“They all look at you with a certain … shall we say, je ne sais quoi.” He laughs and shakes his head. “Usually, I have an uncanny ability to guess when two people have slept together. I was getting mixed messages between you and those guys.” He pauses again and then raises his palms up while he clarifies. “Not all of them though, just the three ring leaders: the gray-eyed one, the lazy one, and the musician.”
“I never slept with them,” I squeak as Zack and Andrew both look at me like they’re trying to figure out if that’s the truth or not. “I’m a virgin.” The words tumble out before I can stop them, and then I groan, clamping a hand over my eyes just before Zack’s brows go up in shock. “Why did I just say that?”
“I have a habit of digging the honesty out of people,” Windsor explains, clearly so full of himself that I expect peacock feathers to pop out of his butt at any moment. He thinks very highly of himself, certainly. “It’s a gift.”
Windsor looks around the student lounge—a place I never hang out but which is essential to any student tour—and reaches up to straighten his tie. He’s got epaulettes on his jacket shoulders which I’ve never seen on anyone else’s academy uniform, but okay.
“You’ve met the Bluebloods then?” Zack asks, and Windsor turns his hazel gaze on my new football player friend. He studies him with total disinterest, but not a complete lack of warmth like Creed or Tristan might.
“Bluebloods?” Windsor asks, and then he laughs. It’s such a bright, airy sound that it startles me. “How quaint. Yes, I’ve met them. Instantly disliked them. Can’t wait to knock their worlds upside down. Wankers.” He wrinkles his nose up. “At least I know which girls not to shag. What’s wrong with that psycho one, with the missing chunk of hair?”
I laugh and clamp a hand over my mouth as a group of fourth year girls waltz by and then stop to gape. Windsor checks them all out, winks coquettishly, and then turns back to me, curiosity brimming in his eyes.
“She cut all my hair off last year, and dyed it bright red,” I explain. “Well, her and Harper—the brunette one that tried to hit on you.” Windsor nods, crossing one arm over his chest and resting his chin in the palm of his other hand. He smells like daffodils and shoe polish, and I’m sort of digging it.
“I see, I see. So why does the one still have all of her hair?”
“I haven’t been able to get close enough to her to cut it off,” I blurt, and then I kick myself because I met this guy all of two seconds ago, and I’m spilling all my secrets. Jesus. He’s dangerous as hell; I need to be careful with the prince.
“Makes sense,” he replies, and then Miranda starts to gush again. I let her while we continue the tour, making our way from the lounge to The Mess. The rest of our little group bails when the first class of the day starts, but Windsor and I have free passes to explore the academy’s campus. It’s extensive, and we end up finishing just about the time that The Mess starts serving their dinner menu.
Windsor is charming, handsome, personable … but it’s very clear to me that while some of the others, like Creed, pretend not to give a shit, Windsor York really, really doesn’t.
He smiles at me across the dinner table, and I smile back.
But that’s as far as our relationship will ever go.
Unfortunately, right after that smile, he needles me until I start spilling the truth about what happened last year. Not that it matters: he was bound to find out anyway, so at least he’s getting the story from me first.
“On the bright side,” he starts, playing with his fork in fine, delicate fingers, “when I wreck them later, I won’t have to feel an ounce of remorse.” Windsor smiles at me, winks, and then digs into his dessert.
The next day, I turn the corner in the chapel building, finding Harper and her cronies on one side. Windsor York is on the other, flirting with some third-year girls. As soon as he sees me, he lifts two fingers in a wave, bids goodbye to his giggling fan club, and starts walking my direction. As he passes Harper du Pont, he pulls something from his pocket, walks right up to her, and chops her ponytail off at the base.
Her friends shriek as she reaches up with her hands to touch the back of her head. Her pterodactyl screech echoes through the halls as Windsor saunters up to me and tosses the ponytail my way.
“Token of my friendship,” he says, winking at me as I gape and look between him and the cluster of Inner Circle girls fluttering over their now-weeping Idol. “We have the same homeroom, don’t we? Walk with me?” Windsor offers me his arm, and I decide then that he’s good people. Really fucking good people.
