After we take off, Windsor undoes his seat belt and spends half the flight picking out movies with me and providing his unusual commentary. When I head to the bathroom, I catch a glimpse of Tristan’s face, drawn taut with irritation. His eyes find mine, but we haven’t talked since he kissed me, so I’m not really sure what to say.
Instead, I use the bathroom as fast as I can and flee back to my seat, putting on my headphones to shut the prince out for the rest of the ride.
Once we land, clear customs, and finally get to our hotel, I’m exhausted. Ms. Felton gives us each the keys to our own rooms—spoiled rich kid privileges, I suppose—and I flop down on the bed only to pass out right after. In the morning, we all have breakfast in the upstairs lounge with sweeping views of the city and the Eiffel Tower.
Both boys watch me like they’ve never seen me before, as fascinated with my reactions to landmarks as I am with the landmarks themselves.
“It’s like seeing it for the first time all over again, isn’t it?” Windsor whispers at one point, but then we’re being swept up into a larger group, slapped with name tags, and taken out to the see the city. The one rule we have is that we cannot for any reason, leave our partner’s side.
And by partner, of course, our guide is referring to Tristan. Each prep school has sent their top two students to dress in uniform and represent their academy as we tour the city. As the student guide, Windsor is all over the place, and I don’t see much of him.
Several years back, the Notre Dame cathedral caught fire, but it’s been restored to—from what I read online—much of its former glory.
That’s where we start our tour of the city in the early morning.
As we’re weaving our way through the crowd inside Notre Dame, the priests chanting their ghostly hymns, I feel this wild excitement burst open in my chest. Not only am I in Paris, freaking Paris, but I’m in a building that dates back almost a thousand years. The history buff in me takes over and before I realize what I’m doing, I’m wrapping my arm around Tristan’s and squeezing.
He stiffens up for a second, but it doesn’t last, and then he’s relaxing and letting me cling to the crisp white sleeve of his academy jacket.
“Are you seeing what I’m seeing?” I whisper, trying to be respectful of the service taking place. I’m in no way religious, but I’d rather not be rude. I look up at Tristan, and he raises his eyebrows. A little flutter starts up in my belly, but I tamp down on it. The last thing I need to be feeling for this guy is … flutters. But we’re paired up together for the remainder of the trip, and I’m determined to have a good time. Besides, if I don’t hold onto his arm, I’ll get swept away in the crowd. It’s happened a few times already.
“I’ve seen it before,” he says, like he’s bored out of his mind. His gray gaze sweeps over me and then flicks away, toward a wall of carvings with a sign explaining their origin. Apparently, the entire church used to be covered in them, but this is the only surviving segment. I’m practically salivating. “But you look like you’re about to have an orgasm.”
He says that last word so loudly that several people turn to look at us, and I flush.
“Don’t say orgasm so loudly in a church,” I choke out, and Tristan laughs. It may very well be the most genuine sound I’ve ever heard pass by his full, sensuous lips. Oh no. No. No. You’re doing it again, Marnye, you’re forgetting what he did to you. My mind conjures up the image of Tristan’s face from last year, the cruel sound of his words. “And you know what? The only prize … was that trophy. We did it for fun.” My tummy butterflies land and refuse to take flight again.
“You know,” Tristan continues, his voice much more pleasant than the echoes in my head, “that orgasm isn’t a bad word.” He turns to me, our arms still linked. Somehow it’s more intimate like that, to be face to face with him with our arms woven together.
“I never said it was,” I whisper as the priests stop singing, and the sermon begins. It’s in French, so I can’t understand a word of it. It sounds pretty enough though.
Tristan leans down and puts his thumb against my lower lip. Half of me considers biting it off while the other half … doesn’t want to admit how damn good it feels.
“The passionate joining of man and woman, it’s not a sin, it’s God’s blessing in the bedroom.” He leans in closer, like he’s going to kiss me, but I pull back, yanking my arm from his. He smiles seductively, this practiced motion that I bet he’s used on dozens of girls. Don’t think about Kiara Xiao, I tell myself, but my mind goes there anyway, and I shiver. She’s been nothing but a nightmare to me, and she’s only just become a Blueblood.
