asking me in the library and not her. If he has, she never mentioned it. You better believe I’m not mentioning Chase asking me! My eyes saucer but I try to hide it by focusing on my homework.

  “I heard Chase asked you to go,” Mimi says, her voice tense.

  I’m not surprised she knows, but I cringe anyway. “Sorry, he snuck up and sprung it on me. I totally said no. I told him he should ask you. Did he?”

  “You know how he is.” Her face is tight and slightly irritated.

  “Erm, I thought I did. Did he or didn’t he? Ask you, I mean.”

  She relaxes into a giddy smile, “He totally did!”

  “That’s fantastic, Meems!” I jump off my bed and grab her in a laughing hug.

  “I know, right? I never thought he would!” She’s ecstatic.

  I congratulate her for awhile until our excitement dies down into sighs, then I go back to my old bed to resume studying.

  She says, “What about Prince?”

  “What about him?”

  “Have you two hooked up yet?” Her innocent question is so obviously not.

  “No-a!” I throw the thin pillow off my bed at her. She throws it back. It hits me in the face, but I barely notice. “I forgot how thin these are.”

  “Already?” Mimi says, slightly jealous. She knows how plush the pillows are in the West Wing from cleaning and fluffing them. “How many does your bed have? Four?” It’s the standard number for Fundy boy beds.

  “Eight,” I say, embarrassed.

  “He pulled you right out of the slums, didn’t he, Cinderella?”

  “I can’t help it!” I whine, feeling bad.

  “You could’ve invited me,” she sniffs. “This place is frigid.” She glances at the pillow stuffed in her window. “Any chance I can room with you?”

  My eyes light up. “You totally should! There’s more than enough room in my bed! I mean, if you don’t mind sharing.”

  “Sharing your bed or… sharing Prince?” She bites her lower lip and blushes.

  “I told you already! I’m not sleeping with him, okay?!” I laugh. “Gosh! How many times do I have to tell you?!”

  “I would be.”

  “Sleeping with him?”

  “Prince is a stud. Who wouldn’t sleep with him?”

  “Brawny,” I snort. “She’d be afraid of breaking him. She’s that brawny.”

  “Totally,” Mimi laughs. “I heard, back in Germany, she used to be married to a bear.”

  “An actual bear?” I frown doubtfully.

  “Uh huh,” she nods sincerely. “A grizzly, I think.”

  “They don’t have grizzly bears in Germany.”

  “He’s from Canada. He has dual citizenship. Canadian and German. He moved over for her.”

  “Did not,” I snicker, picturing a bear wearing a red and white maple leaf ice hockey jersey and no pants. I throw my pillow at her again.

  This time she hordes it and says, “Has Prince asked anyone?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Who do you think he’ll ask? Elizabeth?”

  “I hope not.”

  “You? Has he asked you?”

  “No.”

  “Are you disappointed?”

  “Conflicted. I can’t figure out what’s up with Rob.” I haven’t told Mimi about my spying and I’m not going to, but she knows all about my Halloween cuddling after Rob saved me from the torture chamber. Meems and I had both thought it was the start of something serious until Rob basically ghosted me.

  “Forget Rob. He’s been ignoring you since Halloween.”

  I shrug. I can’t tell her the truth. I promised I wouldn’t and it’s way too complicated anyway.

  “You should ask Prince, Mare Bear. If you do, we can go to together.”

  “You and Chase and us?”

  “Mmm-hmm,” she nods. “I’ll make sure those Fundy bitches don’t try anything funny. If they do, I’ll fuck all their boyfriends.” She giggles with mischievous confidence. “See how they like that.”

  “You know,” I muse, “so many of them are hot, that’s not exactly a heinous idea.”

  “Right?” she grins guiltily.

  “I mean, not that I’d want to—”

  “Me neither.”

  “—but you could totally pull it off.” I know Mimi could have any guy at Castle Hill she wants. All she has to do is take them up on their constant offers. Whenever she walks by groups of Fundy boys, the innuendos flood from them like it’s hurricane season in the midwestern state of Sexual Harassment.

  “Those Fundy bitches already think we’re sluts, so why not?”

  “Right?” I add.

  “Not that I would.”

  “But you could.”

  She shrugs, “I’d rather have Chase.”

  “If things go haywire, we can both cut us some bitches. We’ll get knives from the kitchen.”

