CHAPTER 3

"You’re late. Again."

Jonathan leaned against the locker bank, his arms crossed over a black cashmere sweater that cost more than Benjamin’s car. He didn't look at Benjamin. He looked at Natalie Collins, who was standing five inches too close to his property.

"He’s not late, Hayes. Practice ended two minutes ago," Natalie snapped, pulling her gym bag higher on her shoulder. "We were just talking about the physics midterms. You know, school stuff? Things people do when they aren't stalking the hallways?"

Jonathan’s eyes shifted. They were cold, flat, and focused entirely on Natalie’s throat. "I wasn't talking to you, Collins. Move. Now."

"Jonathan, chill, she’s just—" Benjamin started, reaching out to touch Jonathan’s sleeve.

Jonathan flinched away from the contact. "Don't. You smell like a locker room. It’s disgusting. And you," he turned his gaze back to Natalie, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low velvet. "I’ve seen your father’s tax filings. My family’s firm handles them. Keep talking, and I might find a reason to suggest an audit. It’s amazing how quickly a lifestyle disappears when the IRS gets curious."

Natalie went pale. She looked at Benjamin, then at the predator standing in front of him. "Ben, look at him. This isn't a boyfriend. This is a jailer. He’s going to trash you the second he’s bored. Everyone knows what he did to that sophomore last year."

"Leave, Natalie," Benjamin whispered, his head down. "I'll text you."

"Yeah. Do that." She scrambled away, her sneakers squeaking on the linoleum.

The silence that followed was heavy. Jonathan stepped into Benjamin’s space, forcing the younger boy back against the metal lockers. He reached up, his fingers gripping Benjamin’s chin, forcing him to look up. "You don't talk to her. You don't talk to anyone I don't approve of. Do you understand?"

"You're scaring me, Jon. What the fuck is wrong with you today?" Benjamin tried to pull away, but Jonathan’s grip tightened.

"What’s wrong is that you look like a charity case in that hoodie. It’s pilled. It’s cheap. And that bread you brought this morning? It was dry. If you’re going to be seen with me, start acting like you belong here. Otherwise, don't bother showing up."

Jonathan shoved him back and walked away without a backward glance. He needed the distance. His chest felt tight, like a band of iron was winding around his ribs. Every time he saw Benjamin laughing with someone else, he felt a violent urge to tear the school down. It wasn't the bet. It was something worse. He was losing control.

The suit cost eight hundred dollars. Benjamin had emptied the account his mother had left for "emergencies." He stood in front of the mirror in the St. Jude’s ballroom, adjusting the lapels of the charcoal fabric. He looked good. He looked like he belonged.

"Is that polyester? I think I'm getting a rash just looking at it."

Jonathan appeared behind him, looking like a god in a tailored tuxedo. He didn't offer a compliment. He didn't even offer a smile. He looked at Benjamin with a sneer that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"It’s the best I could do, Jonathan," Benjamin said, his voice small.

"Clearly." Jonathan turned his back. "Stay near the bar. I have people to talk to. Important people. Try not to spill anything on yourself."

The night was a blur of humiliation. Jonathan didn't introduce him. He didn't even acknowledge him. Instead, he spent the hour draped over Eleanor Foster, whispering in her ear while she laughed, her hand resting on his bicep.

Benjamin stood by the punch bowl, his knuckles white as he gripped a plastic cup.

"He’s actually doing it," a girl whispered behind him. "The scholarship kid actually thinks he’s the date. Look at him. He looks like a waiter in that suit."

"Hayes has a type," her friend giggled. "Disposable."

Benjamin couldn't breathe. The air in the ballroom was thick with expensive perfume and the stench of elitism. He marched over to Jonathan, pushing past a group of seniors.

"Jonathan. We need to go. Now."

Jonathan didn't even turn his head. He took a sip of champagne. "I’m busy, Benjamin. Go find a cookie or something."

"I spent my rent money on this suit for you!" Benjamin yelled, his voice cracking over the music. "I’m standing here like a fucking idiot while you flirt with her! Talk to me!"

