This Valentine’s Day is so different than the last one. All I can think about is Zack and how much I want to go and dance with him. Yet, I’ve got my bet with Harper, and I need to keep the Idol boys from seeing too much of me with him.
Like I told Windsor: I’m not about dating anyone just now.
It’s all so confusing.
I exhale and Zack stands up, turning around to look at me with a small smile.
“Hey, it’s okay. I get it.” He knows about the bet—he’s the only one—so I look up with an apologetic expression that I hope he understands. “Get some rest and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” I repeat again, blushing furiously when he leans down and kisses me hotly on the mouth. Zack turns and leaves, and I curl up on my bed with my roses, my tickets, and some chocolates that Miranda gave me.
It’s best if I leave the boys alone on such a romantic day.
I’m already confused enough as it is.
The following week, the staff acknowledges Tristan and me in the morning announcements as the honor students selected for the spring Paris trip. Part of me wants to refuse, so I can go home and be with my dad, but he assures me that he’s feeling much better and that I should go. I feel selfish as hell, but I know the trip will give me a good opportunity to bond with Tristan. He’s the most difficult of the Idols to find any time alone with. He’s always surrounded by fans … or Harper. Although I haven’t seen them touch each other since the drowning incident.
“Don’t you wonder when the girls made that bet?” Windsor asks me as he escorts me to cheerleading practice. I shrug. The thought had crossed my mind, but what does it matter? I’m not going to hurt myself like that ever again. The Idols can do their damned best. By the end of this year, I’ll have secured treatment for my dad, the boys will have learned a valuable lesson, and then next year … I might have to use next year to focus my revenge-attention on the girls.
“I suppose. Why?” he shrugs like it doesn’t matter, but he’s got this mischievous smile on his face that scares me. “Don’t go getting any ideas. Plans as delicate as mine can’t be rushed.”
“Sure they can,” he says as he opens the door to the gym for me. “You’re just too … high-class about it. Don’t wait around for them to give you ammo. Make your own.”
“No.” I look him dead in the face. “If it takes me the rest of my Burberry career to finish that list, fine. I’m not going to stir shit up where there isn’t any. Every single one of the Bluebloods has dirt that will rise to the surface eventually.”
Windsor looks skeptical, but since we’re at the gym already, the conversation is over. He’s not allowed in anymore after the girls got so distracted by him during the last practice that they dropped a first year girl during our stunt routine. She’s okay, but her twisted ankle is the size of an eggplant. Same color, too.
“Whatever you say, milady,” he says, sweeping a dramatic bow just before the door closes.
With a sigh, I head inside and try to focus on keeping my own ankle un-twisted. Having a head too full of boy thoughts is distracting.
At least by the time Friday rolls around, Tristan has started showing up at my orchestra rehearsals again. The first time he does, our eyes meet from across the room, and it’s like this connection between us that was pinched and shriveled opens up, and blood begins to flow all over again.
He smiles at me from the back row, and even though it’s far away and hard to see, I almost think it might be genuine.
Maybe.
Of course, the rest of the time, he’s still very much an asshole.
“Windsor York has no business on this trip,” he snaps as Ms. Felton raises an eyebrow and hands us both our passports back. I wouldn’t even have a passport at all if Burberry Prep didn’t require one for admission. I got it last year, tucked it away in a drawer, and assumed I wouldn’t be using until I was thirty.
Looks like I was wrong about that one.
“No business on this trip?” Windsor pouts with a little moue. “Why, Mr. Vanderbilt, I’m bloody hurt. Don’t you know I lived in Paris for years?” Tristan looks irritated, but he says nothing, instead keeping his attention on our teacher. She’s seated behind the desk in her office on the top floor of Tower One, looking between the two boys and sighing.
“You know there’s a student guide every year, Mr. Vanderbilt, and this year, it is Burberry Prep’s turn to provide that student. There’s no one here besides yourself who has his level of experience. I’m sorry you two seem to be having a problem with each other, but as your actions at the end of last year were less than savory, I think you should just count your lucky stars you’re even a student at the academy at all.”