“You don’t strike me as a religious person,” I say, and Tristan shrugs, digging his hands into the pockets of his white slacks. A huge group of tourists pushes past, and I get jostled and shoved. Tristan’s there in a split-second, putting himself between them and me, and putting his hands on my shoulders to steady me. He levels a glare on the crowd that instantly puts a space bubble around us, and then he stands over me with this possessive tightening of his fingers that I don’t understand. For someone that hates me as much as he claims to, he sure does like to touch me.
“I’m not religious,” Tristan replies, finally letting go of me. He turns back to the long row of carvings, kings and bishops and Jesus himself done up in fine detail. “None of this interests me.”
“But this is history,” I say, holding a hand out to indicate the church, my heart pounding wildly. This is seriously the longest conversation we’ve had the entire year. It’s making my pulse race like crazy. “We can learn so much from the past.” I step closer to the velvet rope and curl my fingers around it, wishing I could get just a little bit closer. “People make mistakes, Tristan, and if they don’t learn from them, nothing changes.” I level a look on him that he returns with unflinching ease. After a moment, he steps closer and holds out his elbow. I take it, noticing that his body tenses when I dig my fingers into his jacket.
“My dad hates you, you know. He thinks you’re the devil incarnate.” He says this casually, but with a hardness to his voice that says he wants me to know this for some reason, like it’s super important. I take note and file that away, but I refuse to let thoughts of William Vanderbilt interrupt my afternoon.
We spend the rest of the day in the Latin Quarter, walking past bars where Ernest Hemingway drank, and pausing at street vendors selling oil paintings of the city. The coffee in Paris is atrocious, the pastries fantastic, and the company … not so bad as I’d thought.
Spring break might be two weeks long, but we only have five days in Paris, so we pack them as tight as we can with activities, using our second day to tackle Disneyland.
Tristan lets me cling to his arm and gush as we make our way from one ride to another. Despite his uptight personality and generally bad attitude, he’s not a bad park buddy. He doesn’t shy away from any ride, not even something as silly as the tea cups. He takes a selfie with me in front of the pink Disney castle, and even has lunch with me at the Pirates of the Caribbean restaurant. By the end of the day, I’m sort of enjoying parading around the park in our matching white uniforms, watching girls’ eyes track our movements with unbridled jealousy.
On the train ride back to the hotel, I fall asleep with my head on Tristan’s shoulder, and some strange, quiet part of me imagines him stroking his fingers through my hair.
On our last day in Paris, we hit the Eiffel Tower, but it’s a little too crowded to be enjoyable, so we excuse ourselves to the park across the street to take pictures. Everything seems normal until Tristan stops walking abruptly.
“You okay?” I ask, blinking up at him.
“Marnye,” Tristan starts, turning to face me. The way he’s gazing down at my face, with his gray gaze softened, his mouth parted slightly, I expect something big. My heart races, and I feel my throat getting tight. No words will come. Instead, I wait for his. “There are so many things … You can’t stay at Burberry Prep. The Infinity Club is—”<
br />
“Don’t blame your actions on the Club,” I tell him, finally finding my voice again. My breath comes in short, sharp, little pants. “Don’t do it. If you have something to say to me, then say it. But don’t stand there and hide behind the club.”
Tristan scowls, but then shakes his head, his raven-dark hair fluttering in the breeze. If I tilt my head just slightly, I can see the Eiffel Tower, standing proud in the pale blue afternoon sky. He takes another step closer to me and then raises his hands to my shoulders, laying his palms gently on them. My body tingles at the touch.
“Marnye,” he starts, sounding so different than usual, almost eager, almost … sorry. “I’m—”
“Well, well, didn’t realize you two were so close,” Windsor’s voice calls out, and I swear, there’s a sudden flash of rage in Tristan’s gaze before a wall smashes down his emotions. I watch in desperate sadness as he locks away whatever he was going to say, and drops his arms to his sides before turning to glare at the prince. “Oh, don’t mind me. I’m content to stand here and watch.” Windsor smiles, but it isn’t pleasant. He’s clearly plotting right now. As much as I like him, I always have to remember that I’m walking on a razor’s edge. He’s as dangerous as the rest of them.