When Friday of that week rolls around, I spend every spare second I have—which isn’t a lot—searching for news stories about him online. The reason he’s here in America and at Burberry isn’t pleasant: Miranda was right when she mentioned him crashing a boat into a harbor and severely injuring several partygoers.
Also, no surprise: he’s a major lothario. He’s slept with dozens of famous people already, and he’s only sixteen. Apparently, he’s a major scandal to the crown. So while he technically has a fortune of his own, his mother is still legally in charge of his person until he turns eighteen. Fascinating.
That weekend, gossip about a party in the woods has spread like wildfire. It’s not a club party, but it is being sponsored by the Idols. Surprisingly, I open my door to a knock on Saturday morning and find Windsor York waiting for me. He’s dressed in a loose blue shirt with a V-neck, jeans, and what look like brown riding boots.
“Good morning, ma chère,” he says, but I’m not impressed. I’ve heard him call, like, six other girls ma chère. Although I have to say, his French is impeccable. “Did you get my texts last night?” I nod, and do my best not to smile. Windsor’s been sending me all sorts of amazing articles with prank ideas that I could use on the Idols. They’re a bit extreme for my tastes—remember: let them hang themselves with their own rope—but I appreciate the effort. The prince seems to have taken this whole revenge thing on with a gusto. “And did you get my voice message this morning? It’s rude to ask a lady out via text, so I’ve improvised and simply texted a recording of my voice.”
“How … debonair of you,” I choke, but I’m smiling anyway. “No, I haven’t checked my texts. Where, exactly, are you inviting me?” His eyes sparkle as he stands up straight and raises an eyebrow at my cracked bedroom door. With a sigh, I step back and let him in. He takes in the room with a single sweep of his eyes before spinning back to me. His red hair is nice and clean, and sticking straight up in the front. I’m not sure how though because I don’t see any gel. Guess it’s just a random quirk of his.
“Whenever I transfer schools—and I transfer schools a lot—I always make sure to hit the first party of the year running. I hear there’s one in the woods? Not quite my usual scene, but I’ll take it.” I smile as I head into the kitchenette area to make some tea. Windsor watches me plop a Lipton tea bag into a cup of lukewarm water and toss it into the microwave.
He looks like he might puke.
“Most of the Bluebloods are banned from going off campus for the remainder of the year,” I explain as I press the buttons on the microwave. Without skipping a beat, Windsor reaches over my shoulder and grabs my hand, gently pulling me back. He then goes about pulling out a kettle from one of the cabinets, filling it with water, and putting it on the single burner stove. “What are you doing?”
“Making you a proper cup of tea.” He crosses his arms over his chest and shakes his head. “I wouldn’t be a proper English bloke if I allowed that”—he points at the microwave and sneers—“to be consumed in my presence. Don’t you stupid Americans know how to make tea the right way?”
“There’s a right way?” I ask, and he groans, putting his face into his hands. He’s like a caricature of a prince, all over-the-top, sweeping bows, speaking in French. It’s almost too much. And yet, I kinda like it anyway. “Well, excuse me. I grew up in an abandoned Train Car on instant ramen noodles and pb&j sandwiches. My mom abandoned me
and my dad when I was a kid, and we did the best we could.” Windsor slowly parts his hands to peer out at me, and I realize I’ve just done it again: showed him all my damn cards.
Crap.
“Welllllll,” he drawls, dragging out the L in that word far past it’s usual point, “even if you’ve committed an atrocity against crown and kingdom with your god-awful tea, you seem to have turned out alright. Most people suck on the dick of money like it’ll come cash in their mouths and make them rich. You seem … beyond despondent, more disgusted. I quite enjoy that.”
“The dick of money?” I ask as the kettle starts to steam and Windsor pulls it off the stove with a pot holder I never use. He looks through my cabinets and finds the loose leaf English breakfast tea that Dad gave me for Christmas. It even came with a metal strainer and a special mug that I haven’t used yet. I watch as Windsor prepares a cup for me. “That’s … a very creative metaphor.”
