Devil May Care (Boys of Preston Prep 1)

I take a bite of my hamburger and only distantly listen to them ramble on about their good deeds. Swallowing and wiping my mouth, I raise an eyebrow at Tyson and say, “Guess we can’t compare to these two do-gooders.”

Presley turns to me, winding her arm around his. “Tyson volunteers his time down at the pool in the summer giving the kids diving lessons. It’s so amazingly adorable. Actually, that’s how we met.”

I take a long drag on my milkshake while Gwendolyn asks for more details. Presley hap

pily complies, going into some nonsense about watching the kids at the pool and Tyson needing a volunteer. Meet-cute ensues, blahblahblah…

Fucking gag me.

“Anyway,” Presley continues, “he spent two hours trying to teach me how to do a basic dive off the dock—”

“I’m pretty sure she was faking,” Tyson adds, “just to get me to stick around.”

“Yeah, right,” she laughs, touching the tip of his nose with her finger, “you’re just a terrible coach.”

“Hey! I never claimed to be a good coach, just an amazing diver.”

“You’re good at a lot of things, baby.” The two of them grin soppily at one another. I grab my hamburger and cram it into my mouth for another bite. Gwendolyn stabs her milkshake with her straw. Under the table her knee bounces nervously. My foot accidentally bumps hers and she flinches, shifting uncomfortably.

“So how long have you two known one another?” Presley asks, looking between us.

“Oh, um,” Gwendolyn starts, “I don’t know. A long time.”

I lower my burger and nod. “Since grade school.”

“We were just thrown together a lot because of swim,” Gwendolyn adds, smiling tightly. “Forced companionship.”

I get a flash of memory of her from back then, skinny as a rail with two askew pigtails. She wore the same red and white team bathing suit every day and habitually lost her goggles. After so long, I took to packing two, so she could always borrow one. In return, she’d always bring me a snack, because her nanny always packed extra. Neither of us had to ask. Things were different back then. Simpler. At that age, having friends wasn’t about status or cliques or posturing. It was just two kids, sitting with their feet dipped into the deep end, trying to see who could kick the biggest splash.

Once, I even let her win.

I blink, coming back to the present.

Presley is still talking. “Wow, really? That’s cool, though. You guys have, like... real history. I only moved here three years ago, so I’m not sure I’ll ever really feel like I fit in with the girls at Holy Innocence. All their friendships were formed long before I started.”

Tyson tosses his arm over her shoulder and pulls her in for a hug. I can’t help but watch them and wonder if his actions are genuine or just a play. He seems genuine, like an actual ‘nice guy’, which is about the only annoying thing about him. The only time I’m overtly nice to a girl like that is when I’m hoping to get some later.

The cross hanging around both of their necks kind of makes me wonder if that’s even on the table and, if it’s not, then what’s even the point?

“Just because we’ve gone to school together for years and swim on the same team doesn’t mean we’re in the same group of friends,” Gwendolyn says, her knee bouncing even faster. “That’s not how Preston Prep works. Isn’t that right, Hamilton?”

I narrow my eyes, putting my burger down. Does she really want to start this here?

Tyson frowns, looking between us. “If I understand correctly, these two have a bit of an ongoing feud.”

His girlfriend’s eyebrows arch. “Oh, seriously? I guess I noticed a little tension, but I wasn’t sure if you two were like, exes? Or maybe you’re into each other? There’s a whole vibe happening.”

Gwendolyn barks an obnoxious laugh before I get a chance to. Her knee moves like a jackhammer, driving me nuts. I clamp a hand down on her thigh, stilling her completely.

“That vibe—” she begins, trying to pry my hand from her thigh. To spite her, I press down harder. “—is called mutual loathing. Hatred. Disgust. Distrust. Because the thing about Hamilton is that he’s a complete prick—”

“And she’s a complete bitch,” I add, tossing in my own jab as I dig my fingers into her knee.

“Also, he’s a pretentious, spoiled man-baby.”

“And she’s a self-righteous control freak.”

“And despite billing himself as a competitive hard-worker,” she digs her nails into my wrist, “he absolutely crumbles at the faintest whiff of anything resembling adversity.”