Oh. Kyle, the bodyguard. I’d forgotten about him completely.
Creed makes a frustrated sound in his throat, and grits his teeth, but he says nothing, breezing past his mother and up the stairs.
She mumbles something about needing coffee, and disappears, leaving me alone with Miranda.
We’re both dressed in sundresses: mine is new, a gift from Kathleen, and it’s the color of the sea at sunset, a balayage color pattern that goes from deep blue at the bottom to sandy gold in the middle and then orange and navy at the top. Miranda is outfitted entirely in a pale blue that matches her eyes, complete with yellow daisies.
“Shall we head down to the beach?” she asks, holding out her arm. I grin and take it, and we make the quick walk across the yard, through the trees, and down a series of steps to the beach. There are people there, running and screaming and playing, but it’s not overly crowded.
We find an empty spot, set up our towels, and crack open the picnic basket that Kathleen gave us. It’s full of cold, glass-bottled Cokes, sandwiches, and little plastic bags filled with cut-up fruit. We’re not seated there ten minutes when I get a ping on my phone.
On my way to pick up Creed. How was your flight?
“It’s Zayd,” I say, when I notice Miranda watching me. I suck my lower lip under my teeth before replying. Awesome. On the beach with Miranda now.
There’s a pause before I see him typing a response.
In my bathing suit. Live in it during the summer. LOL. Can I join you?
Before I can think too hard about it, I type yes.
Miranda’s brows are raised when I look back up at her.
“How are you planning on juggling all of these boys?” she asks, and I blink at her.
“I’m not … what do you mean ‘juggling’?” Setting my phone aside, I pick at the label on my Coke and try to ignore the anxious butterflies in my stomach. Doesn’t help much.
“Um, are you insane?” Miranda asks, leaning over to look at me with wide eyes. “They’re all in love with you.”
I rear back and end up spilling soda all over my lap.
“What? No!” I choke out, swiping at the crotch of my new dress with a cloth napkin. “No, that’s just— I mean, Windsor isn’t …”
“Okay, think whatever you want,” Miranda says with an exaggerated sigh. “But I’m telling you what it looks like as an outsider: you have five guys in love with you.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I sputter, but then I feel a hand on my shoulder and jump.
“What’s ridiculous?” Creed asks, kneeling in the sand beside me. A shiver travels through me, and all of a sudden, all I can think about is the hot tub. The hot tub. That goddamn hot tub. I flick my eyes his direction and see that he’s studying me carefully.
“Nothing important,” I manage to get out, scooting over so that our bodies aren’t quite so close to touching. There’s too much tension between us, and I’m too confused as to what our relationship even is. Are we friends? It was literally just over a week ago that I told him he was the subject of a bet. And literally just over a week ago that he stood up for me in front of all his friends … “Zayd’s going to come down and join us for a little while.”
Creed nods, like he expected that, and then unfolds his long body in the sand, leaning back and lying there in his half-buttoned shirt and shorts. The wind tousles the fabric of his shirt, revealing the hard muscles in his lower belly, and the infinity tattoo above his right hip. I have the strongest urge to touch it, and end up sitting on my hand to keep from doing it.
“I can’t believe you’re letting Mom send me away,” he drawls, like he’s already half-asleep. His eyes are closed now, long, pale lashes resting on his cheeks.
“Oh please,” Miranda snorts with an exaggerated eye roll. “You’ll be a ten minute walk away, in a rock star’s mansion, with every possible comfort. Plus, you’ll be shacking up with your bestie, so don’t give me that crap.”
“Zayd is not my bestie,” Creed growls, like a sleeping cat who you’ve petted just this side of too long. He won’t swipe at you—too lazy and tired for that—but the warning’s there. “We’re barely friends.”
“Right. Just like you and Tristan. You’ve all known each other since forever, but you’re not friends at all.”
“Tristan and I were never friends,” Creed snaps, but still he doesn’t get up from his spot in the sun-warmed sand. “Zayd is at least tolerable.”
“Good to know,” Zayd says, appearing behind us, and making me jump. Wow. My nerves must be getting to me because I’m the only one that seems so … excited. My tattooed, pierced little rock star friend squeezes between my towel and Miranda’s, stepping over the picnic basket and then turning to face us.