“Simile: I used the word like.” He grins and waves his hand dismissively. He’s not quite as tall as Zack, but he’s well-built, and he’s got an air of confidence that’s infectious. His hair is almost crimson, but I’m pretty sure it’s natural, and there’s a curve to his upper lip that draws my attention. “Marnye Reed, will you please do me the honor of escorting me to tonight’s party?” He holds up his palms toward me. “Not as a date: you were very clear about your ideas on dating. Besides, I’ve already found three or four girls that I fancy. I was just hoping we could go as friends.” He hands me the mug and our fingers tangle together. My breath catches, but Windsor doesn’t seem to notice, not the way Zayd or Creed or Zack would. Tristan just … screw Tristan.
“Yeah, sure, why not?” I reply, taking a sip of the tea. My brows go up and Windsor chuckles, pressing a kiss to my cheek. I tell myself it’s just a European thing, but the place his lips touched tingles like crazy.
“See you at five, love.” And then he disappears, letting my door swing shut behind him.
Zack is not pleased to see Windsor in my room when he shows up later, a cluster of wild winter flowers in his hand. When he gives them to me, I flush a dark red color and stumble three times trying to say the word thanks.
“Are you two an item?” Windsor asks, now dressed in a loose, silky cream shirt that’s unbuttoned nearly to his navel. He tucks his fingers in the front pockets of his black slacks and looks between me and Zack with narrowed eyes. “You sure you’re a virgin? I could swear the two of you have shagged.”
“Yeah, well, maybe your intuition isn’t as amazing as you claim,” I retort, but now that Windsor’s brought up sex and Zack in the same conversation I can’t stop thinking about our make-out session. Gah. I was not supposed to fall for my tormentor. There’s nothing cool or feminist or progressive about that. If I think too hard about it, it makes me feel sick.
And yet … Zack’s been nothing but nice to me. People can make mistakes, as long as they acknowledge them and learn from their experiences, right? Right? I so want Zack Brooks to be redeemable.
We head out the east door of the chapel, meet up with Miranda, Jessie, and Andrew then start off toward the lake. About halfway there, we find the bonfire, the beer, and the fighting.
Oh, that’s right.
I’d almost forgotten about that email I sent last night. Or all the changes I made to my list.
Revenge On The Bluebloods of Burberry Prep
A list by Miranda Cabot Marnye Reed
The Idols (guys): Tristan Vanderbilt (year one two), Zayd Kaiser (year one two), and Creed Cabot (year one two)
The Idols (girls): Harper du Pont (year one two), Becky Platter (year one two), and Gena Whitley (year four) (graduated), Ileana Taittinger (year one)
The Inner Circle: Andrew Payson, Anna Kirkpatrick, Myron Talbot, Ebony Peterson, Gregory Van Horn, Abigail Fanning, John Hannibal, Valentina Pitt, Sai Patel, Mayleen Zhang, Jalen Donner … and, I guess, me! Kiara Xiao, Ben Thresher
Plebs: everyone else, sorry. XOXO
Zack Brooks
Lizzie Walton
Sai Patel is doing it with Abigail Fanning, who’s supposed to be dating Gregory Van Horn; I emailed proof to the entire Blueblood court. And because I hate Greg so much, I’ve doubled up and sent Andrew’s bullying video to Creed. I’ve already crossed his and John’s names off because, well, they’re not going to last the night.
They’ve almost made it too easy for me.
“And here I was expecting tonight to be boring,” Windsor declares, his grin so bright that he stands out like a white splotch in the darkness. The bonfire is roaring, and there are people drinking and dancing, but the majority of the attention falls on Greg, Sai, and Abigail. There’s a lot of crying, begging, pleading, and so on and so forth. It’s actually pretty boring, after what happened with Jalen, Ebony, and Tristan. Been there, seen this. Besides, once a cheater, always a cheater. Frankly, I’m shocked that Greg took Abigail back after Tristan outed her for sleeping with him last year.
“What is this?” Creed asks as he moves up beside us, holding out his phone. His half-lidded gaze falls on Windsor as the prince’s grin slides away and something much more predatory takes its place. “Payson?”
“I don’t answer to you anymore,” Andrew says wearily, exhaling heavily. But he knows I sent the video. I made sure to ask because, you know, No Friendly Fire. “But what’s it look like, man?”
