“You're not going to answer my question about Lizzie, are you?”
“There's nothing left for me to say.” She turns back around and watches me with those disturbingly beautiful eyes of hers. “I've already said my piece: the girl is a snake in the grass. Get a fucking lawnmower, Marnye.” Miranda huffs, and then reaches up to shake out her glorious blond hair. “She knows you're in love with Tristan—”
“I never said love,” I choke out, but Miranda ignores me.
“She knows you're head over heels for that asshole, and yet here she comes with a love confession several years too late? If you want my opinion, she's a vulture picking at the carrion of a relationship long past its expiration date. Bet she's a spy for the Harpies.”
“She …” I start, but then I have no idea what else to say. There hasn't been a single text from Lizzie since, but I'm not surprised. Windsor's the only one who's been able to text me, and even then, it was one, short cryptic message. Everything's okay. We're all okay. Miss you. “If she really does love him, it's better she says it now. I mean, if he wants to be with her then …” My voice trails off, and my stomach twists into the shape of an infinity symbol. Obviously, I can't see it, but that's what it feels like. Ugh.
“He does not want to be with her,” Miranda says, lifting up the two dresses and then holding one over me, and then the other. She switches back and forth a few times, and then shakes her head, returning both to the closet. “He's seriously obsessed with you. They all are. Still, I'm #TeamCreed, sooo …”
I move past her and grab one of the dresses from the closet.
It's the black one Tristan gave me during first year, the one I was supposed to wear to the graduation gala. Even though I've had it all this time, I've never worn it. I didn't want to upset anybody. But since none of the guys are here …
“I know this place that does live salsa music and dancing,” I tell Miranda, and she grins. Maybe if I spend the evening dancing, I can sweat out some of this angst and worry?
Maybe.
We finish getting ready, and I let Miranda do my hair and makeup before we slip out and take off in my rose-gold Maserati to dance the night away.
What I don't expect is to see Isabella Carmichael inside the same nightclub.
“Isn't she, like, fifteen?” I whisper to Miranda, feeling my heart pick up speed. I'm suddenly sweaty and nervous, standing there in a dress that costs more than a month of my father's salary. From across the room, Isabella's brown eyes latch onto mine, and she smiles.
It's not a very happy sort of smile.
“Um, maybe, if she's got a late birthday like we do,” Miranda starts, resting her tongue at the edge of her mouth. It's a move she does when she's getting ready to go off on someone. “Probably more like fourteen.”
“Marissa, right?” the girl asks, separating from her group of friends and pausing in front of me. She's tall and very pretty, but there's just something about her that puts me on edge. Maybe it's that layer of privilege and entitlement that I'm not vibing with?
“Marissa, right?” Miranda mimics, giving the girl a pair of raised brows. “Seriously? It’s fucking Marnye. You're talking to your sister here.”
“Half-sister,” Isabella says, turning a cool glare on Miranda. “Who the hell are you?”
Wow.
That escalated quickly.
“Miranda Cabot.” Miranda's lips curve up into a smile as Isabella blinks several times in surprise. “Maybe you've heard of me? If you're coming to Burberry Prep next year, you might want to treat your sister with a little more respect. She's an Idol, after all.”
“That's not what I hear,” Isabella says, her face neutral and impassive, but with the slightest underlying hint of menace. Damn. I waited fourteen years to meet this girl, and it looks like being sisters is sort of the last thing on her mind. “Harper du Pont, Becky Platter, and Ileana Taittinger are the Idols. You're … the boys' pet, as far as I can tell.”
Miranda steps forward like she's going to beat the girl up, but I put my hand out to stop her, putting a sad smile on my face that's built of crumpled wishes and selfish desires. I always wanted to meet my sister, longed for another family member besides Dad who'd love me the way Jennifer never did.
That's not going to happen here, and that's okay.
I've come a long way from the sad, lonely person I was in junior high.
“I am nobody's pet,” I tell her, my voice stern. I know when she looks at me, she can see it, too. And it's not because Miranda put cute, loose curls in my rose-gold hair. It's not the designer dress. It's not even the expensive necklace hanging between my breasts. It's all coming from the inside. “And I am a Blueblood. We don't tolerate bullying at Burberry Prep, not anymore. I won't put up with it.”
