Devil May Care (Boys of Preston Prep 1)

Micha’s eyebrow raises dramatically—something he’s no doubt been practicing in the mirror for the last year. “Are you two hanging out?”

“No!” I reply, a little too abruptly. From the look on his face, my brother isn’t buying it. “We’re co-captains on swim together. Sometimes we do nice things for each other. It’s no big deal.”

“Whatever you say, sis,” he replies.

The bell tower chimes, cutting the conversation short. I wave and they take off into the middle school. If Michaela is telling the truth—and there’s no reason she wouldn’t—Hamilton went out of his way to make sure he brought me a coffee I specifically would like. And this was before we had it out at detention. Before he humiliated me in front of his friends. Before we even had sex.

Traffic control devices get less mixed signals than this.

I walk toward the main building, coffee cup warming my hands, and feel my eyes pull m

agnetically toward where Hamilton stands with his friends. Micha’s right. He is hot. His hair is gently blowing in the breeze, and he ducks his head down against it, grinning with half his mouth as he talks. His tie is a little loose at his neck, and he’s propped up against one of the low retaining walls, hands pushed into his pockets. I look at him and get all these thoughts, like his shoulders shifting under his shirt as he shrugs, and how I’ve had my hands hooked around them while he was thrusting into me. Or how when he reaches up to fidget with his earlobe, remembering that my teeth have been there. Or when he wets his bottom lip with his tongue, I get this striking awareness that it’s been buried between my legs.

The conversation we had with one another in the music room was all at once awkward and disorienting. He wanted to hook up—it was written clear as day on his face—but I was such a mess of nerves and self-doubt that we’d talked instead. The whole conversation felt like we were setting clear parameters; this isn’t dating and I’m not lining up to be his girlfriend. After what he admitted about his current girlfriend, I’m not sure Hamilton Bates is designed for commitment at all, least of all with me.

Across the quad, I watch him as he laughs at something Xavier says, his face glowing in the early morning sun, and I’m acutely aware when his eyes dart my direction, before flicking away just as quickly. If I blinked, I would have missed it.

No, the coffee gesture wasn’t loaded. It was a minor peace offering, nothing more. The unspoken agreement we seemed to have come to yesterday was obvious. We’re both in this to fulfill a need—a need that apparently neither of us have been able to quench—and that it doesn’t need to be fraught with hatred and resentment to work. It can just... be.

It just can’t be anything more.

“I need all the seniors to come meet by the bleachers,” Hamilton announces once practice is over. We’re wrapped in towels, muscles and skin hot from swimming, but pebbled with goosebumps from the cool air outside the water. There are twenty seniors, and, after a moment of dawdling, they all huddle obediently around me and Hamilton.

“The first meet is coming up and that means it’s time for locker decorating,” Hamilton says, while I pass around cards to each swimmer. “Gwendolyn is giving you a list of the swimmers you’re responsible for, and I don’t want to hear any bitching about who you get.”

“Everyone should have about four teammates that you’re responsible for. There are a few details about each swimmer, such as favorite color, candy, drink—that kind of thing. We have art supplies and paper in the office for you to use, including a metric fuckload of glitter, and don’t be afraid to go the extra mile by adding personal touches.”

I’m not quite sure how locker decorating—which should by all accounts be scorned as a lame waste of time by the popular kids—became something that got the entire team excited, but even Heston seems eager, nodding along. Though I shouldn’t really be surprised. It’s tradition, one that’s upheld seriously. This is more than just a silly craft project. It is, in its own way, a competition itself.

I’m just glad they’re cooperating.

“The administration is leaving the building open tomorrow night for the sole purpose of decorating. Go in, find the locker, and decorate the fucking thing. That’s it. No sneaking into classrooms, petty theft, or vandalizing anything.” Hamilton’s grey eyes sweep the crowd before narrowing at Heston, who holds his hands up innocently. I don’t think either of us miss the wicked smirk on his mouth. Last year there were some problems, but Coach was able to smooth it over. I doubt we’d get a third chance. “We’ll meet at the main doors at nine sharp, got it?”

As a group, they nod, and break off to begin discussing their ideas. Most head into the office to avail themselves of the supplies to take back to their dorms or home. When we’re alone, Hamilton scratches the back of his neck and turns to me, eyes averted.

“So,” he asks quietly. “Want to knock this out together?”

I eye him warily. We have eighteen lockers to decorate between the two of us and something tells me that, much like manual labor, creative arts probably aren’t part of Hamilton’s wheelhouse. There’s also a part of me that suspects he’s using this as a way to get me alone so we can do more hot, sweaty things. It’s not even that I don’t want to. It’s just that I’m still unsure what to make of it all, and it doesn’t seem like a good idea.

“If I agree to come, I’m not doing all the work,” I tell him, avoiding his gaze when I carefully add, “And that’s all we’d be doing. Working.”

“Fine. You can come by my suite, if you want.” I give him a warning look and he rolls his eyes. “Jesus Christ, we’ll leave the door open, okay? It’s not about that, I just have a lot of space there. We can spread out, have plenty of room to work with.”

I nod toward the group of Devils walking into the locker room. “Won’t certain people have something to say about that?” He and I both know that just waltzing up to his suite will be making a particular kind of public statement.

But Hamilton just shrugs. “This is the kind of thing Coach wants us to do, right? The dean, too. We’re supposed to be putting aside our differences for the sake of good leadership or whatever. So, I have no problem with it getting around. It’s the kind of thing that gets them off our back.” He meets my gaze, the curve of his mouth spreading into an impish grin. “It’ll also get back to my dad, which will make him absolutely fucking furious.” He cocks an eyebrow. “You game?”

While he waits for me to decide, he pulls on a shirt, covering his ridiculous upper body. I don’t miss his wince, nor the way his body goes rigid for a split second while working his shoulder.

“That’s getting worse.”

“Nah.” He shakes his head, and I think if I listen closely enough, I can hear the undercurrent of the pain he’s clearly trying to hide. “Just tight. It’s not an issue.”

I dither for a moment, and I don’t even know. It’s like I have this sudden impulse to sit him down on the bench and give him a massage or something, which is preposterous. Hamilton’s a fantastic swimmer, and I don’t know what his plans for the future are—maybe it’s all riding on his athletics, though I doubt it—but I do know that nothing good can come from ignoring an injury like this.

I tell myself firmly that it’s not my problem to fix. If he wanted help, he’d ask for it like a big boy.

Which is why I can’t ignore it when he does—such as help with decorating lockers.