6. Bishop
Chapter 6
Bishop
“ G litter? That was really the best idea you could come up with?” I glower, scolding my best friends.
I mean, we were supposed to be trying to make Prescott leave Altair, not make her stand out more by covering her in thousands of glittering sparkles. It looked like a galaxy had exploded across her skin, for crying out loud. But then again, standing out was something she didn't need any assistance with.
Prescott was a sight to behold, with her hair shimmering like a blend of silver and gold, framing her face. Her lips were full and always ready with a sharp, sarcastic remark, adding to her already striking appearance. Every time she opened her damn mouth, my dick seemed to betray me, twitching with a jolt of excitement. But it was her eyes that truly held my attention - a warm honey color that seemed to hold secrets and mischief within their depths. They were both fierce and fragile, a combination that could easily get her into trouble.
Gossip on this campus flew through like wildfire, especially when it came to new students. And I could admit, Prescott was easy on the eyes, making her a hot topic for discussion. Which is why I volunteered the boys and myself to give her some help on the night of the assembly. It was a calculated move, like the first great move in a game of chess, designed to ward eyes away from her. I wanted her gone, and showing up at the university assembly covered in dirt and mud was an effective way to keep other nosy students at bay.
“Hey, it was the only thing we could find on short notice,” Sly protests, brushing some of the offending sparkles off his shirt.
“Yeah, and you have to admit, it did get a reaction,” Cam chimes in.
My nerves jump beneath my skin. “A reaction for who? Because from what it sounded like, you had help.”
Sly shrugs. “Cam spotted that weirdo who spends too much time practicing magic heading in after Alex, so we improvised.”
“Besides,” my other friend adds, “it’ll be our word against hers if she says anything, and no one will take her side after what happened at the assembly.”
“We need to continue to make her life miserable,” I say. “So miserable that Prescott has no choice but to leave and head back to wherever she came from.”
“You don’t think the glitter helped?” Cam asks scratching at his scalp, which is only making things worse as the sparkles further embed themselves on his head. “I’m starting to feel it and I only got a smidge of her leftovers.”
I ignore his discomfort; he spends too much time on his hair anyway.
“I say we start spreading rumors,” Cam suggests, pausing from messing with his dark locks. “Nasty ones that’ll ruin her reputation.”
“That’s child’s play,” I scoffed, disappointed at his lack of creativity. “No, we need to hit her where it really hurts. We need to figure out her weaknesses.”
“We’re working on it.” Sly groaned, tugging at his blazer, more glitter falling to the ground.
“Well, work faster,” I gripe. “I want her out.”
Sly shoots me a scathing look in response, but stays quiet otherwise.
Prescott may be new, but she’s already making waves. Too many for my liking. I won’t lose control over this place. Our control. Her father decided to ditch our families at one of the most important times in their lives, and I wasn’t about to let her do the same to us and make us look like fools again. The Altair games set a standard for everyone; the Legacy families were strong. Aligned. She wasn’t one of us.
“What about her family?” Cam suggests, back to futilely trying to brush glitter from his hair. “Everyone’s got family drama.”
He was correct, but our conversation wasn't about my personal problems or theirs. We were strategizing how to turn everyone against Prescott.
“Go on,” I encourage.
“Actually, I did overhear something in the mail office. Alex was getting into an argument with the person behind the counter about a letter needing to be sent out immediately.”
“Did you see the name?” Sly asks.
“Clara,” Cam confirms. “Some sort of relative, if I had to guess. She seemed pretty desperate to get it out.”
A wicked grin spreads across my face. “Perfect. It’s a start, we can work with that.”
“How?” Cam asks, looking skeptical.
“Think about it,” I say, lowering my voice. “How do we get someone to leave?”
“We make them miserable,” Sly says.
“Yes and no,” I agree. “We find her weakness and make it impossible for her to stay. We find her vulnerability and exploit it.”
“Right,” Cam says, catching on. “We figure out who this Clara person is in relation to our little problem, and use them to our advantage.”