Isabella opens her mouth, closes it, huffs. Her brown eyes, as familiar as the ones in my reflection, close. When she opens them back up, they're burning with fire and humiliation. And then … she goes and does it, tosses her hair.
She executes the move flawlessly.
Damn it.
“Whatever. We're not at Burberry now though, are we?” Isabella turns to walk off, her dress just barely covering her ass. I'm not judging, it's just … sad. She's fourteen for crap's sake. Before she gets three feet from us, Isabella pauses and glances over her shoulder. If I didn't know better, I'd say she had Dad's nose. “No wonder Mom dumped you. What a disappointment.”
Isabella spins away in a flurry of brunette hair, rejoining her friends near the seating area by the bar. My mouth tightens into a thin line as I think about her sitting between my parents, about the tears in my dad's eyes that he never fully explained.
“You've wanted this for so long, Marnye-bear. I'm just happy the moment is finally here.”
Huh.
“Do you want me to beat her up for you?” Miranda asks, and I glance over to see she's positively fuming. I shake my head, and then tuck my fingers into the pockets of the sexy, little cocktail dress. Wow. I would never have expected Tristan Vanderbilt to pick out a dress with pockets on it, especially not the Tristan from two years ago.
“She's upset about something,” I say, pushing the hurt down as it tries to rear its ugly head inside of me. “And I think I might have some idea of what that is.”
Turning to Miranda, I pull out the fake driver's license with two fingers and force a grin. I'm not going to let Isabella Carmichael get to me, not even if she is the culmination and destruction of fourteen years of hopes and daydreams.
“Why don't you get yourself something fruity and alcoholic, and I'll be the DD?”
Miranda narrows her eyes at me, but nods anyway and grabs my hand, dragging me over to the bar.
Isabella stays as long as we do, right up until the club closes, and I swear, I can feel her eyes on my back the entire time.
It's not a comfortable feeling … almost like I've got a target between my shoulder blades.
I'm going to have to watch my new little sister very, very carefully, aren't I?
The next morning, I'm rudely awoken by the sound of a bus horn outside my window. Groaning, I pull a pillow over my head to quiet the noise. A few moments later, there's a knock on the door, and I'm forced to get up anyway.
Miranda's still peacefully passed out on the couch, snoring, and Dad's left for a doctor's appointment. I'd intended on going with him, but he didn't wake me up. Part of me wonders if he doesn't want me to know how bad things are getting.
“This better be good,” I grumble, rubbing at my sleep-crusted eyes and throwing the front door open.
My eyes widen, and a small squeak escapes my lips.
Fuck.
This'll teach me to check the peephole for, like, murderers and stuff. That is, murderers and tatted rock star boys.
“Whoa there, Working Girl, are you rocking duckie pj's?” Zayd asks, throwing out this devilish little grin as he pinches the shoulder of my pajamas and then leans in for a kiss.
I'm so shocked to see him, and embarr
assed as all get-out, but when he steps forward and curls his inked arm around me, I forget that I'm wearing pajamas with feet.
Zayd tastes like cherry Coke and cloves, and he smells like sage and geranium. With his strong arm banded around me and his lips against mine, I can barely breathe. My heart is beating out of my chest, and I'm on my tiptoes, eyes closed, swooning away into oblivion.
“What on earth are you wearing?” a lazy voice drawls from somewhere behind Zayd. My eyes snap open, and I'm pushing back against Zayd's chest as he howls with laughter and releases me.
My footie pajamas slip on the hardwood floor, and if Zayd didn't step forward to catch me again, I would've fallen right on my ass.
Creed moves into the shadows of the house, giving me that devil-may-care smile of his as he walks over and sits down on the sofa, right on top of his sister. She barely stirs as he reaches out and pokes a finger in the center of her forehead.
