Jennifer left me at a rest stop because her new boyfriend didn’t like my crying.
“I haven’t decided yet.” The words just come out like that, flat and uninterested. Almost bored. Jennifer stares at me, and I stare right back. “Maybe I’ll have them all?” She laughs, a little nervously, but it falls flat, and the room is completely silent. “Thanks for the balloons.” Miranda creeps closer, like she can sense I need support, and I hand the helium-filled bouquet over to her. “Have a root beer float or something and stay awhile.”
I turn away, my face flushed, my hands shaking, and I end up looking right at Tristan.
He stares down at me like he’s confused and doesn’t know what to do with me.
“This is the part where you say happy birthday,” I whisper, and something in that hard expression of his softens slightly.
“Happy birthday. I know what it’s like to have a shitty parent; don’t let them rain on your parade.”
“Excuse you, young man,” Jennifer says, but I’m smiling and ignoring her. I can hear Charlie mumble as he drags her away toward the dining area.
Tristan reaches into his pocket, and comes out with that damn necklace again. That same fucking necklace. He lifts it up in question, and I turn, letting him hook it around my neck. As he leans in, his lips brush my ear, and I shiver.
“I meant what I said when I went through those cards: yours was the only one I didn’t hate.” He hooks the clasp, and lets go, stepping back as I reach up to play with the double roses. The journey of this necklace reminds me of my relationship with Tristan, this strange back and forth that makes my mouth dry, my chest ache. When I look at him, I yearn.
Yearn.
I just said yearn.
Before I can think too hard about that, I turn to Zayd, ignoring Lizzie’s amber gaze on me. Part of me wonders if I should give the necklace back yet again, surrender Tristan to Lizzie’s embrace. She really seems interested in him …
“Did I fool you, by giving you the earrings early?” Zayd asks, grinning at me as he twists his now bright orange hair into little gelled spikes. The color is so vibrant and crazy, but it suits him. Hell, I’m not sure there’s a color in the world that wouldn’t suit him.
“Oh, I was so fooled,” I say, giving him a hug, too. The way he makes me feel, the way they all make me feel … Third year at Burberry Prep is going to be a hormonal mess. I just know it. Zayd holds me for a long time, longer than most friends would, and Miranda clears her throat rudely next to us.
We separate, and my eyes lock immediately with Creed’s icy blue ones.
“Marnye.” He both looks and sounds a little … pissed off. “Happy seventeenth.”
“I started to think about you … as mine.”
I wet my suddenly dry lips and try to decide if a hug is in order. I didn’t hug Tristan, but I hugged everybody else. Creed and I just stare at each other. Finally, because I just can’t take the freaking tension, I throw my arms around him and give a big squeeze. I let go before he gets a chance to return the gesture, and find that his normally droopy bedroom eyes have widened to blue saucers.
“Let’s start the fun and games!” I choke out, far too cheerfully to be believed by anyone, and then nearly break my ankle on my way down the steps. Zack steadies me with a big, warm hand on my shoulder, and we all fan out on the bench seat while Miranda and Andrew plug in everyone’s name. One of the employees comes over to take our drink orders, and I end up with a chocolate milkshake covered in rainbow sprinkles and way too many maraschino cherries.
There’s a bit of awkwardness as we all settle in together. We’re not exactly the best of friends, and this is a major adjustment.
I’m essentially hanging out with four of my bullies. Five, if you count Lizzie for making that bet.
“Why don’t you guys make an Infinity Club bet over bowling?” I joke, and I swear, everyone’s head whips right over to me. “Not an appropriate joke, huh?” I chuckle, but I’m the only one. “I could tell you about the history of this building? How it was built in 1892 as a brothel, funded by a rich railroad baron because he thought if the miners coming in for the gold rush had female company, they’d be less violent …”
“You can make jokes about the Infinity Club if you want,” Zack says fiercely, watching as I sip my milkshake from the red and white striped straw. “You were hurt by it the most. And I already told you: it’s sexy as hell when you talk historical facts.” He grins at me, and then whips his varsity jacket off his broad shoulders, settling the skin-warmed fabric over mine.