He’s gloriously shirtless, his ink shimmering in the bright sun. His black board shorts are slung criminally low on his hips, to the point where I’m actually concerned they might fall to his feet, and I’ll get to see … I mean have to see, his dick.
“I like the dress, Marnye,” he says, but even though he’s smiling and trying to be playful, there’s an edge to his words, a lick of shame that I both appreciate and wish I could wipe away. “Gorgeous, as usual.” Zayd squats down, his muscular legs drawing my attention. His thighs look hard as rocks, and there’s a tattoo on the inside of one that’s drawing my attention.
I force my gaze back to his face.
“Thank you,” I whisper as Miranda scoffs.
“Wow, make a girl feel ugly, why don’t you?” she says, and Zayd tears his attention from me to look at Miranda.
“No, you’re totally hot, too,” he says, forcing a grin. “You just, you know, play for the other team.”
“So a girl’s only worthy of your compliments if she’s somebody you could possibly have sex with?” she asks, raising a blond brow. Zayd’s mouth drops open as she hair flips (yes, it’s still terrible) and then reaches into the basket to offer him a Coke. He takes it, and then lifts it in her direction in salute.
“Well-said, Miranda. You schooled me.”
“Wait,” I start and then pause, “what do you mean possibly have sex with?”
They both ignore me.
“So, tonight is pretty chill, but tomorrow there’s a huge bonfire on fairly neutral territory, down the way at Myron’s place.” Zayd sits back in the sand and reaches up to twist some of his sea green hair into little spikes. “Although Harper’s an idiot if she thinks Myron’s loyalty is split; he’s Tristan’s best friend first and foremost.”
“Tristan has a best friend?” I ask, blinking stupidly. For some reason, that never really occurred to me. I guess I just sort of thought of Creed and Zayd as his besties? Although, considering the conversation we just had, that’s not entirely accurate. Myron Talbot is the only one of the Bluebloods—besides the Idol guys, of course—that wasn’t involved in my … um, kidnapping and attempted rape. The color drains from my face, and I curl my fingers against my chest, thinking about all the horrible things that might’ve happened to me at Lake Tahoe.
“Myron, yeah,” Zayd says, flicking some sand with a tattooed finger. “He’s a son of a bitch. He barely talks, but he’s always there to carry out Tristan’s dirty work.” Zayd turns emerald eyes on me, and my breath catches. I find myself suddenly aching to touch the sides of his face, to pull him close and brush my mouth to his. Instead, I curl my arms around myself and squeeze. “I’m honestly pretty surprised he never sicced Myron on you.” Zayd exhales and reaches up with sandy fingers to push hair from his forehead.
“Too vicious,” Creed says, eyes still closed. “Myron would’ve been too much for Marnye.”
“Oh, well,” I say, feeling irritation creep across my skin like a horde of itchy insects, “it’s nice to know how much nuance there is when it comes to bullying. Reading a girl’s private thoughts aloud to a rowdy mob is okay, but Myron Talbot, that’s too much.”
Creed doesn’t acknowledge my comment, but Zayd cringes.
“Myron is … you�
��ll see later.” Zayd crosses his legs and leans forward, putting his elbows on his knees.
“How will I see?” I ask, as my heart skips a few beats. Zayd’s eyes are so pretty in the sun, like precious gemstones. And his tattoos … it’s so damn cool to see them all exposed in the yellow light of afternoon. I thought the guy was handsome in his wrinkled academy uniform. Out here, he’s just … breathtaking.
Zayd looks up at me and then glances over at Creed. I follow his stare and find Miranda’s twin with his eyes open, gaze locked on his friend’s face.
“It’s civil war at Burberry Prep,” Zayd says on the end of an exhale, “and it’s us versus the girls. Tristan, for whatever reason, held back on sending Myron after you.” He meets my eyes, and I feel my throat get tight. “He won’t do the same for Harper.”
The next day, I’m busying sorting through my clothes and trying to decide on an outfit for the party when a knock sounds at my door. Without thinking, I just open it, and there’s Creed, lounging against the wall like he’s just too spoiled and royal to stand up straight.