“Blackmail?” Sly asks.
I nod slowly.
“Don’t you think what we’re already doing is going far enough? I mean, we’re using—”
I fix both of them with a hard stare. “Do you want to lose everything we’ve worked for? Everything our families have built? Prescott is a threat to all of that.”
Both of them swallow hard and nod reluctantly.
“Besides, family drama is the perfect vulnerability,” I say, my mind already churning with possibilities. “If this Clara person is important to Prescott, we need to find out why.”
Sly nods, a glint of understanding in his eyes. “We could intercept the letter, see what’s inside. Cam already convinced the girl behind the counter not to take it today. We could grab it tomorrow if she comes back.”
“Too risky, besides you know how Maxwell is about that stuff,” I counter. “We need something more subtle. Cam, you said Prescott was arguing about sending it immediately?”
“Yeah, she seemed pretty worked up about it,” he confirms.
Sly taps at his chin thoughtfully. “Then we delay it. Make sure it doesn’t reach this Clara person in time for…whatever it’s meant for.”
“Or we put a hold on it altogether.”
“And how exactly do we do that?” Cam asks, skepticism clear in his voice.
“Leave that to me,” I say, already formulating a plan. “What we need to focus on is gathering more information. Sly, you have scheduled one-on-ones with her, correct?”
“Unfortunately,” he groans.
“Good,” I say, ignoring his discomfort. “Use that time to dig deeper. Find out more about Clara, about Prescott’s past, anything that could give us leverage.”
Cam leans forward. “What if we create a false emergency? Something that would force Prescott to leave Altair urgently?”
I consider this for a moment. “Not bad, but it needs to be believable. We can’t risk her catching on to our plan. We need something deeper. Something that will force her to leave on her own.”
“What about her family?” Sly suggests. “If this Clara person is so important, maybe there are other family members we could use.”
A slow smile spreads across my face. “Cam, I want you to do some digging. Find out everything you can about Prescott’s family. Parents, siblings, distant relatives—anything we can use.”
“On it.” Cam nods.
“And me?” asks Sly. His eyes glint with a mix of excitement and apprehension.
I turn to him, considering. Sly’s always been our wild card—unpredictable, but brilliant when it counts. “You’re going to be our back up. I want you to get close to her.”
Sly’s head snaps up. “What? But we already have—”
“Exactly,” I cut him off, knowing where he’s going, but it doesn’t matter, we need any resource we can. “You can approach from a different angle.”
He dips his chin, a smirk creeping across his face. “I can work with that. Any particular angle you want me to play?”
“Feel it out,” I advise. “See what she responds to.”
Sly lets out a low whistle. “That’s a tall order. The girl’s not exactly warm and fuzzy.”
I didn’t care. She needed to be gone. I wouldn’t let our group fail when it came to keeping up the standard for our families. Prescott was hindering our success, and on a personal level, one that I couldn't even admit to myself, let alone my closest friends she’d become more than just a rival. This was personal.
It was from the very first moment she’d arrived and stood next to that car that I knew there was something about her that bothered me. Maybe it was the way her lips parted and her eyes fluttered shut, so soft and delicate. Or maybe it was how she acted in that moment, breathing in deeply, as if she were only there for me and the night sky surrounding us. Whatever it was, it made me start thinking of ways to break her down until that expression on her face was replaced by one of fear; one that would force her to look up at me with the same vulnerability before I silenced her with my hand.
“That’s why I’m counting on you, Sly,” I say, leaning forward. “You have a knack for getting under people’s skin—”
“And under their skirts,” Cam interjects.
“Put that skill to use,” I maintain, my tone neutral, even as my chest tightens with an irritation I refuse to acknowledge.
Sly’s grin widens, cocky as ever. “I’ll get under her skin alright. By the time I’m done with Alex, she’ll be begging to spill her secrets.”
