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He leans in, whispering, “I’ve got the lowdown on the location of a secret fight ring. Tonight. Landry is taking bets until seven. We get thirty percent of the cut.”
My smirk breaks free, wicked and devious. “His parents wouldn’t be pleased if they found out. What did you have on him that he needed to pay you so steeply?”
“A positive drug test that would ruin his football scholarship. Oh, and footage of him getting blasted at that boat party in July.”
To the rest of the school Bishop is this angelic face and the principal’s son, but to me he’s my partner in crime with a mischievous streak a mile wide. We’re best friends because we fit together like a matched set—charming and handsome on the outside, but underneath our irresistible veneers lies a darkness sure to consume anyone that gets too close.
“Cool? Cool.” Bishop smacks my back. “Now get your ass back in the game.”
I cover his face with my hand and give him a shove. “Yeah, yeah. Get your own ass in gear, captain.”
Nine
Blair
The essay doesn’t take long to complete. I type it up in the library before school starts.
I didn’t put my full effort in, but it’s enough to get Devlin a fair passing grade. He never specified that it had to be a good essay. He’s not as clever as he thinks he is. If he wanted full marks, he wouldn't get them from me.
Devils don’t deserve an A+.
I’m jittery through the first two classes of the day, eager to get my hands on my $250. I cycle through nervous habits, chewing my lip practically raw, twirling my pen, bouncing my knee, and flicking my nails until students glare at me for being disruptive.
The anxiousness grows to a flurry of butterflies in my stomach as I slam my locker between periods.
A sea of students mills around me as I make my way to English class, the girls in green plaid skirts and black blazers with the school’s golden crest, and the guys in slacks, green and white ties, and the same blazers. Little rebellions crop up everywhere, students with their shirts in various states of disarray, wearing jackets and hats that aren’t part of the required uniform, and every kind of shoe imaginable. Few wear the regulation shiny black loafers.
I wrap my arms tighter around my books, Devlin’s assignment tucked inside my textbook. My incomplete uniform and beat up black Chucks aren’t a show of self-expression. I pieced together what I could find and afford.
Freshman year I didn’t even have the right uniform. I wore a cream shirt instead of white because it was what I found at the thrift shop for a few bucks, and a brown plaid midi skirt.
I reach class as the bell rings. Devlin is in his seat in the row next to mine, talking to Connor Bishop. A few of their usual cohort hang around nearby, pretending like they’re not listening to every word from their kings.
It’s hardly noticeable to the brainless masses at this school, but there’s something off about Devlin when he’s surrounded by his sycophants. People can’t see past the end of the silver spoons stuck in their mouth. But now that I’ve been in his house alone with him, the fake cockiness in his actions is even more obvious.
Despite the carefree, flirty demeanor, when no one’s looking I see a flicker of brooding edginess beneath his dimpled smirks.
Whatever Devlin mutters under his breath makes Bishop laugh and ruffle his light brown hair.
These two are a fearsome duo, and my insides clench at the thought of what they could be plotting with their heads bent together. With the arrogant, attractive tilt to his mouth, even I can reluctantly admit the devil is handsome. All tempting things are perfectly wrapped to lure you down the path of depravity. Devlin props his elbow on his desk and traces his mouth with his fingertips. His eyes land on me when I start down the aisle to my seat.
The spark in his eyes can’t mean good things.
As I reach Devlin’s desk, I slip his essay to him, placing it on top of the psychology book he has out. His hand covers mine before I can take my seat.
“Proclamations of love are not being accepted at this time,” Devlin drawls.
Bishop snorts and jabs Devlin in the shoulder.
Devlin’s mouth tugs up at the side as they exchange a cruel glance. He finds my gaze again.
“But if you’re especially desperate,” he takes me in head to toe, then makes a face, “eh, on second thought. I still don’t slum it, gutter rat. Move along. Your desperation is stinking up the place.”
My hand curls into a fist beneath his hand, crinkling the essay assignment underneath. I speak through my teeth in a low mutter. “You know what this is for.”
“Oh, is yours an extra special confession? Did you write me some emo girl poetry?” Devlin swats my hand away and lifts the essay. He pretends to examine it closely. “Hmm, this is sweet. Who knew the impoverished could be so eloquent.”
Bishop steals the essay away from him. He skims the page, his eyes flicking to Devlin for a beat.
