Devil May Care (Boys of Preston Prep 1)

“Never.

Sing me another tune some time.

“But hey, you know what did happen?” I stand on my own wobbly legs and can’t help but smirk. “I think we just kind of proved that we can work together.”

She stares at me blankly. It’s not a threat, it’s just the truth. But I see the worry in her eyes. She can’t help it. She doesn’t trust me, and frankly, she shouldn’t.

“Adams.” I hold her gaze, and I’m not proud of what comes next any more than dry humping her in the girls' locker room. I shouldn’t have to do this. But desperate times and all that. “Please,” I ask.

She watches me, and I’m not sure what she’s looking for. Even I can’t manage the artifice of deception three minutes after coming my brains out. Whatever she was looking for, she must find it. She runs her hand down her shirt, like she’s cleaning it off, and thrusts it toward me. “Co-captains?”

I offer her my own and we shake, her fingers still trembling—either from the orgasm or from the horror of what we’d just done.

Either way, I got mine.

11

Gwen

“Debbie made you this!” Michaela produces a muffin from her backpack with a crumb-flying flourish. “It’s chocolate.”

“My favorite.” The muffin looks as squished and lopsided as I feel. “Thanks.”

I’m being a total coward, having pretended at being late to avoid talking to our nanny. I couldn’t face her after what I’d done. I can barely even face myself after what happened last night.

“How does it feel to lose control?” Even now, I can call up the memory of his face perfectly, inches from my own. If I thought kissing him that first time tangled me up, then what happened yesterday just took a sledgehammer to it all. This time, it wasn’t the dark creep of nightmares that made me squirm all night. It was the near constant, hyper-realistic, Imax-sized internal replay of what he felt like beneath me, around me, against me.

How does it feel to lose control?

Starting alphabetically, agonizing. Amazing. Appalling. Awesome. Awful. I have plans to get through the Bs during homeroom. By the end of the day, I should have enough for a whole storybook on the cautionary tale of hot boys and the neurotic girls they torment.

“So, how’s dance going?” I ask Micha, welcoming the distraction. “Did you get the solo?”

“Our teacher hasn’t decided yet. The final audition is tonight. I’ve been struggling with this one move…” He pauses to drop his bag and assume a dancing posture. I was never good with dance, myself, so I’m not really sure if the twirl he pushes into is technically as perfect as it looks, but it’s quick and graceful.

A few of the high school kids walking past slow to gawk at him, and I don’t know if they’re impressed or about to say something really shitty. My hackles rise, regardless, ready to push back if they so much as snicker at him.

Micha’s oblivious, thankfully. He just completes his last step with a dip and turn, and then falls out of the posture, shrugging. “But I think I’ve got it down better than Gloria. She’s my only real competition.”

“Mom says we can go out for ice cream if he gets the solo,” Michaela explains to me. She hands Micha his bag and adds, “You’ll get it. Or else.”

I laugh at the glare on Micha’s face. “Come on, guys. We all know Mom will take you for ice cream regardless. It looks like you’ve got it down, anyway.” I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear and start to unwrap the muffin. I glance up and notice Michaela watching me closely. “What?”

She touches beneath her ear. “What’s that?”

My hand reaches for the spot. It’s tender and red. I know that from seeing it in the mirror this morning. I’d tried covering the hickey with concealer, but that obviously didn’t work. I’d sure like to know what the hell he was thinking, leaving evidence like that. My first thought was that Hamilton had tried to give me a Devil’s mark, but that’s just insane. He’d never want anyone to know. Ever. “Just a bruise. I got hit by a kickboard at swim last night.”

But a small part of me is glad it’s there. I have solid, tangible proof that last night happened. It wasn’t some messed up fever dream that my brain created. His mouth was there. It’s all at once some strange, erotic, horrifying relief.

“Ouch,” she says, satisfied and sympathetic, but I’m inwardly filled with dread. Michaela documents everything just in case she needs the information for later.

When we reach their classroom, they both say in that creepy twin unison, “See you later!”

“Bye! Good luck, Micha! Text me and let me know how it goes, okay?”

He probably won’t, but Mom’s guaranteed to give me a documentary-level video and photo account of every moment. Eating the muffin on the way to class, I furtively pull my hair over my shoulder in an attempt to hide the hickey. Every day for the last six months has been the same; I walk in, go to my locker with a negative sum of acknowledgment, and I go to class to the same treatment. The wall of silence follows my each and every step like a hostile but ever-faithful dog.

But today isn’t like every other day.