  “How?”

  “Tucker. I’m sure he’ll steal some for us if we ask.”

  “Wow, Mary, listen to you.” Mimi marvels. “When did you get so deadly?”

  “What? I always carry a knife. It’s only since I’ve been here and Mr. Ralston took mine away that I’ve been playing nice. Halloween wouldn’t have happened if I’d had Grayson’s knife.” I’ve told Mimi about Grayson and Kade and all the other boys I’ve known a hundred times since I got here. We’re always talking about boys. I’m surprised we ever get any studying done.

  “Can you get us some big butcher knives? So we can butcher those bitches if they try anything? We’ll go slasher movie on their asses. Ree! Ree! Ree!” She mimes a stabbing motion.

  I titter snickery laughs. “Totally. Except, butcher knives might be hard to hide under our dresses. Maybe some paring knives or something small like that?”

  “That’ll work. All you have to do now is ask Prince to take you to the winter formal.”

  “I can’t do that! He has to ask!”

  “I don’t mean ask ask. Hint. A lot. You know how to hint, don’t you?”

  <(—)>

  “Have you ever been to the winter formal?” I ask nonchalantly over dinner with Prince.

  “I have,” Prince says after swallowing and blotting his mouth with his linen napkin.

  We’re in his kitchen, sitting at the bar on barstools, eating the food he ordered from room service. He doesn’t eat with me every night, so this is nice. Most nights, he eats in the Palace Dining Hall without me. I’m not allowed in there. That’s one rule Prince hasn’t broken for my sake. Not that I notice. I’m always cleaning the West Wing while he’s eating. When we do eat together, like tonight, we eat after I get back from work, and he always has dinner waiting for me. It feels eerily like we’re a couple, which we’re not, not that I know of.

  I say, “Is it any fun? The winter formal?”

  He shrugs, “If you like formal functions.”

  “What’s it like?”

  “Formal,” he smirks and forks up more food.

  I detect he doesn’t want to talk about it. That’s fine. I’ll just hint. “I’ve heard it’s lots of fun. Everybody’s been talking about it. Does it live up to the hype or…?”

  “Nothing ever does.”

  “Okay, granted, but it can’t be terrible, can it?”

  “Depends who you ask.”

  “Mmm,” I nod. Why is he being so effing dodgy? Am I not supposed to ask? I mean, it’s not like I’m asking him to ask me to go. I’m effing hinting. Take a hin
t, Prince! But seriously, I’m just making conversation and asking about a stupid dance. What’s wrong with that?

  He takes another bite and chews.

  “Would you believe I’ve never been to a single high school dance?” It’s true. I have been asked, but I’ve never gone because usually I’m in trouble with the vice principal, or I change schools before I can go to one, or I can’t afford a nice dress for the more formal dances.

  “Yes, I would believe it,” Prince says and resumes chewing.

  What kind of an effing answer is that?! Can this man not take an effing hint? Is he playing dumb? Or just plain dumb? I don’t know, but my frustration kicks in like a rabid mule.

  I suddenly blurt, “Ask me to the fricking winter formal already!”

  Prince continues chewing like I’m not even there. Swallows. Blots his lips with the linen napkin. Folds it neatly and lays it beside his plate. Turns to me with a wicked grin. “I’m sorry. I simply can’t resist watching you squirm.”

  “Ass!” I slap his muscled shoulder, which is currently covered in a thousand dollar dress shirt. I know it cost that much because he mentioned the price in one of his snootier moods.

  He laughs. “Marianne, would you do me the honor of accompanying me to this year’s winter formal?”

  “No!” I jump up from my bar stool. “I have too much homework and too much work. You snooze, you lose!” I march back to the guest room and slam the door. Sit on the edge of the bed waiting.

  Footsteps.

  A knock at the door.

  “Yes?” I titter.

  He opens the door a crack and asks, “Do you want to hear begging?”

  “A little,” I giggle guiltily. “But only because you’re such an ass.”

  Prince opens the door all the way. Unknots his tie with methodical confidence. Hangs it on the doorknob. Unbuttons his shirt while staring me down with burning blue eyes. Strips it off and tosses it over his shoulder. Plants his hands on his trim hips and flexes his abs. Smirks at me.

  Gabs.

  I snicker, “Is that supposed to be you begging?”

  “Me beg?” he chuckles. “I never beg. I meant you.”