“Wake up, sleepyhead,” he purrs, flicking his eyes briefly over to mine. There's a small flash of jealousy there as he licks his lips, studying me as I stand in the circle of Zayd's arms. “Did you two stay up late partying last night? That's awfully naughty of you, Marnye.”
“I, we …” I start, but then I catch sight of Zack moving down the steps of the giant silver and black bus that's parked in front of my house. I'd be in awe of the size of the thing—it takes up the length of our yard plus the driveway and then some—if I weren't so focused on the boy with the broad shoulders and the rounded biceps. Do not drool, Marnye, not cool.
“Hey,” he says, cool as a cucumber, eyes dark and narrowed but not unpleasant. No, actually, in the deep, shadowed depths of those beautiful irises, he looks pretty damn happy to see me. A smile curves the perfection of his full, lush mouth. “Didn't expect to see us here, huh?”
“Not exactly,” I admit, feeling lightheaded and happy, but also a tad concerned. They've been missing a whole week, and then they show up in a giant RV? What's going on here? “What happened to Tristan and Windsor?”
“Oh, they're here alright,” Zayd says, making sure I'm settled on my feet before he lets go, his eyes scanning my pajama-clad form with interest. Heat suffuses my cheeks, and I start to back up, intending to escape to my bedroom before Tristan or Windsor come in and see me dressed like this. I'm embarrassed enough as it is, but somehow the thought of those two seeing me wearing fuzzy baby duck pj’s … “Oh no, you don't.” Zayd grabs me by the wrist and pulls me forward, keeping me from the safety of my closed bedroom door, and a pair of tight jeans and a cute top.
Tristan comes down the steps of the bus, dressed in his fourth-year uniform and looking like a goddamn king. He's got on the black blazer with the red and white Burberry Prep logo, the black shirt, black tie, black slacks …
Windsor is right behind him, dressed far more casually in long jean shorts, and a red wifebeater. His red hair is just slightly curled, and he has this swagger to his walk that makes me smile … That is, before the two boys step out of the sunshine and into the darkness of the house.
That's when their gazes both go straight to my outfit, and my face flames up like an inferno.
Something strange passes over Tristan's gaze, an almost unbelievable warmth, maybe even a strange sort of tenderness, but then it's gone, and he's cocking a perfectly sculpted dark brow at me.
“You look ridiculous. Where on earth did you find a pair of pajamas so hideous?”
“They're a gift from my dad,” I grumble as Windsor grins and steps forward, cupping the side of my face with his hand. My heart stops briefly, and I feel faint for the smallest of moments. I missed them all so much that all of a sudden, it really hits home.
I've been essentially living with these guys for years, eating in the same place, walking the same halls, day after day. Once we graduate, that's all gone. It's all gone, and I can never get it back.
My stomach turns over, and Windsor's face tightens almost imperceptibly.
“Are you okay?” he whispers, leaning in and putting his forehead up to mine. Windsor closes his beautiful hazel eyes for a moment, but not before I see a flash of fatigue in them. He's tired. Something happened this week, I know it.
“I'm just fine,” I tell him, feeling my stomach light up with butterflies. He pulls back just slightly from me, eyes opening, and then he leans in and crushes his mouth to mine. There's a fierce, quiet possession in that kiss that steals my breath away. It also feels like maybe … Windsor isn't the impermeable, unshakable force he pretends to be. It feels like he needs me in that moment, and I like it. I want to be there for him the way he was for me from the first second we met.
“The pajamas are quite nice, love. Very sexy.” He pulls back and moves over to the chair near the fireplace, sitting down like his body's just a little too heavy to carry around comfortably.
“So … how was the Club meeting?” I ask, clearing my throat as Miranda groans and stirs, mostly because Creed is yanking on her hair. Nobody but Zack is willing to look at me. “That bad, huh?”
“It was … interesting.” He looks away, toward an oil painting on the wall that Jennifer made in college. I've always hated it. It's not very good, and Jennifer isn't a very nice person, so I'm more than willing to point out the painting's flaws. She left me at a rest stop, kept my sister from me, and now she's pregnant again. Just what the world doesn't need, another baby for her to mess up. “But I guess it went better than expected. Tristan's still here, isn't he?” Zack narrows his eyes and sighs, reaching up to ruffle his short, dark hair.