“Are they bothering you, too?” Creed asks, turning to his sister. I hate to admit it, but he looks hot as hell in a black button-down and jeans. His outfit’s wrinkled just enough to give off that devil-may-care attitude of his.
Miranda turns up her nose at her brother, hooks her arm with Jessie’s, and drags her through the crowd toward the keg. When Creed turns to me, Zack steps forward and pushes me slightly behind him. The move is protective, and sort of adorable, but also … I can take care of myself. I step up beside him as Windsor whistles under his breath.
“Back off, Brooks,” Creed says, his voice so sharp it gives me whiplash. He is not in the mood to take shit tonight. He looks back at me, his ice-blue eyes catching the orange light from the fire. When he flips some of that white-blonde hair off his forehead, my heart does somersaults and I tell it quite firmly to sit still and forget about Creed Cabot. “Are they picking on my sister?” he demands, but I simply cross my arms over my chest.
“Does it matter? You told them to knock their homophobic bullshit off, and they keep doing it. Doesn’t that undermine your authority as an Idol?” I shrug my shoulders loosely, but then I remind myself: the most important part of your plan starts here. Taking a step forward, I put my hand on Creed’s shoulder and his entire body goes stiff.
Our eyes meet, and I have to swallow three times before I remember how to speak. For a split-second there, I wish I could close my eyes and transport back in time to the winter formal.
“Is that a yes or a no?” he says, his voice this debonair blasé that actually makes my heart flutter. Even though his eyes are barely open, and his body looks boneless and exhausted with boredom, he also looks like he’s about to kill someone. It’s there in the way his long fingers tighten around his phone. Since the people he’s about to kill are John and Greg, I’m all for it.
“It’s an I can’t betray your sister’s trust ever again, Creed,” I say, but that’s pretty much a copout answer because when Andrew first showed us the video, Miranda’s face got tight and she looked at Jessie like she’d give anything to protect her. It’s not Miranda that’s being picked on: it’s her girlfriend.
He nods his chin briskly, like he respects my answer at least a little bit.
When he turns and heads over to the fight, Sai is bleeding, Abigail has disappeared into the woods with Ebony—guess cheaters of a feather flock together—and I take up position on a fallen log to watch the show.
“This is massively entertaining,” Windsor whispers as he passes by me, his daffodil and polish scent drifting in the air as he pauses next to the drink table and starts mixing cocktails lik
e a damn bartender. When he offers one to me, I refuse.
“My father’s a recovering alcoholic,” I explain, and Windsor shrugs.
“Same with mine, only he’s dead now so I guess he can’t be recovering. Have one drink, it won’t kill you.” Zack growls at him, almost quite literally, and the two men get into an odd little standoff. They’ve only just met, and I don’t like their tension. “Suit yourself then,” Wind replies, tossing one drink back, and then the next.
“He likes you,” Zack says as Windsor moves away to make another drink. I’m desperately trying to watch the situation with Creed, Greg, and John, but the strong thread of jealousy in Zack’s voice draws my attention. I give him a questioning look as he stares back at me with that dark, unreadable expression of his.
“He just met me,” I reply, but Zack’s already shaking his head.
“I’m a guy, Marnye. The way he’s looking at you … he’s interested.” I shrug my shoulders, but there’s a warm little fire in my stomach that I try desperately to put out. I don’t want Windsor to be interested in me. I have enough guy troubles as it is.
“He’s interested in pretty much every girl at the school,” I reply, and that’s the truth. Even if Zack is right, and Windsor is interested, it’s in a shallow, casual way. He’s a player, not partner material. If I wanted a quick, um, shag then he’d be the guy I’d seek out. If I wanted a boyfriend … my attention slides away from Creed and over to Zack.
“He’ll probably murder them right here,” Zayd says, making me jump as he appears out of the shadows. “You’ve just signed their death warrants.” He’s smoking a clove cigarette that smells too good for words, but that I wish desperately I could tear from his inked fingers. Those things are ten times worse than normal cigarettes. Ugh, come on Zayd Kaiser …
Bad, Bad Blu Bloods Page 19