My heart twists into a knot, and then dies from all the feels.
My cheeks flush red as I reach up to pinch the coat closed around me, feeling like a teen from the fifties or something, drinking a milkshake from the soda fountain and wearing her boyfriend’s varsity jacket in the bowling alley.
Not that Zack’s my boyfriend or anything.
I mean, he hasn’t asked.
And even if he did, I don’t know if I’d say yes.
Shit, it smells like him, too, I think, doing my best to hold back a groan. Last time I wore his hoodie, I almost died from the scent. Sporty, but earthy, too, like musk and cedar.
“Okay, lover boy,” Windsor says as he herds Zack toward the rack of bowling balls behind us. “Pick one and let’s get this game going. I quite enjoy kicking ass, even when there aren’t any stakes involved.” He grins, and I think about what he did to Ben. I mean, Ben deserved it, but still. I don’t think Windsor’s joking right now.
The game starts off with a bang, and I’m surprised to see that both Zack and Windsor are damn good bowlers. Fortunately, everyone else is mediocre … and Tristan sucks. Like, he’s by far the worst.
“Something you’re not good at?” I ask with surprise as he gets another gutter ball and narrows those beautiful gray eyes of his on the lane. He glances over at me, but I’m grinning. “That’s a shocker.”
“I’ve never bowled before,” he says, and the grin falls right off my face. Now I’m just gaping at him.
“You’ve never been bowling before?” I choke out, and then I find myself smiling again. “Well, there’s a first time for everything, right? You’ll get better at it.” Tristan stares at me like I’m insane, and then steps back so Lizzie can take her turn.
Her engagement ring sparkles as she picks up a gold colored ball.
“You’ve never let loose enough to try something like bowling,” she says, stepping forward, and prepping for her throw. She gives a slight smile before exhaling, focusing those amber eyes on the pins, and then releasing the ball like a pro. “Strike!” Lizzie squeals and bounces up and down, throwing her arms around Tristan’s neck.
He looks like he’s just been gut-punched.
I feel like I’ve just been gut-punched.
Lizzie pulls back, blushing, and then pushes some dark curls away from her face. She glances my way, but I pretend not to notice. Inside, my stomach is all twisted up with angst.
“Letting loose isn’t in my vocabulary,” Tristan says finally, and I cringe slightly.
Having sex in a public bathroom sure seemed like letting loose, I think sourly, not sure why I’m suddenly so worked up about it. Or in a janitor’s closet on the first day of school. My attention drifts slightly to Lizzie as Zayd makes his way up to the lane. Did she and Tristan ever … and if they did, do I really want to know?
Her amber eyes meet mine, and I flush.
“Ah, fuck a bunch of hairy goat balls,” Zayd groans as his ball bounces into the next lane. He slides his palms over his face while I laugh, smearing his eyeliner just enough that it gives him that sexy rocker look. “This game is harder than it looks.”
“That’s an interesting curse,” I say with a small laugh, covering my mouth and trying to ignore the anxiety that the Lizzie/Tristan thing gives me. She’s retreated back to the bench to sit next to Zack, but the King of Burberry Prep is still staring at me with those unnerving gray eyes of his. They’re the color of graveston
es, aged and worn beyond his seventeen years, and full of so much more emotion than the stone they’re made of it.
“Yeah, well, I’m an artist,” Zayd purrs, and there’s just something about the way he talks that tells the whole world that he can sing. One day, I’d like to see him live. I bet he’s a real treat to watch. For a split-second there, I feel a sting of guilt over what I did. But then I remember the trophy, and how I wore his red dress, and then …
I exhale and shake out my hands.
I’m working on forgiveness here, not grudges. What’s the point of holding one? Take the actions you need to take, and move on. These blue-blooded Idols needed to learn a lesson; I taught it to them. Now, I let it go.
The girls, on the other hand, are a whole different story.
School starts in just a few days; I have to be ready.
“Okay, sir artiste,” I joke, hefting my own ball from the track and licking my lower lip, “watch and learn how a pro does it.”
