The Envy of Idols

by Stunich, C. M.

  Windsor tosses his card on the counter before anyone even orders, and declares that he's taking care of the bill. It's a control thing with him, I think. Actually, I'm pretty sure he wanted to know why Tristan was in charge of arranging the car because he wanted to do it himself.

  "Look, a Union Jack cookie," I say with a grin, pointing at the row of flag-frosted cookies in the back. "A taste of home."

  "You Americans and your cookies," he says with a chuckle. "They're bloody biscuits. That is a frosted biscuit."

  "Biscuits go with gravy. These are freaking cookies, Wind." I order an eclair and an iced chai from the woman behind the counter, and Windsor copies me, following me through the archway and into the side area where I sat last time I was here. I choose a slightly different spot, near the fireplace in the back, and settle into the sofa.

  Wind sits beside me, his body denting the cushion and causing our bodies to touch.

  He reaches down and curves his fingers through mine, making my heart stutter in my chest. He touches me all the time, so it's not really that big of a deal, but … something seems different now.

  "You know how I said we could date, and it'd be fun?" he asks, and I nod. How could I forget that? "I think that if you're considering one of these idiots, you should consider my offer, too."

  I sit there for a minute, breathing in the smell of coffee and sugar, the faint smoky scent from the fire. Underneath it all, there's Windsor's smell, that daffodil and shoe polish scent. Such a weird combo, but so accurate. I think the latter part is because he's always wearing those leather boots of his, and they're always shined to perfection. That must be where the polish part comes in. The sweet floral scent … sometimes I wonder if I'm imagining it.

  The other boys filter in, and Zack puts my chai and pastry on the table while giving Wind a look.

  "You'd grab mine, wouldn't you?" he asks, his accent cheerful and chipper. He reaches up and pushes some of that beautiful red hair of his from his forehead, making it stick up like it always does. "Be a mate, Zack, and help a guy out."

  "You can get your own fucking food," Zack says, taking up the seat on my other side. Windsor flips him off, but sighs and stands up anyway. The other guys are already seated, or else I think someone might've taken his spot.

  That wouldn't have gone down well.

  My fingers tingle from where he touched them, and I shake my hand out before grabbing my chai. It's spicy and sweet at the same time, like star anise and cardamom and vanilla. Ugh. So freaking good.

  "You know the Lujo Pride Festival is insane," Zayd says, leaning over and propping his elbows on his knees. "It'd be a dream to play during it." He looks down at his pile of frosted sugar cookies and sighs.

  "When can I meet your band?" I ask, and he glances over at me in surprise. "I mean, you never talk about them, but you guys must spend a lot of time together, right?"

  "Every free second I have when I'm not at Burberry or being dragged around on my old man's tour bus." Zayd grins. "You Googled us, right? You've seen them, bunch of assholes." He pulls his phone from his pocket and passes it over, so I can scroll through pictures. About … two dozen pics in, and I get one of him shirtless in front of a mirror, abs tightened, taking a ridiculous selfie.

  I hold back a giggle and scroll over again, only to find a nude pic of Zayd.

  His, um, well, let's just be straight here: his dick is in full view. I can see everything, including the fact that it's pierced at the tip.

  "Jesus, man," Zack says, snatching the phone from me and chucking it back at our rocker friend. Zayd catches it, looking confused, and then glances down to see the picture. He grins big and looks up.

  "What'd you think?" he asks, and I can tell my cheeks are bright red as Windsor comes back in and sits down beside me.

  "Your friends look really nice," I say, and he shakes his head.

  "No, I meant about my body, mostly my dick."

  "Oh for fuck's sake," Creed drawls, draped over a chair like he owns the place. He and Tristan exchange glances, and I grin, putting the eclair in my mouth, so I don't have to answer.

  After we're done at the café, we hit up just about every shop on the main street, gathering supplies for our costumes, and then hit the B&B at just about check-in time.

  We've got a family suite which, really, is just a collection of rooms with inner doors so they can be connected. We have three rooms, one of which has a seating area, and a giant bathtub that's sort of just … in the middle of the bedroom.

