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

by Hartford, Devon

  “Someplace else.”

  “Where, Rob?” I’m still not looking at him. If I do, I’ll stupidly agree to whatever dumb idea he has this time.

  “Just come with me. I’ll show you.”

  “Can I eat lunch first? I’ve been working my ass off since seven this morning.”

  He lowers his voice to a whisper, “We can get lunch on the way.”

  “The way?” I sneer. “You mean off—” I was going to say off campus, but he cuts me off.

  “Shhh. Yes.”

  Do I want to sneak off campus? It’s not allowed, even if it is Saturday, not for work-study kids like me. Sure, Prince can get me out of anything. Trouble, I mean. Can Rob? He got me out of that iron maiden, but can he get me out of trouble with Brawny or Ms. Skelter or whoever else? Probably not. It’s not worth it.

  “No, Rob.”

  He squeezes my wrist gently.

  “Would you let go?!” I glare at him. Big mistake. God damn, he’s so hot. “No, Rob. I mean it.”

  “It’s very important, Mary. I wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t.” He’s sincere. And sincerely handsome.

  Looking at him makes my heart ache. Prince is to die for. But Rob? I don’t know what it is, he’s just, I can’t explain it. Rob has this effect on me. Chemistry or whatever. Seeing him, smelling him, being touched by him, is intoxicating.

  “Okay,” I sigh. “Show me your thing.”

  He arches an eyebrow.

  I roll my eyes, “You know what I mean.”

  Grinning, he nods. “This way.”

  “Don’t you need to move your mop bucket or whatever?”

  “Right. Thanks.” He grabs it and I follow him to a broom closet here in the Palace where he stashes it.

  Outside the Palace, he says, “Meet me at the Plant Services building. You remember where that is, right?”

  “Yes. Why can’t we just walk there together?”

  “I don’t want anyone seeing us. I’ll take the long way there. See you in twenty.”

  “Fine,” I grumble and make my way across campus to Plant Services. There, I walk inside the open roll-up doors. I expect to see Jonah when I get there, but don’t. It’s the weekend. Things are slow.

  Inside, there’s pipes and I think gigantic boilers for the hot water or whatever, and big electrical boxes. There’s a big flat concrete area inside with stacks of stuff on wood palettes wrapped in shipping plastic and near that, a Plant Services van.

  I lean against a palette and wait.

  Fifteen minutes later, Rob walks in.

  “You’re late,” I joke.

  He rolls his eyes and gets the passenger door of the van for me and says, “Get in the back and hide under the tarp.”

  “How romantic,” I snark and climb over the seat. In the back, I slide under the tarp and lie down. My door thunks behind me. A moment later, Rob drops in the driver’s seat and starts the engine. I grumble, “Why are you always sneaking and spying everywhere you go?”

  “Shhh,” he says. “Keep your mouth shut and your head under that tarp. If you don’t, I’ll have to blindfold you.”

  “What?!” I laugh. “Shut the fuck up. You are not blindfolding me,” I say, annoyed.

  “I’m not kidding, Mouth. Do what I say.”

  “Fine,” I groan. I guess Mr. Prison Rob is back in the house? We drive for a while. “Where are we going already? This tarp stinks like mildew.”

  Rob doesn’t answer.

  Not long after, the van stops, the brakes squeaking meekly.

  “You can get out,” Rob says.

  “I guess we’re at the Batcave?” I quip.

  Rob grunts and gets out.

  I climb from under the tarp and out of the passenger side where Rob is holding the door. We’re parked inside an automotive garage. Nobody is here except us.

  I smirk, “Is this your chop shop where you break down stolen cars for parts?”

  “No,” Rob grunts and leads me over to a black racing motorcycle. I recognize it immediately. It’s one of the ones from the night I met him and his friends. Two helmets sit on the seat. Rob kicks off his work boots and unzips his coveralls to his waist, revealing a tight black T-shirt glued to every rugged muscle underneath.

  “Do I get a free show?” I titter.

  He smirks and pushes his coveralls down past bulging boxers.

  I blush and avert my eyes. Somewhat.