Jonathan finally looked at him. His expression was bored, clinical. "You’re being suffocating. And loud. It’s annoying. If you can't handle a party, go home. The car’s out front. Or take the bus. I don't care."

Eleanor smirked, leaning closer to Jonathan. Benjamin felt the sting of tears and shoved his way out of the ballroom, bursting through the French doors into the gardens.

The rain started as a drizzle, turning the stone paths into slick ribbons of gray. Benjamin sat on a stone bench, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

"He’s a prick, isn't he?"

Andrew Foster stepped out of the shadows, lighting a cigarette. He looked sympathetic, but his eyes were too bright. "I saw the whole thing. Rough, man. Really rough."

"He’s just... he’s under a lot of pressure," Benjamin said, wiping his eyes with his sleeve.

"Is that what he told you?" Andrew laughed, a sharp, ugly sound. He pulled his phone from his pocket. "He’s under the pressure of losing a Ducati, Ben. That’s all."

"What are you talking about?"

"The bet. The thirty-day wager." Andrew hit play on a video.

The screen showed the senior lounge. Jonathan was leaning over a poker table, laughing. “The first person through the gate? Fine. I’ll date the dessert boy. He’s already house-broken. It’ll be like having a pet that bakes. If I win, the bike is mine.”

Benjamin watched. He watched the man who had been inside his body, the man who had whispered "you’re mine," treat his heart like a joke. He watched the mockery in Jonathan’s eyes.

The video ended. The only sound was the rain hitting the leaves.

Benjamin didn't cry. The heat in his chest died instantly, replaced by a cold, numbing frost. He stood up, his movements slow and deliberate.

"Thanks, Andrew," Benjamin said. His voice was flat. Empty.

"Hey, don't take it too hard," Andrew called out as Benjamin walked away. "At least you got a nice suit out of it, right?"

The ballroom was still loud. The music was a thumping, mindless beat. Jonathan was leaning against a marble pillar, looking for Benjamin. He felt a gnawing sense of unease. He shouldn't have said that. He should have told the kid he looked good.

He saw Benjamin walking toward him. The boy’s hair was wet, sticking to his forehead. His suit was ruined by the rain. But his eyes... they weren't blue anymore. They were gray. Like slate.

"There you are," Jonathan said, trying to summon the old arrogance. "You look like a drowned rat. I told you to—"

Benjamin didn't let him finish. He stepped forward, grabbed Jonathan’s tie, and pulled him down into a kiss.

It was a hard, bruising kiss. It tasted like salt, rain, and something bitter. Jonathan’s heart leapt. He reached out to wrap his arms around Benjamin’s waist, thinking the boy was finally submitting, finally realizing his place.

Benjamin pulled back just an inch. His breath was warm against Jonathan’s lips.

"I hope the bike is worth it, Jonathan," Benjamin whispered.

He let go of the tie. He didn't wait for a reaction. He turned on his heel and walked through the center of the ballroom, his head held high.

Jonathan stood frozen. The words hit him with the force of a high-speed collision. The blood drained from his face, leaving him cold in the heated room.

"Ben? Benjamin!"

He tried to move, to follow the retreating figure in the ruined suit, but a wall of bodies blocked him.

"Hey, Hayes! You did it!" Nathaniel Price slapped him on the back, laughing. "Thirty days isn't even up and you’ve got him trained! Where’s the bike? When do we get to ride it?"

"Get out of my way," Jonathan growled, shoving Nathaniel, but more seniors crowded in.

"Drinks on Jonathan! He won the wager! To the Ice Prince and his poodle!"

Jonathan looked over their heads, through the glass doors. He saw Benjamin disappear into the darkness of the rain, the golden hoodie he’d left in the cloakroom a small, bright speck that was quickly swallowed by the night.

He looked at his hands. They were shaking. For the first time in his life, Jonathan Hayes realized he hadn't won anything at all. He had just become the biggest loser in the room.

"Move!" he screamed, but the crowd only laughed louder, dragging him toward the bar to celebrate a victory that felt like a death sentence.