Sometimes it’s never enough.
Today isn’t one of those days, but I still want to bury my head into my pillow and cry. In no fucking universe should my brain want to get off to thoughts of Heston goddamn Wilcox. My sex life has always come with its fair share of shame and regret, but today is just…particularly vile.
Even by lunch, I’m still feeling the uncomfortable churn in my gut, heavy with the knowledge that my libido is so heinous that even someone who’s hurt me as badly as Heston can penetrate it.
It doesn’t help that I’m still horny, completely deprived of the good, hard fuck that was meant to happen last night.
Snap!
“Tell me I can get out of this.” I push my barely eaten lunch aside and look imploringly at my friends. “Just…tell me it’s not happening.”
“Oh, it’s happening,” Caroline says, grinning. “I can’t believe you never took a P.E. class.”
I raise a finger. “If anything, that’s on Mrs. Gilbert for not making me do it sooner.”
Vandy gives me a skeptical glance.
“Fine,” I grumble. “Even I’m not sold on that excuse.” Mrs. Gilbert is excellent at her job. I’m the one who thought if I just ignored it, everyone would somehow magically forget. Guess not. “It’s going to be all underclassmen and nerds,” I complain, shoulders falling. “I mean, those Freshman boys won’t even know how to handle seeing me in a bathing suit.”
“You’ve seen the school suits, right?” Vandy asks, laughing. “They’re the antithesis of sexy.”
“Please.” I glance down at my boobs and raise an eyebrow. “It’s going to take more than cramming these things into red and black Lycra to make them off-putting to fourteen-year-old boys.”
Caroline snorts and the three of us shatter into giggles. It’s been a strange day. More than half of the Devils graduated—and all the guys—leaving the three of us alone. Whoever let them make the nominating decisions left a vast gap in membership. Dumbasses. It feels like losing half a limb—a shield, really. Even not being linked to any of them romantically, like Vandy is to Reyn, they made me feel safe. Protected. People mess with a Devil at their peril. It’s only the first day of senior year, and already I hear the whispers starting back up behind my back. No surprise, without Sebastian, Emory, Reynolds, Ben, Tyson, and Carlton sitting at our table. The vacancy is painfully noticeable. One long look from any of the guys—or even Afton—would have everyone shutting their mouths instantly. Now, I swear I can feel them all watching me. Talking in low tones. Throwing me mean smirks. Making crude gestures. Vandy’s eyes flick over my shoulder, and I follow her gaze, expecting to see just that.
It’s some guy I don’t recognize, though. He’s tall and lean, standing awkwardly over the empty half of the table. I narrow my eyes and search for the leering gaze, the confident swagger, the evidence that he’s looking to make me a conquest. Instead, he looks at us blankly until Caroline asks, “Do you need somewhere to sit?” He nods and she pushes out a chair. “Go for it. We won’t bite.”
“Speak for yourself,” I mutter, taking him in. He’s actually pretty cute. Preston doesn’t get nearly enough fresh meat. If I didn’t have that new rule about not fucking high school guys, he might even make my new shortlist.
Snap!
“Thanks,” he says, resting his tray on the table. He drops his leather backpack by his feet, muttering, “Can’t take lunchroom table politics today.”
“You’re new, right?” Vandy leans across the table, offering her hand and introducing herself. Of course, Ms. Welcome Wagon. She points to the two of us. “That’s Caroline and Georgia.”
“I’m Ozzy,” he says after a pause, lazy gaze passing over us. He looks stoned, eyes bloodshot, movements slow and badly coordinated, hair a touch too messy. Briefly, it reminds me of seeing Heston the night before.
Snap! Snap! Snap!
Clearing his throat, he adds, “Collins. Ozzy Collins.” The pained expression when he repeats his last name says it all.
Caroline’s eyebrows shoot up her forehead. “Wait, you mean like Headmaster Collins?”
“The very one,” he replies, stabbing his burrito with his fork. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance of me sliding under the radar with regard to being the Headmaster’s son, is there?”
“Probably not,” Vandy replies, grimacing sympathetically. “I didn’t even know Collins had kids. Did you just move here or something?”
He heaves a hard sigh and the three of us share a look. “Since I live with my mom, I used to go to Northridge. But everyone thought it’d be a good decision for me to come here for my senior year.”
Even I have a lot of questions about that. No one willingly changes schools senior year unless you have a damn good reason, but I stop short of asking. It’s none of my business. “Well,” I say, pushing my chair back, “I’m going to see if I can talk Coach James into giving me a break. Maybe I can write a paper?”
“On swimming?” Vandy asks, shaking her head. “Good luck with that.”
“Thanks.” I pass by the new kid, checking him out once more. “Nice to meet you.”
Snap!
“Yeah.” He squints at the burrito before setting it back down, clearly opting out of the Preston Prep dining experience. At least he’s not dumb.
Armed with the bag of low-calorie popcorn from the vending machine, I head across campus, grateful that everyone is in class or at lunch. There’s a reason I left early. Fewer people around. Fewer eyes. Fewer whispers. I should be used to it—it’s been going on for years—but with all the Devils having my back last year, I’d forgotten just how bad it felt.
Slut. Whore. Skank. Nympho.
It’s such a joke. Guys at Preston are historically the biggest sluts around, but you never hear them called anything worse than ‘players’, and even then, it’s never spoken with anything less than jaded admiration. I stare at the name engraved into the plaque above the natatorium: Bates. Case in point, Hamilton Bates was one of the biggest manwhores this school has ever seen. He settled down with Gwendolyn Adams and everyone wants to give him an award for it.
Fuck that.
I push open the glass doors and inhale the faint scent of chlorine out in the lobby. I’ve been to plenty of swim and diving meets here, so I know the coach’s office is off the back hallway, toward the locker rooms. The Devils usually came out to support Tyson when he was on the dive team, and plus, what’s not to like about seeing a bunch of hot, fit guys in Speedos?
Snap!
I spot the Devil's Swim banner next to a closed door. Another student is already sitting in one of the chairs outside. As I get closer, I have to do a double take when I realize that it’s Micha Adams.
“Hey,” I say, giving him a grin. “You waiting on Coach James, too?”
Micha’s gotten a lot taller over the summer. He’s willowy now, and his voice is a little deeper when he answers, “Yep, I’m trying to get out of swim,” but there’s also something delicately feminine about his new, matured features. His cheekbones are sharper. Curly hair that’s been buzzed short at the sides and left long at the top makes it tumble down over an artfully glittered eyelid.