Devil May Care (Boys of Preston Prep 1)

“I

take that as a compliment.” I sniff indignantly. “And you’re totally Steve. That guy is such a douchebag.”

His laugh is a quiet, bouncing thing. “You’re going to be eating your words when season two starts and you find out he’s the good guy.”

“Dude!” I turn to fake-push him off the bed, heedless of his laughter. “Spoilers!”

As the afternoon light fades into an evening glow outside my window, my eyelids begin growing heavy. I’m so stupidly deep into the story, and so oddly comfortable with Hamilton’s company, that I don’t even want to go to sleep. But no matter how much I blink, I can’t keep my eyes open.

I wake with a start, my neck bearing a sharp ache at even the smallest movement. It’s hot under the covers and something heavy is pinning me down. My room is bathed in the darkness of late night, but the lights from the quad cast enough of a glow that I can see Hamilton is still here, his arm flung carelessly across my middle as he sleeps.

The laptop sits abandoned at the foot of the bed, closed now.

I take a moment to absorb the half of his face that isn’t buried into my pillow. All the meanness, tension, and caustic cruelty is absent from his expression. All that’s left is his beauty, his long eyelashes, sharp cheekbones, stubble-covered jaw. His soft pink lips are parted as he breathes softly, and the urge to lift my hand and touch them is almost too intense to ignore. Though his face is slack, the weight of his arm feels possessive and clutching, like a man holding on to a life preserver.

After all this time, I still don’t know who Hamilton Bates really is. Is he the kind, careless boy from the picture in my closet? Is he the golden boy who will stop at nothing to get what he wants? Is he the cruel, ruthless leader of the Devils? Or is he the awkwardly compassionate guy who sometimes saves and protects me?

It probably can’t be that easy. Most likely, he’s a little bit of all those things, all mashed up into this beautiful, twisted mess of a man. I can’t begin to understand how they all reconcile, but I do know that, during moments like this, it’s hard to remember why I hate him at all. Or hated him. I’m not even sure which tense to use anymore.

I don’t dare wake him, instead burrowing back down under the covers, allowing the soft rhythm of his breaths, the weight of his arm around me, to lull me back into slumber. I can’t help but think that it’s nice not to be alone, even if I am sharing a bed with my biggest enemy.

“So, I’m curious,” I say, pausing to take a bite of gooey pizza. “What’s the deal with your parents?”

It’s late—way past midnight—and we’re both wired from sleeping all evening. I’d awoken first, slipping carefully from the bed to take a shower, desperate to wash off the sticky residue of sickness. I returned to find him on the phone with the 24-hour pizza place. He waited outside for the delivery as I stood in front of my mirror, detangling my hair.

When he came back up, I spread a blanket over the floor, and he placed the pizza in the middle of it. Now, we’re sitting across from one another; me leaning against the bed, Hamilton stretched out on his side.

“Jesus.” He makes a vaguely sour face at my question. “You don’t want to listen to all that. It’ll take all fucking night.”

“Sure I do,” I insist. “I asked, didn’t I? Plus, it’s like two in the morning. ‘All night’ isn’t a huge commitment.”

He chews on his feta and artichoke pizza, something I discovered we both like. And clearly, something he really likes, because he’s on his fourth slice. He sighs, beginning, “Well, this may come as a surprise to you, so don’t get the vapors or anything. But my parents—and particularly my father—are pretentious assholes.”

“Wow,” I fake a gasp. “That is a shocker.” I dip my crust in the ridiculously delicious butter sauce. “Mostly that you have the self-awareness to acknowledge that.”

He takes another bite of pizza, his free hand extending a long, elegant middle finger at me. “For a long time,” he continues, swallowing, “I thought my dad was a god because he was so smart, successful, and powerful. And in some ways, I still do…”

“But…” I prod.

He takes a breath, wiping his greasy fingers on a napkin. “But some shit went down a few years ago with my sister, and the older I get, the more I think about it. At the time I thought he handled it the right way—the only way—but now... I guess I’m not so sure.”

I pull the feta off another piece of pizza and pop it in my mouth. “What happened?”

He sucks his teeth, leaning back on his hands. “Well, my sister, Hollis—I don’t think you ever met her—she was always really independent. And, I mean, my dad loved that about her, practically molded her to be that way. He had really high hopes for her to become some brilliant CEO or lawyer or whatever. But that’s the thing about shaping your kid to be independent, right? They rebel against your expectations.”

He continues, “When she was sixteen, we were at our place at the beach. I was only twelve at the time. We spent most of the summer there with my mom or our housekeeper. My dad would come down on the weekends. It was kind of boring for two kids, honestly.”

I think of the childhood vacations I’ve had with my own family, having plenty of siblings near enough to my own age to play or hang out with. I nod. “I can see that.”

He pushes himself upright, propping his elbows on his knees, and something about the way he curls his shoulders inward seems protective, tempered. “So, Hollis started dating someone who worked at the marina. Just a townie, you know? She kept it secret for a while, until my dad came down one weekend and saw them together on one of the boats. It was bad enough that it was a local, because, well...” He gives me a quick, cautious look.

“Because he didn’t have ‘pedigree’,” I roll my eyes, nostrils flaring hotly. “Because he was a piece of blue-collar, working-class trash?”

“Right,” he says slowly. “More or less, I guess. The fact it wasn’t a ‘he’ definitely escalated things.”

My head jerks up in surprise. “A girl? Your sister is a lesbian?”

“Yep.” He bobs his head. “From there, shit just hit the fan. Like... I know it’s a cliché. Rich girl falls in love with a local kid. Father has a meltdown.” He looks up at me from under those thick, dark eyelashes. “He gave her a choice, the girl or his legacy—his money, his influence, his support.” He shrugs in a way that looks aloof, but I know isn’t. “Hollis chose the girl.”