Tristan’s jaw clenches in frustration, and he flicks a glance my way before leveling his glare back on Windsor. The prince is just smiling away, happy as a clam. He’s loving this moment way too much.
“Now, Miss Reed, I’ve asked you this in private, and I’m going to ask you again: are you sure you’re comfortable attending this trip with Mr. Vanderbilt. If not, he will be replaced with the third-ranked student in your grade, and given alternate trip arrangements.” There’s a long, tense moment where Tristan, Windsor, and Ms. Felton are all staring at me.
If I were on my regular revenge track, I’d probably take that opportunity to boot Tristan out of the travel group. The thing is, he’s been to Paris before, and he can afford to go whenever he wants. It wouldn’t be such a big hit to him. But seeing his face at the graduation gala when I reveal my bet with Harper? That sounds so much better.
My heart aches and throbs, but I ignore it. My emotions for the Idol boys are confusing as hell, but I can’t let them derail me. Last year, I paid too much attention to my heart and hormones, and it didn’t end well.
“I’m fine,” I tell her, and she nods, rising from her desk and showing us out the door.
Windsor quickly makes himself scarce, but Tristan surprises me by following me to The Mess. He even sits down at my usual table, taking Miranda’s spot and staring at me.
“Do you still have the watch?” he asks, and I nod. “The necklace?”
“Why?” I whisper, and he sighs, looking tired all of a sudden.
“Can I have them back? I’ll pay you for them. I just … don’t think it’s a good idea if either Harper or my dad sees them again.” He looks right at me, and there’s this stark truthfulness in his gray eyes that I’ve never seen before. My mind immediately goes back to that moment in the library where he could’ve gone further, done more, touched me in more intimate places … and didn’t. Did he know we were being filmed? It’s hard to say, but I imagine yes. “Actually, I shouldn’t be sitting here with you at all.”
“Because the Plebs might put your head in a guillotine if they see you with the Working Girl?” I query. It’s supposed to be a joke, but Tristan doesn’t seem to find it funny. He just sits there and stares at me, his raven-dark hair falling across his forehead, his tongue tracing his lower lip as he glances away.
“Could you bring the watch and the necklace on Monday? I’ve got cash.”
“I don’t want your cash, Tristan,” I whisper, but I’ve still got that debit card he set up for me, so I suppose that’s not entirely true. “But yes, you can have them back.”
He’s quiet for a moment, and we both pause as the waiter approaches and we put in our order. Neither of us says anything as we sit and wait for our food, but when his foot bumps mine under the table, our gazes snap up and lock. It’s like there’s a thread between us, pulling us together when every rational part of me says I should be keeping us apart.
It’s all for the bet, I tell myself, but even that’s a lie. I wonder if the guys ever felt like that when they were with me last year. Did they ever struggle with any real emotions?
“Why did you pick him?” Tristan asks suddenly, but I notice he doesn’t move his foot. We stay touching. “Why did you pick Zayd?”
I tuck my lower lip under my teeth and
glance away, but I don’t have an answer to that question. I didn’t want to choose; I hated it. But this is the real world, and I couldn’t have all three of you. There was no right choice, and somehow, I knew that no matter whose dress I wore, it would be the wrong one.
“It’s complicated,” I whisper, but Tristan scowls at me. “What? I cared about you guys. Wasn’t that the point of the bet? To make me … think I might be in love with you? You all succeeded, so there. If you need more trophies, I’ll order them for you.” He snaps his attention back to mine, and his hands tighten into fists on the table.
“You think you have it hard?” he asks, and there’s this thread of helplessness paired with the steel in his voice that I don’t understand, that I can’t interpret. His gray eyes are stormy and clouded with frustration. “I don’t get to love. I’ll never know if someone truly cares about me, or if they’re after my name or my money. And my dad … you saw my dad when he gave me the watch. Besides, I’m not stupid: I know it was you outside the VIP room at the ski lodge. He doesn’t love me: he owns me. I’m just a pawn for his bullshit.”