I nod, satisfied. My friend’s methods may be unorthodox, but they get results. And right now, results are all that matter.
“Just remember,” I caution, “we need her out of the picture, not in our pocket.”
Sly scowls, crossing his arms over his chest. “Please. You know me better than that. I’m a professional.”
I huffed, unamused. The only thing he was professional at was swimming. His ego, on the other hand, made him believe he walked on water instead of swimming through it.
“Fine,” I agree. Not caring as long as it ended with Prescott leaving. I needed her out of Altair and away from us. Away from me.
The Altair games were a reminder to everyone of our standing, the power, the influence we held. I wouldn’t allow us to be ridiculed, we wouldn’t be embarrassed again because of one person. We are Legacies. People fear us for a reason, and I wouldn’t let a Prescott dictate my future. Not again. Not ever .
This is justice. This is setting things right.
I turn and head towards the dock, the air filling my lungs as Sly and Cam head in the opposite direction, no doubt to try and rid themselves of the glittery consequences of their actions. I wouldn’t be surprised if Cam goes through three bottles of shampoo trying to clean his precious locks. He spends more time in the bathroom in the mornings than any other person I’ve met.
The water laps gently against the pier, deceptively calm. Prescott’s bag hangs from the pole in the center of the water. It was a captive on display, like a pinned butterfly, its contents exposed and vulnerable, much like I hoped to make Prescott feel. She needed to leave, and I would be the one to make sure that happened.
“Yo Ashbourne, you done pretending to be a rock? Why not come give us a hand,” one of my rowing teammates, Reith, calls from the water.
“Rocks don’t have to do evening practice or deal with your ugly mug,” I holler in return.
Reith snorts. “Yeah, right. More like you were napping and hoping we wouldn’t notice.” His face is stretched in a wide grin, his white teeth gleaming against his dark skin as he leans over the side of the racing shell, the rest of the rowing team helping him row closer to where I stand.
“Maybe I was just enjoying the view. I appreciate seeing my team betraying me by letting you have stroke.”
“You should be thanking me,” he says putting a mock sympathetic hand to his chest, even though he was still grinning. “If coach doesn’t see you on the boat by the time we make it back around, he’ll have you running laps instead.”
I swallow down my groan, knowing he’s right. Coach Barkley has a particular fondness for doling out punishments that involve running laps around Altair’s newly renovated boathouse and natatorium.
“Fine. But get out of my spot,” I demand, shoving my way into my rightful place at the stern.
I clamber into the narrow shell, settling into my seat with practiced ease. The familiar weight of the oar in my hands is oddly comforting.
“But if we capsize because any of you can’t keep a steady rhythm, I’m dragging you back onboard just to shove you overboard myself,” I promise over my shoulder as my team and I start to row.
One of my teammates dares to laugh, but the sound is cut short, lodging deep in their throat once they see the sharpness in my gaze.
Fucking freshman.
As I grip the oars, my muscles bulge and flex, creating a rhythm, working in sync as our boat glides. The familiar stretch of my muscles sends a satisfying burn through my arms and back. With each pull of the oars, I can feel the strength in my team as we work together to propel the boat forward.
I breathe in the familiar cool air, and it leaves a subtle taste on my tongue, one I associate with being around water.
We’re making good time, our strokes in perfect unison. I can feel the freshman behind me struggling to keep up, his breathing more labored than the rest. But he’s holding his own, determined not to be the weak link. As he should. Places on my row team are earned. Not given.
As we round the bend, I catch sight of Coach Barkley on the shore, his stocky figure pacing back and forth like a caged animal. His whistle hangs around his neck, ready to screech out commands at a moment’s notice.
“Pick up the pace!” I bark, feeling a surge of adrenaline. “We’re not here for a leisurely cruise.”
I hear a few grumbles behind me. Only one actually voices their thoughts aloud—Reith, the single person on the team who’s ever dared to say anything, but my inferiors do as I ask, and the rhythm picks up.