  Rob pulls a dark pair of jeans off a workbench and jumps into them. Slides on a nondescript black leather jacket. Pulls on his work boots. Damn if he isn’t the perfect picture of a rebel biker.

  Rob grabs one helmet from the motorcycle and tosses the other to me.

  I catch it. “Where’s mine?”

  He frowns.

  “My motorcycle,” I smirk.

  “Put your helmet on,” he barks.

  “Are you always this terse when you’re sneaking around?”

  “Yes.” He puts his helmet on. “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “Your helmet, Mouth. I know you know what to do with it.”

  “Oh yeah, how?”

  “You were riding your motorcycle the night we met.”

  “Nope.” Technically, it was Dwight’s.

  “Okay, you stole it.”

  “How do you know about that?” I never told him about getting arrested. Then again, he knew I was in jail for attempted murder.

  “I know lots of things, Mouth. Helmet. Now.”

  “Fine,” I sigh. “Do I get to drive?”

  “No. We don’t have time.” He lunges toward me and grabs me under the armpits.

  “Hey! Stop that!” Before I know it, he tosses me onto the back of the bike. I whine, “Don’t man handle me!”

  “Then do what I say.” He takes my helmet from my hands like he’s going to put it on for me.

  “I can do it!” I grab it and put it on, tightening the chin strap.

  Rob ninja-kicks his leg over the seat and says, “You ready?”

  “Yes! Go already!”

  “Hold on tight.” He pulls something out of his jacket. A remote. He clicks the button and the rollup doors of the garage rattle open. “Get a good grip, Mouth. I’m not going until you do.”

  “Okay!” I grouse and wrap my arms around his trim waist.

  “Tighter.” He reaches back and pulls my hips against his until it’s a snug fit with my thighs spread wide.

  I gasp in surprise.

  He revs the engine and we roll out of the garage.

  When we hit the street, the engine screams and the acceleration nearly throws me off the back of the racing bike. I don’t go though, because this isn’t my first bad boy rodeo, and I know how to hold on to a man on a motorcycle.

  Looking around, I quickly realize we’re in downtown Castle Hill, not far from where Rob’s band played. When we get to a stop sign I say loud enough for him to hear and with ample sarcasm, “Good thing you made me close my eyes on the way here. Now I know where downtown is.”

  The engine revs and we slide through town. The Christmas decorations are out. Glittery bows and candles and trees attached to every lamppost.

  A few minutes later, we reach the outskirts of town and pass what looks like a smallish sports arena slash event hall. It’s a flurry of activity, with trucks coming and going and scaffolding and workmen putting up what looks like fake snow and ice panels and whatnot on the outside.

  “Any idea what that is?” I holler. “Some kind of Christmas pageant or something?”

  Rob shrugs.

  When we hit the open mountain roads, Rob really opens up the motorcycle. We very literally race around the snaking roads. Rob sure knows how to ride. Good thing I know how to lean into the turns with him because our knees are almost scraping pavement around every corner. I can’t see the speedometer, but we’re going blinding fast. If I had to guess, sometimes as fast as a hundred miles an hour.

  I’m not sure how long we go that fast because my adrenalin is pumping so hard,
time slows to a crawl. After what is maybe twenty or thirty minutes of hard riding, it seems like two hours or more have passed.

  I’m drained when we turn onto a gravel road between trees that leads off the main road into the woods. This road we go down slow. We stop at a gate that says Private Property. Rob gets off to unlock it and we continue at least a mile until we get to a boxy building painted army green and hidden under the canopy of pine trees. It looks basically brand new and sits on a concrete pad and has a gravel ramp leading up to a rollup garage door. It also has a regular door made of steel. There’s not a single window I can see anywhere on the building.

  Rob turns off the racing bike and slides his leg over the seat, then takes off his helmet.

  I flip up my visor and say, “Is this where you keep the bodies?”

  “Yes,” he smirks. “Once I drain you dry, I’ll add you to the pile.”

  I can’t decide if that was innuendo, a threat, or both. Whatever. “How come no blindfold? I saw how we got here. I can find my way back.”

  “Good. If you’re ever in trouble, come here.”