I swallow hard, my heart pounding. My first response is to drawl: ahh, poor little rich boy. I should. I should say that and watch the hurt flicker across his face. But then there’s the bet … and also, there’s my humanity. I can’t make myself say it.
“If you really want it, one day you could find it,” I whisper, and Tristan stares at me across the surface of the table.
“Find what?” he growls, reaching up to mess with his dark hair.
“Love. It’s possible for someone to love you for you, Tristan. Trust me, I know: I was there.”
He drops his hand and stares at me like he’s seen a ghost.
In the next instant, he’s standing up and shoving the plates, cups, and silverware to the floor. They crash and break as he leans over and grabs me by my tie, yanking me forward as he covers the surface of the table with his body. His mouth crashes into mine, and I break and burn in a million different ways.
Tristan’s tongue sweeps my lower lip, pulls it between his teeth, and then claims me completely and wholly, in a way I’ve always dreamed of. My hands come up to grab onto his shirt, but he grabs both wrists in one of his own and holds them in place between us, making it look like I’m begging for more of him. Maybe I am, I can’t tell.
He kisses me until the door to the kitchen opens and our waiter appears.
When he releases me, the sudden break between us leaves me ice-cold, and I slump back in my seat.
Tristan storms out of The Mess, slams the door, and abandons me with a salad, a thumping heart, and a whole tornado of emotions that wreck me from the inside out.
Crap.
Revenge is best served cold, right? This feels steaming hot, and I’m not sure if I hate it … or love it.
During my tutoring sessions with Creed, I make sure that we talk about things other than work. I even accept a few invites from Miranda to hang out in their apartment. Slowly, Creed starts to come around, and even though he ignores me in the halls, he’s very close to the same guy I remember from last year when we’re in private.
We’re back to watching movies on his couch, and it’s not a rare occurrence for me to come over and find him in nothing but sweats, a towel around his neck, a glass of water in his hand as he takes me in with a sweep of those cold, blue eyes.
Oddly enough, I’m having the most trouble getting Zayd to talk me.
A week out from spring break, I get tired of it and track him down in the music room while he’s playing guitar. He doesn’t notice me until I’m standing right next to him, humming some song under his breath that I’m surprised to find I actually like. I’ve never been much for contemporary music, so that’s a huge thing for me.
“Whoa, Charity, what are you doing here?” he asks, blinking his green eyes at me and looking almost sheepish about being caught with his hands on an instrument. I cross my arms over my chest and watch him as he sets it aside and turns to stare me down. He looks too tired to pull the full rockstar asshole routine.
“I’m here because you’re avoiding me.” Zayd’s nostrils flares, but he has nowhere to hide, so he’s forced to sit there and deal with me. “Why? You told me about Tristan’s plan with the essay and the test, and then you came to my room to tell me about the bet the girls made. You must care a little, or you wouldn’t have bothered. Besides, for guys who claim they hate my guts, Creed and Tristan seem willing to hang out.”
Zayd’s shoulders stiffen, and he grits his teeth. He rubs one inked hand up his other equally tattooed arm. His sleeves are rolled up, his red tie completely undone and hanging over his mostly unbuttoned shirt.
“Fuck off, Charity,” he says, but there’s no heat left. I wonder what else is going on behind the scenes with the boys that I don’t know about. “You shouldn’t have come back here, you know? Like, didn’t we make it obvious that you don’t belong here?”
“Why?” I challenge, stepping forward and getting into his space. My pulse is racing so fast that I’m starting to feel dizzy. “Because I’m poor? Or because you don’t want me to get hurt?”
“Both? Neither? I don’t fucking know.” He stands up, and I’m forced to take a small step back to keep us from brushing together. I’d forgotten how tall he was, how beautiful, his hair freshly dyed with that same sea green from last year. It’s hard to look away from his lip rings when he starts to tease them with his tongue. “Look, you took my music career away from me. What more do you want?”