  "Don't get me wrong, this looks scrumptious, but why is right next to the bed?"

  "First off," Zayd begins, leaping into the tub and reclining back with his ankles crossed next to the faucet. His shirt rides up in the front and I catch a glimpse of tattoos, and a sprinkling of dark hair that promises that the view I saw on his phone was not imaginary. There's really something down below that waistband. And by something, I mean his cock. My cheeks flush as Zayd continues to ramble. "Did you just use the word scrumptious in a non-ironic sort of way? Second, the bathtub is in the bedroom because this is a honeymoon suite, and the bride and groom are meant to fuck in it."

  "So classy, as always," Tristan says, looking irritated as he returns from his perusal of the suite. I've seen him swipe a finger on the top of a picture frame to check for dust, and then sigh dramatically. Personally, I think the little bed and breakfast is adorable. "Let's make sleeping arrangements."

  "Me and Marnye in here," Zayd says, but there's just a single king bed in this room, sooo that's not happening. "And then two of you in each of the other rooms, one per bed. Done and done."

  "How about …I sleep alone in here, and you guys take the other beds." I cross my arms over my chest and stare both Zayd and Tristan down.

  "I'm not bunking with any of these pricks," Zayd scoffs, leaping out of the tub and grabbing me behind the legs and around the waist to sweep me into his arms. I squeal as he spins us around, and tosses me onto the bed. I bounce for a brief second before he's covering me with his body, and pinning my arms at the wrists. "I'd much rather stay in here with you, Charity."

  "No chance," I whisper back. Knowing logically that Zayd is teasing me is one thing, but having him on top of me like this is … quite another altogether. We look at each other, and I can tell that I'm not the only one that feels it. A muscle in Zayd's cheek ticks, and I find it suddenly hard to breathe. We can both feel the tension. Hell, we've felt it since day one. The first moment we laid eyes on each other, I knew I had chemistry with the asshole rockstar boy.

  Zayd groans and rolls off of me, but the damage is done. My heart is pounding, and there's a bead of sweat running between my breasts.

  "There's a pull-out bed in the couch," Zack says from the other room, and I can hear hinges squeaking as he unfolds it. Sitting up, I pad out to the seating area and watch him start to make the bed. "I'll sleep here. It's better than having to share a bed with his majesty."

  "I haven't pissed the bed in years," Windsor declares, throwing open the curtains and looking down at the creek that runs behind the property. He glances back at Zack with a huge grin. "Although last time we slept in a bed together, I woke up with your hard-on stabbing me in the leg."

  "Bullshit," Zack snorts, as Creed narrows his blue eyes.

  "When did you two ever sleep in the same bed?" he asks, flopping into one of the chairs and kicking his brown Barker Black boots up on the coffee table. Windsor turns around slowly, a cruel smile etching its way across his mouth. Sometimes I feel like being in a room with these guys is like standing in a pit of snakes. There's so much damn venom, and I'm always waiting for one to strike.

  "When we slept with Marnye on the last day of second year," Windsor says, as if that's the most natural thing in the world.

  "You mean when you slept next to Marnye," Tristan spits out, his voice like ice. He sounds pissed, and I can't help but glance over at him. "Nobody believes either of you had sex with her, so don't even with the innuendo."

  "And if I h
ad, would that infuriate you?" Windsor challenges, tucking his hands into the pockets of his white slacks. He's got a white button-down on with short sleeves and a subtle pinstripe, and those glossy black boots he always wears, like he's about to go riding.

  "You haven't," Tristan says, his voice a sharp slash in the suddenly tense air of the sitting room. Creed's blue eyes take it all in with a hint of eagerness, like he'd truly enjoy watching the two of them beat the crap out of each other.

  "Who Marnye does or doesn't sleep with isn't any of your business," Zack growls, interrupting the other two boys. "So leave it alone, and screw off." Tristan sneers, and I can just see the evening going straight down the toilet.

