“You’re doing it again,” Ansel says.
I blink at him. “Doing what?”
“Looking for her.”
We both know who “her” is.
Dark hair. Big blue eyes. Puffy pink lips.
“Well, duh? Because I fucking hate her and want to do everything possible to avoid her.”
Ansel rolls his eyes. “You’re not the only one who got in trouble over that bullshit.”
“No,” I agree, jaw tightening, “but I’m the one with the most on the line.”
After the meeting with the board and Skylar’s parents, everyone agreed to The Terms, and trust me, capital Ts are necessary here. Most of the parents thought The Terms were punishment enough. Not my father. There’s never a problem too small for his emotional sledgehammer. Being at that party, letting the Devils get out of control, not having a handle on everything; these are all a clear sign of weakness. Well, at least to him. Apparently, the fact that I’m the best—academically, athletically, genetically—makes me responsible for everyone else, and it’s bullshit. But a ‘real leader’ wouldn’t have let that happen. A Hamilton wouldn’t have let that happen.
A Hamilton would never let someone inferior, with no name, no legacy, dictate my future.
In typical fashion, he completely overreacted by cracking down. In his opinion, I never should have been around the public-school kids from Northridge in the first place, and I sure as hell shouldn’t have been anywhere near the Adams family. My father’s perspective is that if I want to play with commoners, there are avenues to make that happen. The worst of the fallout was that I had to move out of the estate and into the dorms for “extra supervision.” Additionally, he took my BMW away; it’s locked up in the student lot with a tracker affixed to the bottom, only to be used to travel to and from home. The explanation is that my singular focus was to be on academics, swimming, and tending to my tarnished reputation. This was followed by a demeaning lecture about ‘girls like that’ and how it’s best to stay clear of them, and concluded with the promise that, if I needed someone so desperately to suck me off, he’d hire a reputable escort.
Jesus.
My kingdom for the ability to bleach that conversation from my memory.
“Once I make team captain, he’ll lay off,” I assure. “It’s just really important to him that I succeed.”
And maintain the legacy.
Preston Prep is just the first step of many. Next is getting into one of the southern Ivies. Vanderbilt, Washington and Lee, UVA, or Wake Forest. And then, joining my father and grandfather’s fraternity, which would lead to me being invited to “The Machine,” a secret society that would be the key to all future relationships and successes. I had the bloodline, the money, and the family prestige, but if I tarnished it—fucked with it in any way—all of that could crumble. I’d be done—not just socially, but also where my father was concerned. I’m under no illusions. Unconditional family love and all that other fluffy bullshit might be enough for trash like the Adamses, but my family? Not a chance.
“You should take Reagan home,” Ansel suggests. “Isn’t her dad a senator or something? Maybe she can calm him down.”
I don’t want to give my father or Reagan any ideas, but yeah, Reagan with her luxurious blonde hair and impeccable make-up—not to mention perfect tits that she inherited from her beauty queen mother—would distract my father for a little bit, even if only for the conflict of wondering if he liked her for me, or himself.
Fucking gross.
I shake that off before it devolves into physical nausea. “No, it’ll be fine. Coach is making the big announcement next week. I think things will chill from there.”
Ansel lifts a dubious eyebrow. “And if not?”
My eyes follow the sway of Gwendolyn’s hips as she turns down the hall. My fingers twitch, sparked by the anger boiling low beneath the surface.
“Then shit is going to get very real.”
I slide into my first period seat, opening my backpack and dropping my book on the desk.
Heston Wilcox, another Devil, follows me in and takes the seat next to mine. Our fathers are both leaders in the business community, members of the same clubs, and alumni of Preston. As a result, Heston and I have been tossed together since preschool. It’s a good thing we like one another. We’ve swam competitively together and against one another since we were four, which means a lot of long weekends and practices spent with each other. This will be our last year on the team. We started the academic year with a pact to make this one the best, and not even this stupid Adams drama could dampen our determination. If anything, it’s just driven us harder.
“How’s the shoulder,” he asks, opening his own book.
I rotate it, out of reflex. The pulling ache has receded since last semester, leaving a tightness in its wake. “Better. The PT seems to be working. It’s stronger.”
“Good,” he replies, slouching in his seat. “I need my anchor.”
When we’re not competing against one another, Heston and I are on the same relay. He’s the first leg and he swims hard, pulling us ahead of the pack early. I’m the last leg, the anchor, the one who brings it home. It’s like this: if he fails, it means I need to work that much harder. But it’s not necessarily over. I’m clutch. We can come back from it. But if I fail, that’s it. All his effort—everyone’s effort—is wasted.
Story of my life.