“I want us to be friends again,” I blurt without meaning to. I’m actually starting to wonder if I’m straying from my chosen path here, if there’s more going on between us than just revenge and hormones.
“Yeah, well, we were never friends,” he says, but when he tries to walk away, I grab his hand and squeeze it. Our eyes meet, and I refuse to look away first.
“You shouldn’t be so hard on your ghostwriter,” I say, and he blinks confusedly at me. “That song, the one you hate so much, the one your friends laughed at … I liked it. A lot. So don’t knock whoever the record company paid to write it, okay?’
Zayd stares at me for longer than should be appropriate before tearing his hand from my grip and bailing up the music room steps and out the door. For several moments after, I feel too heavy to move, so I slump down on the table where Zayd was sitting, and just try to remember how to breathe.
“Bravo,” Windsor says, surprising me as he appears from the darkness of Mr. Carter’s office. “You’re really sticking it to them.”
“Leave me alone, Wind,” I groan, but he ignores me and sits down in a chair with a black instrument case in his hand. When he pulls out the flute, I raise an eyebrow. “Like I said, you don’t know everything. Just … help me with the girls, okay? I could really use a friend right now.” I push some hair away from my forehead.
Windsor watches me for a moment, and then holds up his instrument.
“Play a duet with me?” he asks, and I blink in surprise. I had no idea he could play the flute. Of course, he is a prince, so I’m sure he plays a dozen instruments I don’t know about. He hands me some sheet music. “You can follow this, can’t you?”
I nod, and he grins, gesturing with his chin in the direction of the pedal harp.
Even though I’m exhausted and could really use the sleep, I sit down, set up my music, and wait for him to start playing.
Windsor is good, almost too good. The way he plays makes my heart flutter with each note, this cheerful but introspective collection of sounds that seem to draw my fingers along the strings as if by magic. Once that song is done, we play another. And another. We play for so long that my hands begin to cramp, and one of the security guards finally comes and kicks us out.
The prince walks me back to my room with an unhurried ease, and when he gets me to my door, he leans in for another of his cheek kisses. I mess it all up by turning my head, and our mouths brush for the briefest of moments. It’s a short, sweet, acc
idental kiss, but it makes my toes curl, and a small, strange sound rises from my throat.
The way Wind looks at me … I feel all sorts of flutters inside. Guess I’m crushing on the damn prince as much as everyone else. He smiles, like he knows what I’m thinking.
“Like I said, prettiest girl in the school. If you want to try dating, lovely, just let me know. I can’t promise it’ll last long, but I bet we could have some fun together.” He stands up straight, pushing his red hair off his forehead to make it stand up. His hazel eyes watch mine for a long moment, before he nods, bids me adieu, and disappears down the hall towards the courtyard and the towers.
Me, I flee into my dorm room, lock it behind me, and sit on the floor for almost an hour, lost in thought.
Life at Burberry Prep is never boring, now is it?
The trip to the airport is tense. Windsor and Tristan are like oil and water, with me stuck in the middle. I do my best to ignore it and stay neutral between the two, but they don’t make it easy.
Fortunately, we’re flying business class. I guess this means that I get an entire miniature palace to myself. My seat turns into a bed, I’ve got a huge screen to watch movies, and the flight attendant even stops off to give me a warm towel to clean my hands. It’s pretty … luxe.
“Never sat in business class before?” Windsor guesses, leaning over the back of my seat. “Me neither. Of course, that’s because when I fly, I usually go in my family’s private jet. But I suppose this will do.”
“You’re an arrogant asshole,” I grumble, still enchanted by the set up. He laughs at me, but I’m just thrilled to be going on a trip at all, private jet or no. I’d happily sit on the toilet for the entire duration, just for the honor of being able to travel. I’ve only been on a plane once, and that was just to fly down to see my grandfather before he passed away. It was nothing like this.
Bad, Bad Blu Bloods Page 23