He smiles at me, and it’s the most arrogant thing I’ve ever seen in my life. A quote from William Shakespeare comes to mind: How insolent of late he is become, how proud, how peremptory. Yep, that’s Creed Cabot in a nutshell.
“Can I come in?” he asks, and I shrug. He pushes up from the wall and saunters in on those long legs of his. I’m so used to seeing him in his academy uniform that it’s almost disconcerting to see him dressed in light colored jeans, a white t-shirt, and flip-flops. Creed makes his way over to the open French doors and steps outside, folding his forearms on the railing. He looks out at the ocean with pale blue eyes, turning his attention to me as I step out beside him.
We’re alone, in a bedroom, and we’re … well, we’re not fighting. I don’t think he’s going to bully me anymore. Maybe I can get some truth out of him?
I open my mouth to ask some of the questions that have been eating at me, but Creed speaks first.
“About the hot tub,” he starts, and I swear to god, I nearly tumble over that railing onto the stupidly green lawn below us. Creed stands up straight and turns toward me, putting an arm on either side of me and grabbing onto the railing. I’m now trapped between his arms and staring up into his eyes. Heat rushes through me, consuming every logical thought I’ve ever had. Now, all I can feel is this insistent, foreign throbbing between my thighs, and the way my nipples have peaked to points beneath my sundress. I’m not wearing a bra either, and I feel like he must notice. “I don’t usually finish that fast.” He raises his hand to brush hair from my forehead, and then leans in so close that our lips nearly touch.
“I wasn’t concerned about that,” I choke out, and he laughs, this low, sensual, lazy sound, almost a purr. Creed puts his face up against mine, his lips near the top of my ear.
“Good. There’s just something about you, I guess, that my body responds to …” He breathes and my hair flutters in the warmth. Without meaning to, I reach up and put my palms against his chest, and he shudders on the end of a long inhale. “Marnye, you’ve been avoiding me ever since. Now that I know about the bet, it all makes sense.”
“Creed,” I start, as he adjusts himself so that he’s looking right into my face. I have literally no idea what’s happening right now, no clue what our relationship is—or if we even have one at all. Maybe he’s just my ex-bully, and brother to my best friend?
But no.
When I look into his eyes, I can see that’s not it at all.
There’s something else.
“You know, after our little make-out session,” he starts, moving in and pressing a light kiss to the corner of my mouth, “something changed in me.” He kisses me again, and I start to tremble. I’m trapped here, frozen in place. I couldn’t move if I wanted to.
And I don’t.
I don’t want to move.
“I started to think about you …” Creed continues, running his tongue along my lower lip and making me shiver. My body throbs in desperation, and I start wondering what might’ve happened if I hadn’t fled the hot tub, if I’d just let him explore underneath my swimsuit … “As mine.”
Creed’s words—and his mouth—slam into me like a storm, his tongue sliding between my lips, tasting me. His kiss is not as lazy as his words. No, he’s kissing me the same way he moves in a fight: fierce, fast, and frenzied. In an instant, I find myself lifted and set on the edge of the balcony railing. Creed is so tall that it doesn’t make much difference for him, other than that instead of him leaning over to kiss me, I’m bent slightly at the neck to kiss him.
My arms are wrapped around his neck now, his body between my thighs. The railing’s a bit high, so our, um, crotches aren’t exactly lined up which is probably a good thing because I wouldn’t want him to finish in his pants …
A scoffing sound snaps me out of the moment, and I look up to find Tristan Vanderbilt standing in the doorway. He’s watching the two of us with that cold, gray gaze of his, calculating and detached. As I stare at him, my breath coming in short, sharp, pants, I notice shadows flickering in his eyes. His jaw tightens as he tucks his fingers into the front pockets of his black pants and stares at the two of us.
Creed scowls as he pulls me off the railing and sets me on my feet.
“Don’t you fucking knock?” Creed snaps, and I’m just so … flustered and confused, I do nothing but stand there and stare at the two of them. “Or do you feel like you own the whole world anyway, so why not waltz into somebody else’s house uninvited?”