  “Erm, okay.”

  “Let’s go inside.” Before I can climb off, he picks me up and swings my legs around, setting my boots down on the gravel. He unlocks the rollup and pushes the black bike inside. Three others are parked there already. I recognize them as the same ones Tucker, Jonah and Skill had the night we met. Red tool chests line the walls. It’s like the inside of a motorcycle repair shop. Rob pulls down the rollup and locks it from the inside. “This way.”

  He leads me through a door into a single room with a concrete floor that is fairly large. It’s dark, filled with racks of blinking computers and monitors, shelves loaded with all kinds of random gear, including computer parts, packaged food and bottled water. It’s like an apocalypse prepper’s paradise. Skill, Tucker and Jonah sit in rolling office chairs facing the computers. They don’t even glance at us.

  Then I realize why. They know it’s us. On one of the monitors, I see video of the outside of the building. I’m guessing they have cameras everywhere? Makes sense with all the spying they do.

  Rob says, “Mary, do you want some water or a snack?”

  I smirk, “You have any MREs?” I’m referring to military Meals Ready-to-Eat. I’ve never had one, but I’ve heard the term in movies or whatever.

  Skill spins around in his chair grinning, “Did I mention how much I like you, War Paint?”

  “Hey, Skill,” I say.

  Tucker spins around with a lascivious grin, “I’ve got your MRE right here, Mary.” He means the MRE in his jeans.

  Rob glares at him. “Lock that shit up, Tucker.”

  Tucker ignores him. “Mary, you wanna get locked up? Just you and me somewhere romantic? I can make it happen. Say the word.”

  Rob barks, “Shut the fuck up, Tucker! I didn’t bring Mary here so you could practice your game.”

  Tucker rolls his eyes and snickers to himself, lacing his fingers behind his head and showing off his muscled arms popping out of his tight black T-shirt.

  I say to them, “Why did you bring me? What is this place anyway?”

  Skill says, “Our secret fucking hideout.” He points to a neon sign above the monitors that literally says Secret Fucking Hideout in red neon letters.

  I laugh, “Whose idea was that?”

  “Mine,” Jonah says.

  “Nice,” I grin. Jonah is always surprising me with his quiet mystery. Sometimes, despite his gigantic size, I think he’s my favorite of these four Poor Boys. “Anyway, what’s the deal? Is this where you guys bring your stolen money or whatever?” They all know I know they took a million dollars in cash from the GTO cannibals, or however much it was.

  “Among other things,” Rob says. “Take a seat, Mary.” He rolls the fourth and currently empty office chair over to me. “We need to tell you a few things about Prince Lancaster that you’re not going to like.”

  Chapter 40

  “Prince Turd is lying to you,” Tucker says.

  “Lying,” I scoff. “About what?”

  “Take a look,” Skill says. He opens an image on the computer screen in front of him. It’s that photo of Prince in Honduras handing out water purifiers.

  “Where’d you get that?” I gasp in surprise because they must’ve stolen.

  “From Prince’s cloud account,” Skill says.

  “When?”

  “A few days before you returned his broken router.”

  Rob says, “I wish you hadn’t done that.”

  I smirk, “I wish you hadn’t made me put it in his penthouse in the first place.”

  Rob grumbles to himself.

  Skill says, “Prince stole this photo.”

  “What,” I snort, “from himself?”

  “No,” Skill says. “From the charity that actually installed the purifier.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I scoff.

  Skill opens another photo. It’s the exact same image as the one with Prince, except this time, Prince is replaced by some random smiling guy wearing hipster eyeglasses and a blue T-shirt with the logo Water Of Life.

  “Wait, what?” I laugh. “What happened to Prince? What is this?”

  “It’s from the Water Of Life website,” Skill says. “The same place Prince stole a hundred other photos.”

  “Stole?”

  Skill shrugs, “He downloaded them the same day he downloaded the doctored photo I just showed you.”

  “How do you know?”

  “It’s on the data log from when you had our hacked wifi router jacked into his penthouse. About an hour after he downloaded them all, he emailed the un-doctored one to some graphic designer living in New York somewhere.”

  “How do you know all that?”