“What are you even doing here?” Tristan growls, that practiced self-control of his slipping for a moment. “And I don’t mean at the Eiffel Tower: I mean on this trip, period.”
Windsor shrugs his shoulders, palms up and out, in a helpless little who me? sort of a pose. He tucks his hands in his pockets, kicks at a stray pebble, and saunters over to us, his posture screaming nonchalance. The thing is, I’ve known him for months now, and I can see a tightness around his mouth that isn’t normally there.
“Well, I live purely for the conquest of leisure and enjoyment. And what is Paris, if not the city of excess?” Windsor’s smile slips as the wind rustles his red hair. His hazel eyes are all for Tristan; he barely looks at me. A moment later, his mood snaps, and he’s smiling again. “Besides, I’m the student guide, remember? I lived in Paris for three years. That, and I’ve spent every summer here since I was three.”
The boys are on either side of me, both substantially taller, both handsome but in different ways. My gaze flicks between the two of them, and my pulse picks up speed. I feel almost lightheaded, trapped between two worlds. American royalty and British royalty. It’s a stand-off for the ages, that’s for sure.
Suddenly and without warning, both boys launch their hands at my wrists, gripping me almost too hard. Windsor is on my right and Tristan on my left. I’m left blinking stupidly and wondering why they’re gripping me for dear life.
Tristan’s gray eyes narrow to slits and Windsor smiles nice and wide, but scary. The former says something in French, words that roll off the tongue as easily in the language of love as they do in English. Windsor listens, flicks his attention my way, and then looks back at Tristan. His response is just as lovely, flowing with ease off his tongue. I catch a few words and phrases: la petite amie, belle, and elle est à moi. Or … I think that’s what I catch. But that’s about it. I don’t even know what any of it means.
“Marnye, choose,” Tristan declares, his chin held high, his dark hair obscuring his brows as its tousled in the breeze. “Pick one of us to go with. Right now.”
I gape, and my mouth parts in surprise. Choose? Between my enemy-turned-bet and my new friend? Surely Tristan isn’t egotistical enough to think I’d pick him. Besides, I already made a ‘choice’ once, and it didn’t exactly go over well for me. Before I can even process the thought, Tristan’s grip tightens, but Windsor’s loosens, and he lets go of me suddenly, leaving a cool space where his hand had rested seconds earlier.
He says something else in French, and Tristan’s eyes flash with triumph, but then Windsor tucks his hands in his pockets and leans down to put his lips near my ear. When he speaks, his mouth brushes my earlobe and I shiver.
“I won’t make you choose, love, not today.” He chuckles and I shiver. “But if you really want your vengeance, slip this in his pocket when you get the chance.” I feel a slight weight in my right jacket pocket, and I blink in surprise as Windsor backs up, nods at Tristan, and winks at me. He turns on his heel and takes off in the direction of the Eiffel Tower.
What … is all this crap about? My right hand surreptitiously dives into my pocket, and I feel a small plastic wrapped item. Glancing down, I see white powder and my face blanches. Is this … what I think it is?! Windsor’s just put cocaine in my pocket.
Oh my god.
Tristan relaxes slightly, and looks askance at me. Whatever he was going to say earlier, it’s gone, wiped clean from his face. He looks as cold and immovable as ever. His hand drops from my wrist and he takes a small step back. We exchange a long look, and my stomach flips over with nervousness.
He made me think I cared about him.
I won’t be lied to again.
But … I need him to go to the graduation gala with me. Since he’s engaged to Harper, he’s a much harder target than Zayd and Creed.
“Where to now?” I ask, and he glances away, toward the park on our left, tucking his hands into the pockets of his slacks. As soon as I’ve got a moment, I dump the baggy into a trash can. Hang them with their own rope. So far as I know, Tristan doesn’t use cocaine. I’m not going to do this to him. I broke my rules once to punch Harper; I won’t do it again.