“You’re so going to regret that,” Zayd chuckles, folding his arms over his chest. When I throw a glare back his way, he lifts one tattooed hand and waves it lazily at me. “Go on, Miss Bowling Expert Extraordinaire, and let’s see these pro moves.”
I scoff and turn back to the lane, doing this dramatic little run thing before I chuck the ball and watch as it warbles, twists, and then knocks over one single stupid pin before disappearing.
“Honey soaked beeswax balls,” I curse, and Zayd howls with laughter. Damn, I missed that laugh. He’s laughing so hard he’s bent over at the waist.
“Beeswax balls?! That’s your idea of cursing?!”
“Hey, it’s better than hairy goat balls,” I grumble, collecting my ball, and pausing as Zack steps up beside me. He raises his dark brows.
“Want some pointers?” he asks, and my heart starts to beat like crazy. I nod, and he comes up behind me, putting his big hands on my hips and making me shiver. He guides me to a specific spot, and then shows me how to hold the ball, where to place my fingers. “Since you’re the birthday girl, I’ll help you throw this first time. After that, you’re on your own.” He stands behind me, sliding his fingers along my right arm before leaning over my shoulder to brush a light kiss to my right cheek.
I almost melt right there in front of everyone.
Instead, I exhale and shudder as Zack helps me throw the ball in just such a way that I actually pick up a spare.
“Holy crap,” I blurt, grinning as I spin around and find him still standing way too close to me. We look at each other a moment before I duck past him and take up a spot on the bench between Miranda and Andrew. Seems like the safest spot in the room, to be quite honest.
We finish our game, and Zack just narrowly beats Windsor.
It’s all fun and games until the prince loses, and I see his jaw clench. There’s a flash of darkness in his gaze that I recognize from when he tried to get me to plant drugs on Tristan, or when he was talking to me during Ben Thresher’s arrest. He notices me watching, and instead of denying it, he walks right up to me and leans in to whisper in my ear.
“I told you I was a bloody, awful wanker,” he whispers, and then he nibbles my earlobe. I’m so startled that I jump, and fling my hand up to cover my ear. I end up smacking him in the face, and he groans, covering up his mouth, shoulders shaking with laughter. When he moves his hands, there’s a bit of blood. “I think I just cut my lip on my tooth.”
“I’m sorry,” I groan, but Windsor just laughs some more and excuses himself to clean up in the bathroom while the rest of us gather around a table to eat burgers from a huge stack on a silver platter, fries from dozens of red and white paper trays, and sodas from cups with the bowling alley’s logo printed on the side.
This is about as far from the luxe nature of Burberry Prep as one could get.
Conversation is light, shallow, but nice.
I think we’re all still trying to get a feel for how to interact with each other.
By the time the cake comes, it’s not quite so awkward, and I realize as I pass Creed a paper plate with a big slice on it that I’m actually having fun. Honestly, this may be one of the best birthdays I’ve ever had. I even forget about Jennifer for a while, standing in the corner like an outcast. This time, it’s not me that’s the social pariah here: it’s her.
Dad gifts me another sentimental object that makes me weepy: a big, beautiful frame he welded, filled with pictures of the two of us, starting from the day I was born, and including one for each birthday thereafter. I’m so happy with the gift, but at the same time I’m terrified.
He thinks he’s dying.
I don’t want to consider it.
I tear into the other gifts to find—not surprisingly—a plethora of ridiculously expensive items, like a bottle of Clive Christiansen Imperial Majesty perfume that costs a whopping twelve grand per ounce. Miranda gifted me with that one. I almost choke and die when she sprays me with it, like watching dollar bills misting in the air around me. To be fair, it smells delicious.
The pile of fancy gifts—shoes, clothes, jewelry, a new suitcase (Andrew must be tried of seeing my ratty duffel bag year after year), and other assorted items—sits at the end of the table as I pick up Windsor’s small, black satin envelope.
“It’s just a little thing,” he says, resting his chin in his hand, his hazel eyes glittering as I tear up the flap to find … a key on a glittery pink Princess keychain. My eyes narrow at the same time my heart thumps like crazy. Pretty sure my hands are shaking, too.