  I step into the middle of the room.

  "That's enough." My voice comes out hard and sharp, and they all turn to look at me. My heart is pounding so fast right now that I'm just praying I don't pass out. "You guys can't keep fighting; it's not fair." I exhale, and run my fingers through my hair. I look around, and for once, they're all quiet. Pretty shocking if you know anything at all about any of these guys. They're basically all alpha males. Tough crowd. "It's confusing to me."

  "I'm sorry," Zack says, and if he didn't sound so genuine, I'd just think he was kowtowing to me. "You're right." He sits down on the edge of the couch bed with a small sigh. "You don't deserve to deal with this shit after all the crap we put you through."

  "I … know you're interested in dating," I tell him, feeling my cheeks heat. I turn my gaze over to Creed. "And you." Breathe, Marnye, breathe. "But what about you, Zayd?"

  He's standing just outside the door to the bedroom, looking at me with bright emerald eyes. His hands are tucked in his pockets, and he closes his eyes on the end of an exhale.

  "I fucked up so bad with you Marnye," he whispers, his voice so husky and raw that if he were to stop and record a song right now, the emotion would be so real it'd probably make people cry. "I was interested from day one. I told you that."

  "Are you interested now?" I whisper, struggling to make the words come out. There's so much tension, it's making my skin feel achy and tight.

  Zayd looks me dead in the eye.

  "I'm interested. Seriously fucking interested."

  Creed makes a frustrated sound, and Zack scowls.

  I turn to Tristan then. He's standing in the doorway next to me. We're so close I can see his pulse thundering. On the outside, he looks calm. But I can tell it's all a facade. He's boiling on the inside.

  "What about you?"

  "What about me?" Tristan responds, cool as a goddamn cucumber, his blade gray gaze cutting into me.

  "Are you interested in me?" It's so freaking hard to get those words out, to ask a question I've honestly been wondering about for almost two years. I want to hear him say it. My mind briefly strays to Lizzie, but … I need to know how Tristan feels, regardless of what happens after.

  He puts his hand on the doorjamb above my head and leans in close.

  "Haven't I made that obvious?" he asks, a smirk twisting on his full lips. His hair is so goddamn beautiful, blue-black strands that shift gently across his forehead.

  "That's not an answer." I stay firm, even as he puts his left hand on my hip, and presses his thumb into my pelvic bone, making me gasp. "Yes or no."

  Tristan stares at me for so long that I wonder if he's even going to reply at all. But then I remember that moment in Paris, outside the Eiffel Tower. There was so much tension, and his face was so soft, almost gentle. He was going to say something to me before Windsor interrupted us, I know he was.

  I remember their argument in French, and wish I'd picked the language of love instead of Spanish and Japanese. Part of me knows there's something in that conversation that I would've wanted to hear.

  "A good follow-up question would be: do you still love Lizzie, and if so, how do your feelings for the Walton girl compare to your ones for Marnye?" Windsor saunters forward, fully aware that he's throwing a wrench in the cogs of this conversation. I could kill him in that moment.

  Tristan's face shadows over, and he sneers, turning toward Windsor like maybe he'll start a fight that won't end without bloodshed. I could see the two of them going to the death with blows. I put a hand on his chest and step between them, turning a look on the prince.

  "What is your problem, Wind?" I snap, feeling my anger and frustration bubble to the surface. He really is a bully of bullies. Like, that's his thing, and I can't decide if he's hanging out with me because that's what he likes to do or what. Everything he says and does is a big production, a joke. "Why are you making this harder than it has to be?"

  He's still smiling as he steps toward me, putting us toe to toe.

  "It was a valid question: Tristan loves Lizzie, Lizzie loves Tristan. So what happens to you, Marnye? I don't want to see you get hurt."

  "I believe that," I say, feeling this tightness in my chest. "But I also know that you're socially aware enough to not bring something like that up in a moment like this. You keep joking about how we could date and have some fun together, but I can't tell if you're joking or if you're serious or—"

  Windsor York, the prince of fucking England, sweeps his arm around me and pulls me close so fast that I don't have time to finish my sentence. Instead, I find his fingers on my chin and his mouth pressing up against mine.