“Your sister let me in, you useless sloth,” Tristan growls back, his raven-dark hair showing off its blue highlights in the sunshine. He takes a step forward, and I stumble away, my back bumping into the railing again. I’m not used to seeing Tristan Vanderbilt in tank tops or shorts or sandals. It’s … mind-blowing.
“Mm.” The sound comes out of Creed in a grunt as he rakes his fingers through his hair. “That wasn’t my real question: why would you think we want you here?” He stays where he is, partially in front of me, and glaring daggers. Tristan glances down at Creed’s crotch with a cruel smirk, and then turns his attention to me.
“I’m not going back to the academy with the social hierarchy in tatters.” Tristan moves up to stand in front of me, too close for propriety’s sake really. My eyes lift to his gray ones. They’re so dark right now, they’re more charcoal than silver. He glances over his shoulder as Creed turns to face us. “And I’m not letting Harper take the throne.”
“What do you suggest we do?” Creed grinds out, watching my interaction with Tristan.
“Take the Bluebloods down, and recreate our own court from scratch.” Tristan turns back to look at me, and my breath catches. The two of them are talking like they're rebuilding a medieval court full of knights and royalty and courtiers.
In a way, I guess, they are.
“You're taking down the Bluebloods?” I ask, my heart thumping as Tristan studies me carefully, taking in my swollen lips with a long, lingering stare. He raises his gaze back to mine as I wonder how possible it'd be to slip around him and put some distance between us.
At the Royal Pointe Lodge, he stood up to Harper for me. He broke his engagement. He's going to get shit from his dad.
“Weren't you already doing that?” he asks, lifting his hands up and curling his fingers around my upper arms. His touch burns me, and I'm already on fire from Creed. This sucks, I think, and then, but it's also awesome. It feels good, but it hurts, too. “The only difference this time is that you'll have our help.” Tristan's cruel slash of a mouth twists into a small smile. “Now that we've pissed Harper off to homicidal levels, you may as well know the truth.”
“About what?” I choke, but then Tristan's slamming his mouth into mine, kissing me so hard and fast that I feel completely dizzy, coming undone in his tight grip. Each place he touches me, burns. It burns so hot and bright that I see starbursts behind my eyes, and my knees feel weak. He pulls away so
fast that I'm left gasping, and Creed's right there in front of me, like he may have gone for Tristan if he'd been able to catch him.
“Get dressed, and we'll all walk together. We need to provide a united front.” Tristan takes off for the door as Creed curses him and flips him off behind his back.
“Who's all?” Creed drawls, narrowing his eyes as I step forward, trying to still the rapid beating of my heart and figure out what the hell just happened there, or what's going on with these guys.
“Me, you, Zayd, Myron, Miranda, Andrew …” Tristan starts and then pauses, like the rest of his words are painful. “Zack, Windsor, Lizzie … and Marnye.” He looks back at me, and my eyes go wide.
Not that I care about any of this, but … Tristan wants me to walk with the Bluebloods? This is a political statement in a major way.
Tristan turns away and tucks his fingers into his pockets, heading into the hallway and breezing past Miranda like she doesn't even exist. No surprise there. That's how he lives most of his life, ignoring people unless he's bullying or fucking them. I frown hard, and my nostrils flare. My stomach twists into strange knots, and I have to close my eyes and breathe through a surge of strange emotions.
When I open my eyes back up, Tristan has long since disappeared down the stairs and Miranda is looking at me with both brows raised in question.
“He told you the plan?” she starts, and I just stare at her.
“Not exactly,” I reply, my voice tight. Creed moves up to stand beside me, and I swear to god, I can feel his eyes on me. Turning my gaze up to his, I can see his ice blue eyes are dark with lust, like sapphires in a deep, blue sea.
“He's beyond frustrating, isn't he? Is it any wonder that I hate him so damn much?” Creed sighs, and looks up at the ceiling. Over the past two years, we've spent a decent amount of time together, but … none of it felt as real as this. For the first time ever, I feel like maybe I'm seeing a bit of the real Creed … um, Whatever-His-Middle-Name-Is, Cabot.
The Envy of Idols Page 3