“They deserve it,” I reply, and he howls with laughter, tipping back a red Solo cup filled with beer.
“Yeah, sure, maybe. Still, Creed is gonna fucking kill them.” He sits down on the log beside me as Zack glares, and Windsor flirts with some random chick at the drink table. I ignore it all and turn back to the fight.
“I am fucking done with the two of you,” Creed says as Greg and John exchange looks. They don’t look particularly scared of him. They should be though. They really should be. “I told you to lay off of Andrew and Miranda.”
“We never touched Miranda,” John says, swaggering forward.
Uh-oh.
His brown eyes glimmer with defiance as he tucks his fingers in his front pockets and lifts his chin.
“Although maybe if we had, she wouldn’t be a fucking dyke anymore.” There’s this moment where everything is still, save the crackle of the fire and the wind in the trees. When Creed moves, that insouciant imperviousness of his falls away, and he becomes a machine. He nails John in the throat with a punch that sends the other man falling back into his friend’s arms.
That’s when the cracks start to show, and all of my planning comes together in a glorious moment.
“What the fuck, man?” Greg snarls, blood from his fight with Sai flecking his lips. “You think we didn’t all read about that shitty bet you pulled on our own sister in that whore’s journal? You’re a hypocritical asshole. Lay off.”
Creed grabs John by the shirt, yanks him forward, and throws him to the dirt before he goes for Greg. I don’t even have to film it this time because everybody else already is. Besides, I don’t need anymore damning footage of Creed. As it is, this is not on his list of things I want him to pay for. I don’t condone violence, but it’s almost admirable.
“What the hell is going on?” As soon as I hear that pterodactyl screech, I know who it is. Harper du Pont appears out of the trees dressed in Louboutins and some fancy designer dress that rides up so far on her thighs that I can see the lacy white panties underneath. She storms across the clearing and gets up in Creed’s face, just after he knocks Greg to his knees with a punch to the stomach. “Leave them alone,” she hisses, and there’s a collective intake of breath from the crowd.
Idol versus Idol.
I’d sort of hoped this might happen.
Harper has always had per people; Tristan has always had his.
What was it he said in the limo that day?
“If you keep talking, I’ll toss you right out of this limo, and we’ll find out if the Plebs enjoy their queen better … or their king. Don’t test me, Harper.”
There were cracks in the skin of this court, and they were bleeding blue blood long before I ever set my sights on them.
Tristan appears a moment later, swiping his hand down his face. For a second, I imagine that he and Harper were having sex in the woods, and I feel nauseous. But then I realize they were probably fighting. She’s too worked up; he’s too pissed off.
“Creed gave these assholes an order, and they fucked it up,” Tristan snaps, circling the small group like a caged lion shaking out his mane. “Leave him alone to mete out his own justice.”
“Since when do you care so much about Cabot?” Harper growls back at him, her brunette hair short and fluffy with frizz. It’s a pretty amazing sight to behold; I won’t lie. She hasn’t noticed that me or Windsor is here yet; I imagine when she does, she’ll have another fit. “What? Are you two gay for each other now, too?”
Tristan’s storm gray gaze snaps to life with refined cruelty, a hint of malice balancing on the blade-thin edge of his stare. He looks beautiful in his blue shirt, gray wool coat, and black slacks, like a model on his way to a shoot. His raven-dark hair shines in the bonfire’s light, picking up all the subtle blue highlights.
He circles around and ends up standing near me. Unlike Harper, he doesn’t miss me or the prince standing there in the shadows. His jaw tightens, and he turns away, back toward his fiancée.
“If you undermine Creed’s authority, you undermine mine. You know the rules: you control the girls, and I control the guys. Don’t fuck this all up because you’re pissed about your hair.” Tristan’s words are cold, cruel, and precise, like a blade to the gut.
Harper’s eyes widen, and she looks past him to me and Windsor for the first time before snapping her gaze back to Tristan.
“At least John and Greg are always on my side,” she says as the two boys help each other up, bleeding and groaning. Creed looks unfazed, almost bored.
