I turn to hide my grimace. He doesn’t know just how right he is. “It’s not like I’m choosing to.” Although it’d be really nice to spend less time with Raegan. Unfortunately, this is the most inconvenient time to break up with her, what with all the awkward shit going on between me and Gwendolyn. It’s better that she thinks I’m already attached, that our little... encounters weren’t anything special. Just flukes.
Were they?
Of course, they were.
“Have you told your dad?” Heston asks, interrupting my thoughts.
“Not yet.” That’s something I plan to do in person. This is a particularly delicate situation, which will no doubt require improvisation strategy. I’ve been thinking on it for days now, weighing the different outcomes. I’d rather get a feel for what he’s really thinking, and I can’t do that over the phone. “We’re having dinner tomorrow night. I’ll let him know then.”
“Smart.” He swivels in the chair, taking in the small space with a thoughtful expression. “You know, it’s too bad Adams is such a freak. Any other co-ed captain situation and this would be the perfect hook-up spot.” He spreads his hands on the desk, testing the sturdiness. “A little sexy secretary action? Damn, I bet her pussy is tighter than Beyonce’s jeans.”
I react so fast, I don’t even have time to consider it. I lunge toward him and shove him against the wall, chair clattering over. I press my forearm against his throat and his eyes bulge, hands instantly struggling against me.
He grunts, “What the fuck!”
“This fucking hard-on you’ve got for Adams is getting real old,” I hiss, heart thundering in my chest.
“What?!” His eyes grow wider, this panicked little crinkle growing between his eyebrows. “I don’t have a hard-on for Adams!”
“No?” I press harder, my voice low and dangerous. “Because with the way you’re always talking about her tits and pussy, it’s starting to feel like maybe you do.” I hold him there for a second longer, our eyes locked, and then release him.
“What the hell, Bates!” He rubs his neck. “I know you hate her, but seriously, I can’t even joke about her?”
“No,” I reply, trying to tamp down this insane fucking urge to just beat this fucker bloody. “You know the rules. She doesn’t exist. She’s fucking cancelled.”
Heston rights the chair, and we both know he literally can’t be pissed off at me. Not outwardly. Regardless, his movements are jerky and curt, eyes ablaze. “And how exactly do you plan on pulling that off while you’re working with her all the time?”
I take a moment while my back is turned to stare blankly in the direction of the bathroom.
Shit.
How am I supposed to keep her in her place—keep fucking letches like Heston away from her—while doing this job? How am I supposed to tell people she’s cancelled when I’m talking to her every day, listening to her, doing shit with her?
More importantly, why is the faculty so determined to ruin all my efforts? Don’t they see that Adams being an invisible nobody is better for everyone?
“Dealing with that is my job,” I decide, pulling a shirt from my bag. “Yours is to fall in line.” I level him with a warning look.
I can count on one hand the amount of times I’ve pulled rank like this. It’s known that I’m the leader of the Devils, I rarely need to. Whipping out my dick every week and lording it over them has never been appealing to me. Not since last spring, when everything went down with Sky, have I had to step up. But Gwendolyn? No way I’m letting these assholes talk about her like that—especially not Heston, who’s already sketchy enough.
“Act the way I act. That means if I ignore Adams, you do, too. If I listen to her, so do you. Coach wants us to look cohesive and cooperative, and that’s doable. But it also means you can’t act like a fucking degenerate. Understood?”
“Yes, Jesus.” He stalks toward the door, but thankfully, most of that angry energy seems to have been sapped. “Next time just use your words instead of your fists, bro.”
“Yeah, well...” I cram my towel into my bag and throw it over my shoulder. “Next time use your brain and not your dick.”
Before we walk out, he insists, “I don’t want to fuck her.” The thing about Heston is that most people think he’s a really good liar. He has this way of turning on the charm, of sounding perfectly sincere. When it’s down to strictly voice performance, Heston is second to none.
But face-to-face, I know his tells.
There’s the smallest wrinkle near his left eye, almost like a crow’s foot. It’s only ever there when he’s lying.
“No one does,” I tell him, flipping off the light. “And I’m here to make sure you don’t forget it.”
The next day at practice, it’s pretty clear that Gwendolyn is drowning—figuratively, not literally, because even I have to admit she’s a fucking fantastic swimmer. This is drowning of the purely social variety.
It’s not that she doesn’t try. She comes in all bold voice and straight posture, and the strong commanding artifice is only mostly obvious. I watch from the shallow end as she stashes her belongings in the office and strides across the pool deck with her chin lifted, clipboard clutched to her chest.
As she gets near, John Martin, fastest in breast-stroke, mutters something vaguely crude and elbows Heston. Heston’s responding smile is enough to earn my cold, sharp glare. His jaw snaps shut, and he busies himself with putting on his cap.