Devil May Care (Boys of Preston Prep 1)

Now it’s my turn to laugh. “So it’s the second one, then.”

“The second what?”

“You want to rub salt into my wounds,” I explain, crossing my arms. “Hate to rain on your parade, but I’m already over it. So go ahead, give it your best shot.”

He stops in front of me, his expression some tight marriage of exasperation and annoyance. “You know what? In case you missed it, I didn’t do anything to you yesterday. I was the one trying to actually get some shit done while you scurried away. I just wanted to know who was fucking with you.”

“Who was fucking with me?” I look around the tower, gesturing widely toward the window where, below, the entire campus is milling about. “Why don’t I tell you everyone who isn’t fucking with me? It’d take two seconds as opposed to all night.”

He rolls his eyes, shifting his weight. “Yes, your persecution complex is still in fine form. I’m glad to see you haven’t forgotten to oil it daily. Doesn’t really give me anything to go off of, though.”

“Oh my god, you’re so dense that light bends around you.” I can feel my anger swelling until my nostrils are flaring, and I’m probably already getting red again. At this point, any anger at Hamilton has somehow connected itself directly to my freak of a libido. “It’s not one person. It’s an entire culture. I can’t even tell you who said my ass was fat, or that Coach only made me co-captain because he pitied me, or who called my sister a slut, or who said I’m not even good enough at swimming to captain a kiddie pool. It’s everyone, Bates. Because you might suck at treating people like human beings, but when it comes to turning the whole school against someone? You’re the master.” I bow mockingly. “Master Bates.”

He seems to be getting just as worked up, that muscle in his jaw getting tenser and sharper. “I didn’t come here to fight with you. Believe it or not, I was actually trying to make shit better. Which is pretty big of me, considering that ridiculous lecture you gave me about not wanting to carry my half of another responsibility, and here I am carrying yours."

I scoff. “What do you even care?”

“Because this is half my job, too!” he insists, jabbing a finger into his chest. “This is my first year as captain and my last season swimming for this team. I want us to get a title, and we can’t do that if you’re running off crying after every fucking practice.”

I go rigid, furious with myself for giving that to him—for giving him the ammo he needed to regard me as some weak little crybaby. “That’s not going to happen again. I don’t need you to save me.”

He drops that rigid defensive posture, face going blank. “Wait…you came up here to fight with me, didn’t you?”

“Well...” I try adjusting to the weird, sudden shift in energy, but can’t quite manage it. “Yeah.”

“Yeah,” he says, breathing a laugh as his gaze shifts toward the open windows. “We could do that, or...” He steps closer, and closer, hand slipping forward to brush against the hem of my skirt. When his gaze meets mine again, his mouth is curved into a mean smirk. “Or we could skip the part where you hit me or push me and just get right to the good stuff.”

My jaw drops at the realization that he thinks I want to hookup. It makes me indignant enough that my palms come up to his chest, shoving—

Oh, shit.

He stumbles back a few steps, eyes flashing in triumph. “I fucking knew it,” he says, stalking his way back to me. “That’s why you’re here.”

“Is not!” I insist, but it’s a laughably weak denial.

I take a moment to internally panic, because did I? Did I really come up here hoping to get in a fight with him, knowing where those fights have been leading?

No, my mind provides sarcastically. You got a note asking you to come to the prime make-out spot and decided to show up, just to talk.

I’m such an idiot.

“You know what I’m going to do for you, Adams?” He steps closer, until he’s near enough to smell, until the heat of his breath just barely washes over my mouth. His eyes are heavy-lidded now, knowing. “I’m not even going to make you ask for it this time.”

The kiss is some bastard amalgamation of the one in the dorm room and the ones from last night. It isn’t tender, but there’s no fury in it, either. When his tongue seeks entrance, I give it to him, letting him lick into my mouth, licking back into his.

As we kiss, I wonder if this is what I came for. And then he starts backing me up, guiding me until my back meets the wall between two of the opened archways. We’re still hidden from view—if anyone looked up to the tower, they wouldn’t see a thing. But I can still hear them all down there beneath us, the raucous sounds of campus life, laughter and yelling.

He pulls back from the kiss with dark eyes and a red mouth. “Well?”

I swallow, letting my head fall back against the wall, and then close my eyes in shame. “I thought you weren’t going to make me ask for it.”

He lets out a low laugh. “I won’t. But you have to give me something.” His fingers reach down to touch my bare thigh, skimming it up until it’s just beneath the hem of my skirt. “Just say ‘yes’.”

I open my eyes and see the massive bell behind him. A faded, graffitied Devil has been scrubbed off the bronze—marking the territory. I wonder how many girls have been here before, how many people have had sex right where I’m standing? My eyes dart to the fabled wooden beam holding up the bell. Dozens of initials are gouged into the century old wood, under those notches. If gossip is to be believed, each one represents a conquest.

Gwen Adams isn’t the kind of girl that would ever be up in the Devil’s Lair.

Yet here I am.