“Are they?” Tristan asks, moving up to stand in front of Harper. “Are they always on your side? Because last time we hung out, all they did was talk shit about your mom, and lament the fact that we were together so they couldn't sleep with you anymore.”
Someone gasps theatrically, and I glance over to see Becky with a solo cup in one hand, the other lifted to her throat as if in shock. Ever the drama queen. Like Creed to Tristan, it must kill her that she's not the queen of the school. Since I haven't quite started on my revenge with the girls, I make a mental note to exploit that weakness.
“Really?” Harper snaps, tugging her dress down in the front and closing her eyes for a moment. When she opens them, they are blazing with fury. “Because all I hear about from the girls is how you stopped fucking them long before second year started. You stopped fucking them soon after you made that stupid bet with Creed and Zayd. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you had a thing for the Working Girl. Should I call your dad and tell him about it?” She turns away with a huff, and half the Bluebloods go with her, including Greg and John.
Once they've gone, there's a moment of quiet. Nobody moves; nobody speaks. I can't see Tristan's face, but his shoulders are drawn so tight it looks like he's in pain.
Finally, Creed makes the first move by heading over to the drink table and pouring himself straight vodka. He tips it back, scoffs, and swipes his arm over his mouth. The music starts up again, and Windsor moves over to stand beside me. He doesn't seem to care that Zayd is sitting right next to me.
“I have to say, I've only just arrived at Burberry prep, but it's quite obvious …” Windsor reaches up and brushes some hair from my forehead, making me shiver as our eyes meet in the firelight. “That the ones who think they're in charge are actually following someone else's unspoken orders.” He winks at me, before holding out a hand and inviting me to dance.
I exchange a look with Zack, and find his face an impenetrable wall of stone. My hand seems to reach out of its own accord. Windsor's fingers curl around mine, and he pulls me to my feet. Zayd mumbles something under his breath that I can't quite hear, and as Windsor yanks me into the crowd, I catch his green gaze watching us with envy.
Nobody will dance with you like I did, his expression says. Nobody can mold your body to theirs the way I can.
I turn away, and focus on Windsor's hazel eyes as he sweeps me off my feet into a princely waltz. No, he doesn't dance like Zayd, but he has some impressive skills nonetheless. After a few songs, Miranda takes over, then Zack.
He may not be as graceful as Windsor, as agile as Miranda, or as sensual as Zayd, but he's big, warm, and he holds me so tight I feel like I could never fall with him holding me.
We don't stop dancing until dawn peaks its bright, little fingers over the edge of the horizon.
“There's more to the story than you're letting on,” Windsor says, sitting on the edge of one of the school’s many planter boxes.
Part of my biology grade this year includes helping out in the academy gardens. I'm supposed to be showing Windsor what to do, but instead he somehow winds up sitting and chatting will I do work. I sit back, wipe my hands on the knees of my overalls, and glare up at him. We're in the greenhouse, so it's hot enough to make me sweat. I swipe an arm across my forehead.
“Of course there's more to the story,” I say, pulling out a carrot and swinging the orange length of it at him for emphasis. “We just met. I'm not about to spill all my secre
ts to you, despite what you might think.”
Windsor smirks at me until I drop the carrot in his lap, smearing his pristine overalls with dirt. He wrinkles his nose, but tosses the vegetable into the basket before pulling out a few more. I'm guessing this is the most extensive gardening work the prince has ever done.
“I've pieced together quite a lot about your escapades from academy gossip, and I've seen your efforts reflected back in the party.” Windsor tosses his fourth carrot into the basket before standing up and swiping his palms down the front of his overalls. “I want to help.” I glance skeptically up at him, and he smiles bemusedly down at me. “After all, they threatened me the moment I walked in the door. I can't exactly let that go, now can I?”
I snort, pulling the last of the carrots out of the dirt, and putting them into the basket before standing up and turning to face Windsor.
