Devil May Care (Boys of Preston Prep 1)

The best part about it is that, since we start on opposite sides and agree to meet in the middle, we’re far enough apart that there’s no encouragement to speak. Hamilton solidifies this by placing his phone on top of the box of supplies and cranking up his play list.

Perfect.

As the sun rises, it grows warmer, and the first hour goes quickly. Hamilton finishes his first coat before I do and lazily drops his roller into the pan, but I continue with the final section at the top. I try to ignore him in my periphery, pulling his sweatshirt over his head and laying it on the ground before dropping onto it. He stretches out languidly, legs crossed at the ankles, leaning back on his elbows. It’s impossible to tune out my awareness of him. His gaze sweeping over me as he watches me work is like a constant heat on the back of my neck.

Nope.

Not today, Satan.

I paint faster.

“Yo, Bates,” I hear a distant voice call. I look back over my shoulder and see a pack of Devils coming our way. Xavier’s twirling a baseball bat and Heston’s clutching a glove to his chest, while Emory and Ansel each hold a ball and glove. Heston swings a bat hand to hand. It’s not uncommon on the weekend for the students on campus to use the athletic fields recreationally if they aren’t in use. “So this is what Dewey has you doing at the ass-crack of dawn on a Saturday? Lazing around while you let Adams do all the heavy lifting.”

I’m well aware that it looks like Hamilton’s fucking off while I do all the work.

“Hey, I did my share. It’s not my fault I’m just better at everything,” he says, smirking meanly at them, “but I guess that’s par for her course.”

“Well, the view’s not bad,” Ansel says, eliciting laughter from the others.

Hamilton waits a beat before responding. “I guess I am pretty lucky that Adams is my partner for this. Her background makes her more prepared for shitty menial labor. Isn’t that right, Morticia?”

“It is nice to get through one of these without you bleeding all over the place because of your massive levels of psychosis and incompetence, Norman.”

The guys howl with laughter, and I swipe the roller over the last section before starting down the ladder. They snort themselves into silence when I walk over, roller hanging limply in my hand. Hamilton gets to his feet, spurred on by my insult, but I speak before he has the chance. “If anyone’s unlucky to be out here, it’s me, having to deal with such a pathetic, privileged, sorry excuse for a human being. I sincerely hope you manage to stay in your daddy’s good graces, Bates, because if he snatches away that trust fund and you have to rely on anything other than your face or dick to get by in this world, you’re completely screwed.”

Hamilton stares at me, the familiar twinkle of evil in his eye. It sends a physical reaction through me, and I don’t even know what the hell. This Pavlovian response I’ve developed to pissing Hamilton off can’t possibly be healthy. He’s wearing the same expression he had before I slapped him in the office. Or before he kissed me in the locker room.

Fuck.

Not the result I was asking for.

“Dude,” Heston says, when Hamilton doesn’t have a snappy comeback, “I think she just said you should be a whore.”

Unfortunately, Hamilton’s had time to think. “At least I have people willing to fuck me, Adams.” He takes three stalking steps toward me, his eyes narrowed. “Because you’d have to pay someone to stick their dick in your haunted, dusty, self-righteous, death trap of a pussy.”

“Damn,” Emory says, eyes bulging.

How fucking dare he.

I move without thinking, inches away from him, “I swear to God, I’ll…”

“You’ll what?” His eyes flicker with excitement and his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. “What exactly will you do, Adams?”

I feel the Devils watching us, drinking us in like a fine wine, but I’m not giving them one ounce of satisfaction. I take the roller in my hand, push it against Hamilton’s forehead, and spin it down his pretty face, leaving a trail of white primer across his flawless skin.

Everything goes quiet. He doesn’t even move. He could slap it away, but it just rolls over his chin unimpeded.

Hamilton gapes at me, frozen.

The other Devils do the same.

I drop the roller onto the cloth and storm away.

He must try to come after me, because over my thundering heart, I can hear a commotion between the guys—shouts and d

emands for Hamilton to calm down.

“You know how she is… she’s a fucking snitch, it’s not worth it, you’ll just regret it,” one of them says, their words bouncing off the stone facade of the building.