“Back to the hotel. We have to leave for the airport early in the morning.” He glances briefly in my direction again. “You know, my father owns a vineyard in Reims, and my family makes champagne. One day, I’ll take you there.” And then he turns and walks off, leaving me feeling both confused and elated.
This bet may very well be the death of me.
The rest of my spring break is spent decorating my new room, luxuriating in the bath (we never had a bath at the Train Car), and exploring the fancy Grenadine Heights neighborhood that our new rental just barely borders. But, technically, we are in the boundaries of Grenadine Heights; it’s pretty freaking cool.
Dad can only afford this though because he got those welding jobs from Robin’s friends at Christmas. They liked his work so much that their friends have hired him, and their friend’s friends. I just hope the jobs don’t run out one day and we end up back at the Train Car. Technically, we own that free and clear, and rent the plot for some nominal amount. For now, it still belongs to the Reed family.
I’m so irritated with Windsor that I ignore his texts for three days before I respond.
The cocaine thing was over the top, I tell him, and he sends back an emoji shrugging its shoulders. When I don’t find that particularly funny, he writes to me again.
You’re right. This is your game, not mine. I’m not used to that.
He waits a few minutes as I sit naked in the bath and stare at my phone, and then he starts typing again. I’ll probably end up dropping my phone in the water at one point, and then we’ll truly find out if it’s waterproof or not. My skin is all wrinkly, and prune-y but I’m not ready to get out yet.
What I’m trying to say, milady, is that I’m sorry.
I read Wind’s next text with a sigh and then message him back: You’re forgiven. Just don’t do it again.
I’m about to set my phone aside when another text comes in, but this time, it’s not from Windsor. No, this time it’s from Zayd.
Spring break on tour with Dad blows. XXX
Butterflies take over my stomach, and I have to resist the urge to squeal. No way. I’m not actually that excited, it’s just … the bet and everything. Now that the last days of March are wasting away, I’ve realized that I only really have April and May to get the guys to fall in love with me.
Two months is not a lot of time, and June hardly counts since our last day—and the day of the graduation gala—is the fourteenth.
Nothing happening here either. Any cute groupies at the concerts?
I have no idea why I asked that, and I cringe right afte
r hitting send. Zayd starts typing and I get back several laughing emojis that remind me of his howling laughter.
They’re all like in their fifties, he replies, and then, It’s torture. Dad’s music sucks, too.
I laugh, and sink a little lower in the bubbles. We keep texting, and by the time I realize how long I’ve been in the bath, the water’s cold and Dad’s home from work. I send Zayd one last message and climb out, toweling off and slipping into jeans and a t-shirt.
Anyway, with Zack gone to visit his grandfather, I’m all alone in Cruz Bay with no one to hang out with. I’m not sure if that’s a blessing or a curse. I’m enjoying my time relaxing and hanging out with Dad, but I’m pretty sure he’s been sneaking out at night to see Jennifer. We haven’t talked about it, but I’m just so glad his tests have been coming back with optimistic results, I don’t press the matter.
Not until dinner that evening.
“Jennifer would like to extend an invitation for you to spend the summer with her,” Dad says over the drawl of country music. We’re sitting at a steakhouse that I paid for with that bet money of mine. I told Dad the truth: I won money playing poker. He didn’t ask how much which is good because I refuse to lie, but I’m also reticent to let him know. If he finds out I’m mixed up in the weirdness of the Infinity Club, he’d probably pull me from Burberry Prep kicking and screaming.
“You’re still seeing her?” I ask, picking at my baked potato with my fork. Dad sighs and sips his beer, taking his time before answering me.
“Not that it’s your business,” he eyes me with a critical gaze, “but yes.”
“But she’s not going to leave her husband for you?” Dad says nothing. “And it doesn’t bother you that you’re complicit in her cheating?” This time, he gets mad and puts down his fork. He looks at me with this deep-set frown in his face that I don’t like. Charlie never frowns at me like that; I blame Jennifer. “She abandoned us, and she left me at a rest stop because I was inconvenient. Dad, this sucks.”
Bad, Bad Blu Bloods Page 24