“Making cupcakes for Xavier.” She looked down at the mess on the counter, cheeks pink. “Either that, or damning myself to a whole night of doing dishes. Time will tell?”
I quirked an eyebrow. “Cupcakes?”
“Well,” she explained as she spooned batter into a muffin tin, “Caitlyn Rogers told me that sweets are Xavier’s favorite. It’s kind of mandatory if you’re his girlfriend.”
“What kind of test did Blondie pass?”
I blink, back in the cafeteria, and feel my mood darken. “Ah, yeah, her Devil is notorious for the blow-job test.”
He gapes at me for a moment before gesturing. “Continue.”
“They say that any girl interested in him has to get on their knees and service him. If he likes it, I guess you can stick around. If not...” I shrug.
It’s one reason I’m suspicious of Hamilton’s involvement with Sky that night. Blow jobs? I know it’s not unique to him—he is a guy, after all—but it’s his signature brand of power play. It’s meant to be demeaning and degrading. I also suspect he favors this particular act because he’s lazy as hell and completely uninterested in showing another person any actual pleasure. Probably too much effort.
“I’m assuming the guy she’s literally clinging onto for dear life is the Devil?” He casts a dubious glance down at the cross pendant around his neck. “That’s probably not sacrilege or anything.”
“Well, there are a few.” I nod at the table. “The main ones stick together like a club. Ansel Davenport, baseball player. Emory Hall, football. He’s a junior, but tight with those guys. His best friend Reynolds got sent away a few years ago and they kind of adopted him. It doesn’t hurt that Campbell is into him.” I look around the room and my eyes land on a pretty blond girl two years younger. “That’s his sister, Vandy. She was in a bad accident a few years ago—caused by Reynolds—and is like, the most protected girl in school. Don’t mess with her.”
“Why would I mess with her?” He asks, forehead furrowed.
I shrug. Why would any of these guys do any of the things they do? “Just a warning.”
“Noted.”
“The guy next to him? That’s Xavier Ward.” I swallow over the name, still bitter about his brief ‘interest’ in Sky. “He also plays football. Then there’s Heston—”
“Did you just say Heston?” Tyson laughs. “Oh my god, I know that guy from swim. At first, I thought his name was a joke, because like... wow, pretentious much?”
“Right? Most pretentious name ever.” I laugh along, feeling heard and seen for the first time in a long while. “But yeah, Heston Wilcox is an incredible swimmer.”
“I saw him.” Tyson concedes, “He’s good. Same with Bates.”
My eyes jump to Hamilton when he says his name. Unfortunately, he happens to be looking my way when I do, and we make eye contact. Whatever “relaxation” method Reagan used earlier has lost its effectiveness. His scowl is firmly back in place, jaw tight, eyes narrowed.
Heat prickles the back of my neck, and I glance down at my food, shoveling in a mouthful of pasta to give myself a moment to re-orient. On the long, long list of reasons
I hate Hamilton Bates—and it could probably cover an entire CVS receipt—that one is definitely up there. How one look from him is enough to tangle me up in anger, distraction, or just downright agitation is beyond my comprehension, but here I am.
All tangled up.
“Okay, that look…” Tyson stops just short of visibly gesturing between me and Hamilton. “That look means something. What’s going on between you two?”
I force myself to swallow the spaghetti. Then I force myself not to bring it all back up. “That’s nothing.”
He scoffs. “Yeah right.”
“I hate him,” I say simply. “And he hates me. We’re always somehow forced to compete with each other, either in the classroom or on the swim team. We’re both hoping for captain this year.”
Tyson leans back in his seat, crosses his arms and watches me.
I stare back at him. “What?”
“Look, Gwen, I know competition. Really well, actually. I’m on the diving Olympic Development team. It’s about as cut-throat as it can get. That look he gave you?” He cuts his eyes sideways, toward Hamilton. “That’s not about competition. Real competitors take the emotion out of it. It’s based purely on drive, motivation, and success.”
Oh Tyson, too insightful. It’s going to get him into some serious trouble.
“Fine,” I relent, crossing my arms in a mirror pose. “He hates me because of my background. He thinks my whole family, and me especially, are trash. He—" I pause here, reluctant to bring it all up, but ultimately decide that the wide berth I’ve been given means no one is around to hear me. “We have a history. Something really, really bad happened to my sister last year and it was his fault. He let his idiot bootlickers get out of control.”