“Don't pretend this is all for my benefit,” I tell him, picking up the basket and moving over to the large, industrial sink in the corner. Carefully, I tip the basket of carrots out into the stainless steel basin and turn on the removable faucet, so I can rinse them off. After this, we'll deliver them to the kitchen, and we'll have the rest of the afternoon off. “I researched you: Miranda is practically an expert on your life.” Dirt swirls down the drain as I glance over to the prince’s handsome face. He really does look like royalty, almost too perfect to be real, as if he should exist in a painting or a sculpture and not necessarily in real life. “You have a reputation for being … How should I put this, a bully who enjoys bullying bullies.” I exhale. It's a mouthful, but it's true.
Windsor doesn't pretend to deny that, but he does reach into to the sink, snatch a carrot, and bite off the tip. When he extends his hand and rubs his muddy thumb against my lower lip, my knees get seriously weak, and I have to clutch the edge of the sink to keep from wobbling.
The guy is an incorrigible flirt, and even though I know that, it doesn't stop me from liking it.
“I like to take down big prey,” he says with a grin, “it's true. I like a challenge, Marnye. Let me help you the way your friends can't.” Windsor steps towards me, and cups my face between his dirty palms. “They were all here last year. Whether they were complicit or not, they're all tied together. But not me. I’m new, no strings attached, no ulterior motives. I just find it amusing to bring down those who think they're too high to fall.” He releases me suddenly and steps back, leaning against the wall beneath the window. Cold, winter sunshine streams in and makes his hair look like blood. The way his hazel eyes take me in, it feels like he’s stripping me bare. “There's no harm in that, is there? Besides, what's it hurt to have an extra pair of eyes to watch your back?”
I sigh, but I don't answer him. We met a week ago. What can I say, I don't trust the guy.
By the end of this week however … something happens that makes me start to.
There's nothing I hate so much as swimming; not because of the activity itself, but because it leaves me alone and vulnerable with every girl at that school who hates me.
Now that I'm on the cheerleading team, I don't have to do it much, but Burberry prep is an old-fashioned school that still requires students to learn how to swim before they're allowed to graduate. Miranda’s been complaining about it all week, loudly proclaiming that the public schools don't do this anymore, and that it's unfair and impractical.
“What does swimming have to do with surviving in today's society?” she asks anyone that will listen, but it doesn't matter. On Friday, students dress down in batches and take turns swimming laps in the pool for Coach Hannah.
I'm in the last group of the day to go, clustered up with people like Harper, Becky, and Ilean. Talk about a raw deal.
We dress down, and I’m subject to an inordinate amount of strap-snapping from the other girls. By the time we actually get out the locker room and over to the pool, my back is pink and sore from having my bathing suit yanked and snapped against me. It's infuriating, but I've already broken my no violence rule once, and I won't stoop that low again. Let them pick on me: I have much better things planned.
We all climb in the pool for warm-ups, stretching, and following Coach Hannah as she runs through the routine on dry land. About halfway through, she gets a phone call from her daughter who's just days away from having a baby. She briefly excuses herself, and I sigh as I bob in the water, wishing this day would just end. I know I can swim, not only because of last year's PE classes, but also because I spent the summer practicing.
What I don't realize until it’s too late, is that the girls are slowly forming a circle around me. Harper smirks at me as I finally take notice of the fact that I'm surrounded by Bluebloods and Plebs alike.
Warily, I sigh, and run my palm over my wet hair. “What do you want, Harper?”
“What do I want?” she asks, eyes widening in shock, like I've just personally offended her or something. “I want my fucking hair back.”
“Yeah, we all do,” I retort snootily, tired and overworked and ready for bed. “So what?”
Harper sneers at me, an expression I am well-used to. I don't mind when she does it, because what she doesn't know is that she's no longer pretty when she’s scowling like that.