  “Their contact email is on their website. They do design work and Photoshop work, shit like that. The next day, Prince gets an email asking for photos of him with the same lighting as in the water photo. Prince emails some local photographer not far from Castle Hill and arranges a photo shoot the next day, saying price is not an issue. The photographer quotes him a ridiculous price. Prince agrees.”

  That definitely sounds like Prince.

  Skill continues, “Prince also contacts one of those print-on-demand T-shirt websites and has them make him a T-shirt, rush delivery. A few days later, the photographer sends Prince dozens of photos that show Prince matching the pose in the water photo, the one you saw. Prince forwards those to the graphic designer. Two days later, Prince gets the Photoshopped photos back.” Skill taps the photo on the monitor. “This one.”

  I shake my head, “How do I know any of that’s true? How do I know you guys didn’t Photoshop this Water Of Life guy out of the photo, and put Prince in, just to trick me?”

  Skill opens a browser window to the Water Of Life page. Clicks a tab marked “Our Work.” A series of photos load. Photos I recognize from Prince’s phone. Dozens of them. Including the one Prince is in, except he’s not in the one on the website. The random guy with glasses is.

  That can’t be right. I blurt, “How come Prince is wearing a Water Of Life T-shirt? Did they Photoshop that in?”

  Skill opens a series of photos of Prince standing in a photo studio in front of a blank green backdrop. He’s wearing a blue T-shirt with the Water Of Life logo. “Guess what custom T-shirt he ordered?” Skill smirks at me. “He took the logo from the Water Of Life website and put it on the shirt he ordered.”

  I’m suddenly boiling hot.

  Rob says, “He’s been lying to you all along, Mary.”

  Skill adds, “This is just the tip of the iceberg, War Paint.”

  Tucker grunts, “Everything that fucker says is a lie. Don’t trust him, Mary.”

  “They’re right,” Jonah says gently.

  Dumbfounded, I stare at them.

  Rob Fletcher and his merry men suddenly don’t look very merry.

  “No,” I shake my head. “I don’t believe you guys. Prince was in Hondura
s. He told me. He was gone that whole weekend! I know! He flew to Honduras with a bunch of security guards!”

  “Which weekend?”

  “The one before I gave the spy cameras back and broke your stupid router.” I gasp.

  “Show her the emails,” Rob says.

  Skill starts opening emails.

  “See for yourself,” Rob says.

  I don’t want to believe any of this. I want to run out of here and never look back, but Rob pushes me up to the desk next to Skill.

  “Scroll through them,” Skill says, handing me a mouse.

  I take my time looking at the emails. Everything I read corroborates everything they said about Prince. The whole time I’m reading, I’m shaking my head in disbelief. “He was in Honduras!” I insist. “He told me!”

  “May I?” Skill motions at the mouse.

  I nod silently.

  He takes it and opens a video. It plays and shows what looks like security camera footage of Prince walking into a cute brick building that looks like it belongs in downtown Castle Hill. There’s an old-timey photography logo on the glass window. Prince opens the door and walks inside.

  I gasp.

  Rob says, “Look at the time and date stamp. Is that the weekend Prince said he was in Honduras?”

  “Can I see a calendar?” I ask.

  Skill opens one on the computer.

  I cringe. “It is. That’s the same weekend.” My eyes are watering when I look over my shoulder at Rob.

  “Sorry, Mary,” he says sympathetically. “He’s lying to you about Honduras and who knows what else.”

  “Did Prince even pay for those water purifiers?”

  “Which ones?” Skill asks.

  “The ones in all these pictures. Prince said he paid for a hundred of them to be given out around the world.”

  Rob sighs, “We’ve been monitoring his various email accounts but I don’t remember seeing anything about any transactions with Water Of Life. Do you, Skill?”

  Skill shakes his head, “No, nothing like that.”

  I scowl, “So he never paid them for the ones in the pictures?”

  Skill says, “Let me check something.” Skill does a bunch of computer wizardry for a few minutes and says, “These pics have been on the Water Of Life website for a while, some of them going back five years. Unless he’s been giving money to them the past five years…” Skill trails off.