The oars slice through the water with renewed vigor, our boat cutting through the water, leaving a trail of foamy white behind it. I can feel the burn in my muscles, the strain in my arms and legs as I pull harder, setting the example for the rest of the team.
Reith’s grumbling fades into heavy breathing as we all focus on the task at hand. The shoreline blurs, trees and rocks melding into a green and gray smear in my peripheral vision. All that matters now is the boat, the water, and the pulsing beat of our synchronized strokes.
Coach Barkley’s figure grows larger as we approach. I can make out the scowl on his face, the stopwatch clutched tightly in his meaty fist. We’re close now, so close to finishing this grueling practice run.
“Last push!” I shout, my voice hoarse from exertion. “Give it everything you got!”
“Move those arms, ladies! My grandmother rows faster than you lot.” Coach Barkley’s voice carries over the water.
I resist the urge to clench my teeth. Classic Barkley motivation. A mix of criticism and encouragement. Instead, I focus on the rhythm, the synchronicity of our movements. Left, right, left, right . The boat glides forward with each pull, a testament to our unity.
The burn in my muscles intensifies as I dig deeper, pushing through the pain. Sweat stings my eyes, but I don’t dare break form to wipe it away. The dock is in sight now, our finish line tantalizingly close.
“Ten more strokes,” I call out, my voice barely audible over the splash of oars and our collective labored breathing. “Make ‘em count!”
I can feel the team’s energy surge at my words. We’re in perfect sync now, eight bodies moving as one. The boat seems to lift out of the water, skimming the surface with newfound speed.
The rhythmic sound of our oars dipping and pulling through the water echoes around us.
“Five…four…three…”
With a final, desperate surge, we cross the invisible line. The boat glides to a stop as we collapse over our oars, chests heaving.
“Well,” Coach Barkley’s voice is gruff. “That wasn’t completely terrible.”
Coming from him, that’s practically a glowing endorsement. I lift my head, sweat dripping down my face and arms. My body has craved the rush and release of endorphins ever since Prescott's arrival at Altair.
“But,” he continues, his weathered face stern, “if you want to have a shot at regionals, you’ll need to shave at least ten seconds off that time.”
A collective groan rises from the boat. Ten seconds might as well be an eternity in rowing.
“Don’t get cocky. You heard him,” I say. “Let’s go again.”
Reith, as usual, is the only one brave enough to voice his dismay.
“Come on, five minutes,” he whines, slumping over his oar. “My arms feel like overcooked noodles.”
“Anyone else feel the same?” I ask, arching a brow at the group.
No answer.
“I’ll take that as a no,” I say, smirking at Reith. “Alright, everyone. Back to starting positions.”
The team reluctantly straightens, gripping their oars with renewed determination. I can see the strain on their faces, sweat glistening in the setting sun. The gentle lapping of water against our boat is the only sound for a moment.
“Reith. We’ll meet you on the other side. Take a lap on foot.”
His jaw drops. “What? You can’t be serious.”
“Consider it motivation for next time you think about questioning me.”
With a dramatic groan, Reith heaves himself out of the boat, splashing into the shallows. I hear hushed snickers as he trudges toward the shore, grumbling under his breath.
“Oh, and Reith?” I grin before we take off again. “Noodles won’t win us any trophies.”
Reith may be the only one willing to go against me on the team, and although it made me have some respect for him, it didn’t mean he wouldn’t go without punishment for it. I had a reputation to uphold as a Legacy. We weren’t weak.
No mercy.
“Ready?” I call out to the rest of my team. “And…row!”
The oars slice through the water in perfect unison, propelling us forward with surprising speed for being a team member down. The cool evening breeze whips through my hair as we glide across the water’s glassy surface again. In the distance, I can make out Reith’s figure jogging along the shore.
If only it was as easy to get Prescott to leave Altair as it was for me to plan my next move with my rowing team.
My mind raced with a sudden thought as soon as I saw her bag still hanging on the pole. How much does she like water, I wonder?