“I don't know what you did to get the prince on your side so fast, probably spread your legs or whatever, but I don't like it. You've turned him against us when he should be on our side; frankly, we should kick Zayd or Creed out and Windsor should be an Idol.” Harper swims closer to me, and I back up, but there's nowhere to go. “I'm going to teach you a little lesson about stirring shit up during my parties. Ladies.” She gestures with her chin, and the girls all swim closer, grabbing onto my shoulders, arms, even snatching clumps of my hair.
Before I can even register what's happening, they're pushing me under.
I'm so shocked, but accidentally take a breath, chlorinated water rushing into my lungs, stealing my breath away. I begin to choke, but that only makes things worse as I'm now inhaling huge mouthfuls of water. My arms and legs thrash, and my nails rake across the skin of the girls nearest me, but it doesn't do any good. There are so many of them that they keep me under with little effort.
Time seems to slow to a crawl, so that I'm seeing each second as a whole minute. I see their legs, dancing beneath the water, the curves of their dark blue academy-issued swimsuits across their thighs. My eyes seem to catch on the black number four on the pool wall, indicating the depth of the water.
Is this really happening? I think, the strength and speed of my struggle slowing dramatically. Am I really going to drown in four fucking feet of water?
My vision starts to darken at the edges, while the center flickers with little white stars. Once that starts happening, all I can think about is my dad and how much I'm going to miss him. My next thoughts … don't make a lot of sense.
I think about Zack, about Tristan, Creed and Zayd. Will any of them miss me? Will any of them care that I’m gone? I know Miranda will, and Andrew, too, probably.
But soon, those thoughts fade away, too, and I start to feel sleepy.
The next thing I know, there's a huge splash that rocks me and jostles the grips of the girls holding onto me. Strong arms wrap around my waist and pull me up and out of the water before hoisting me onto the edge and laying me flat on the cement.
Someone is leaning over me, but I can't see who it is. My vision is too unsure, and I feel like my consciousness is coming in and out. My mystery savior covers my mouth with his own and breathes life into me.
That's the last thing I remember before waking up in the nurse’s office.
The official story is that I got out of the pool to use the restroom, tripped, fell, and hit my head before tumbling into the pool.
It's tempting to rat the girls out, but there are fifteen conflicting stories to compete against mine, so I say nothing. Charlie is called, but the nurse insists there’s no reason for him to drive all the way out here, and he’s got work anyway … but I sure wish I co
uld see him.
That was scary as hell. I almost died. Never did I believe the girls would actually push me that hard.
It turns out that Windsor York is the one who saved me.
Zack looks sick with guilt, and stays by my side the entire day until the nurse discharges me. Miranda, Jessie, and Andrew also come to visit, but it isn’t until I get back to my dorm that I find Windsor waiting for me. Zack stiffens up slightly, but the two men are at least polite to each other as we approach and Windsor pushes up from the wall.
“Ah, milady,” he says, taking my hand and putting my knuckles to his lips. “She lives.”
“Thanks to you,” I say, feeling this cold, scared sickness roll over me. Revenge was sweet … until it wasn’t. Now I’m terrified. I had no idea this was turning into a life or death situation. Creed’s words echo in my head: “The girls want to kill you. Watch out for them.”
“Mm.” Windsor drops my hand and studies me with a very serious expression. Behind me, my friends fan out like a cadre of bodyguards. I wonder if maybe I should call Kathleen Cabot and ask for that Kyle guy back? I haven’t seen him around campus in weeks, so I’m guessing he’s left. I know she wouldn’t hesitate to send him or someone else to watch over me though. “To be quite honest with you, I was only heading out to the pool to perv on you in your swimsuit. My actions were not entirely honorable.” He steps back from me and sighs, and if he were anyone but a brand-new transfer to the school, I’d think he was in on it, like he’d set the drowning up just to save me.
“Well, thank you anyway,” I say, and we stand there staring at each other for several moments more until Zack clears his throat. All I can think as I fumble my key out of the pocket of my robe is that Windsor’s mouth was on mine, and I was too out of it to remember. Somehow, focusing on the not-quite-a-kiss thing keeps me from realizing how deep this shit goes.
Bad, Bad Blu Bloods Page 20