Tristan simply sighs and looks out the window, his expression far away and detached. He knew he wasn't coming back to Burberry Prep next year, so he tried to set things up in such a way that I'd be safe. My heart stutters, and I let out a small sigh that draws his attention my way.
His blade-gray gaze catches mine, and I feel suddenly like I'm falling. Reaching out, I curl my arm around Zayd's to stay steady.
“Where would you be if … things didn't go the way you wanted?” I ask Tristan directly, and he sighs, tucking his hands into his pockets. Our eyes meet, and a warm shiver takes over my body.
We almost … I almost made a bad decision, and I didn't care.
My sex education is better than that. It might be a good idea for me to look into birth control though, huh?
“At a military school in eastern Maine,” Tristan says, his voice neutral but threaded with a certain sort of darkness that reflects in his fist as he clenches it tightly by his side. “My father's new mistress was going to graciously pay to ship me across the country. That, of course, was only after she talked him out of disowning his only son completely—that is, he wouldn’t have if I’d met his conditions. I did not.” He bites this last word out like a curse.
“He's that angry with you?” I ask softly as Miranda finally sits up, yawning and rubbing at her face as she mumbles curses under her breath. Pretty sure she's hungover. She drank a lot last night. Fending creepy guys off of her was a full-time job. Men can be so gross sometimes. “Over me?”
Tristan just shrugs loosely.
“Among other things. He's never liked me, not since the moment my mother decided she wanted to have me. Then he bought me off of her like he does everything else in his life.” Tristan smiles, but it's a similar expression to the one he was wearing the first day I met him. There's nothing friendly or happy about it. “I'm ranting, excuse me. Do you have a bathroom I could use?”
I give him the nicest, prettiest smile I can muster.
“No, we're peasants, so all we have is an outhouse.” Pretty sure Creed, Zayd, and Tristan all look at me like they're not a hundred percent sure whether they believe me or not. A small laugh escapes me, and I point down the hall. “First door on the right.”
He moves past me, that distinct scent of his—like cinnamon and peppermint—wafts past and I shiver. Tristan pauses suddenly, turning to me and putting his fingers beneath my jaw. The way he looks at me … there's a puzzle in his eyes that I so despera
tely wish I could solve.
Without saying a word, Tristan releases me and disappears into the bathroom. A moment later, I hear a door bang outside and glance over to see Lizzie climbing down the bus steps.
“What is she doing here?!” Miranda chokes out, her perfect blond hair all tangled up on top of her head in a rat's nest. Creed gives her a look and sighs, lounging back in the sea of blankets and pillows like he owns the place. His mannerisms remind me of that episode of RuPaul's Drag Race that I watched last week, when they were dressing up as wealthy heiresses. “I own everything!”
“She was with us at the Club meeting,” Zack says, giving Miranda a look. “We literally piled into the bus, left, and drove straight here.”
“Whose bus is it?” I ask, my heart pounding, my palms getting sweaty. Tristan and Lizzie were alone at the Vanderbilt Manor for an entire week; I will not spend overly long thinking about what could've happened between them. I won't.
Zayd flashes me a big, white grin and leans his forearm against the edge of the door.
“Mine. This is Afterglow's tour bus.” Zayd pauses as Lizzie comes up the steps, her dark curls swept back in a ponytail, her smile soft and genuine. A strange feeling bubbles up inside of me, but I clamp down on it. If I don't give others the benefit of the doubt, who will? I have to set a good example.
“Hey,” she says, stepping forward to give me a hug. I return the gesture, despite Miranda's dark glare burning a hole in the side of my head. “Cute pj's.” Lizzie chuckles, and I groan, putting my face in my hand.
“Gift from Dad. I couldn't say no.” I glance up as the bathroom door opens and Tristan comes out, his hair wet and slicked back from his face. I try to look for some sort of connection between him and Lizzie, but he isn't looking at her. He's not looking at anyone.
In the Arms of the Elite Page 2