“Princess?” I say, and he just laughs, gesturing for me to dig around in the envelope.
Inside, there’s a pink slip for a car with my name on it.
My eyes widen, and then I’m standing up and racing outside.
There’s a rose-gold fucking Maserati convertible with a bow on the hood.
“Windsor,” I start as Dad comes sprinting out behind me. His jaw drops when he sees the car. I turn to look at the prince, standing there with his hands in his pants pockets, his red hair sticking up in the front like it always does. He’s smiling pleasantly, like he’s happy I’m excited, but also like it’s no big deal. He also has this … I don’t want to say smugness, but self-satisfaction, like he wanted to make sure he had the biggest gift, and gets off on it, too. Hmm.
“Seriously?” Miranda coughs. “You one-upping asshole.” This last part is mumbled under her breath, but I hear it anyway.
“I can’t accept this,” I whisper, looking between him and the car.
“You can’t?” he asks with a small, faux frown. “That’s too bad. I had to special order this color. I can’t return it.” He smiles at me, and there’s something not quite so perfect about that expression, an almost sloppy sort of grin that I like. I bite my lower lip and squeeze the keys against my chest. “Just one ride in it, and then I’ll sell it on eBay?”
“One ride,” I whisper, turning to look at Charlie. He’s still gaping, probably trying to figure out how much the car costs. My guess: more than our rented house is worth. “Is it okay if I take it for a spin? I mean, just once because I can’t accept a gift this lavish …”
“I …” Dad starts, and then lifts his hands in surrender. “Why the hell not?”
Grabbing Miranda and Andrew by the hands, I drag them down the steps and head over to the convertible, running my hand along the shiny rose-gold paint. Holy crap, holy crap, holy crap.
“Drive slow!” Dad shouts out. “And wear your seat belts!”
During the summer, I completed my required driver’s training course, took the test, and passed. This girl now officially has her license.
I push my seat forward, so Andrew and Miranda can climb into the back. Windsor doesn’t even open his door, just hops over it. He leans forward, snatches the giant white bow off the hood, and slumps back in his seat.
“How much did this cost?” I whisper, as I start up the car and Zayd’s band, Afterglow, starts playing. Grinning, I turn it up, and give the others a little w
ave before backing out of the space. I cannot keep this. It’s too much. It’s too extravagant a gift for a friend to give. “No, wait, don’t tell me. Just … sell it and make a donation with the amount.”
“I’ll make a donation to wherever you want in the amount I paid for the convertible, if you keep it.”
Windsor is dead serious, leaning against his door and watching me, the wind tousling his red hair.
“But … why?” I ask, just before we pull out of the parking lot. I’m aware Miranda and Andrew are listening, but I can’t help it. “Why did you get this for me?”
“Why?” Windsor echoes, like I’ve lost my mind. He looks baffled as he reaches out and frees a piece of hair that’s stuck to my glossy lips. “Because you deserve it, milady.”
The first day of my third year at Burberry Preparatory Academy begins with a long car ride, as usual. What’s unusual about this time is that I’m driving myself. In the Maserati that Windsor bought me. Don’t get me wrong: I feel like an asshole riding in such an expensive vehicle, but the prince did make a generous donation to my favorite charity. Plus, it’s rude to refuse a gift made with thoughtfulness.
All of that and … I wanted to keep it. Does that make me selfish?
“You are the least selfish person I’ve ever met,” Miranda declares from the passenger seat, and the prince murmurs his agreement from behind her, most of his attention focused on his phone. Miranda sounds almost indignant about it, her white-blond hair whipping about in the wind as we take the coastal highway south toward the academy.
She and Creed—along with the others—stayed in Cruz Bay the last two days, but unlike the others, neither Windsor nor the Cabot twins has a car. After I sunk Creed’s Bentley Bentayga, he was not given a replacement. Kathleen Cabot is a harsh mistress. And Windsor … I can’t forget the way his face looked in the rear-view on the way to Royal Pointe; he either can’t or doesn’t want to drive.
The Envy of Idols Page 7