  His tongue traces my lower lip before diving into my mouth, lust and passion swirling through his touch and into me. There's suddenly so much tension between us that I can barely breathe. No, not barely, I can't. I don't breathe. How could I when he's kissing me like he's been waiting his entire life to find me?

  There's no teasing in this kiss, there's no joke.

  There's nothing but intent, clear and sharp. It's in the way he holds me, touches me, kisses me. Ardent fire swirls through my blood, poisoning me against the world. There's nothing I want more in that moment than him, than my very own fucking prince.

  He pulls back suddenly, with a flourish, like always, sliding his fingers from my chin and up my jawline, touching my hair.

  "Milady, I'm very much interested." He grins, but there's a heat to it now that either I just missed before, or he did a damn good job hiding. "You're so … very much everything I never knew I wanted. You hate money. You hate assholes. You don't take shit. Darling, let me make you a princess."

  "Stop that," I choke out, because now I'm certain he's joking again. I push away from him, and he lets me go, watching with glimmering hazel eyes as I press my back to the wall between him and Tristan.

  The king of Burberry Prep is not a happy little ruler in that moment.

  "You son of a bitch," Tristan snarls, and Windsor grins.

  "Son of a princess, actually. Great-grandson to a queen. Let's get that part right at least. You might be ‘American royalty’"—Wind makes derisive little quotes with his fingers—"but I actually am royalty." He smirks. "Tenth in line to the throne, prestigious enough to be important, but not close enough to it that anyone cares what I do. I have my own money, my own life. If I want to date a poor, American girl, I can. What about you? Are you even allowed to like Marnye?"

  Tristan steps forward, and then he turns to look at me. To his credit, he controls the angry sneer on his face, and cools his expression, flicking his tongue out to lick the edge of his lip as he looks me over.

  His eyes come to rest on my face, and then he's turning to me, grabbing me by the hips and setting me on the edge of the sofa table. He brings both hands up and tangles his fingers in my hair, pulling me in for another kiss.

  Seriously, at this point, my mind is gone, spinning away into oblivion. I'm just a ball of emotion with no logicality left.

  That harsh yearning inside of me spirals into a crescendo as Tristan sweeps my mouth with his tongue. His kiss is as sharp and cold as he is, but it's threaded through with white-hot molten fire. If I can melt that outer steel of his, and dig down to what lies beneath … he'd be a fucking firestorm. His fingers grip my hips on either side, digging in just enough
that it both hurts and feels good at the same time.

  I'm reminded of winter formal, and that night on the boat. "Just remember that Creed isn’t the only one that’s interested." The way he kissed me then, and the way he's kissing me now … are the same.

  It wasn't all bullshit, was it? The way I felt like I belonged when we all sat together at the table? That was real. It was real. It was fucking real.

  Tristan pulls back, and puts his forehead to mine, breathing hard.

  And then he jerks away like he's been burned, storming across the seating area toward his room.

  He's running away.

  "Stop." Just that one word from me. I don't even have to shout it. The meaning is clear enough in that single syllable.

  Tristan pauses and glances back at me, pupils dilated, the gray of his eyes burning like barely banked embers.

  "What?" He sounds like he's about to snap. He definitely needs time alone to decompress, that's for sure. But not until he answers my question.

  "Are you interested? A kiss isn't an answer. I want to hear it in words." I lift my chin and Tristan turns around, nostrils flaring with anger. He closes his eyes and glances away like he's in pain.

  "I've already taken on my father's wrath for you, forsaken my family fortune, isn't—"

  "Not an answer." My heart is beating so fast, and I can feel the other guys watching me carefully. I stare him down and I wait. Lizzie isn't far from my mind in that moment, but all I can do right now is start here, with a simple answer to my question. If he is interested in Lizzie, that's a choice he'll have to make on his own. If he cares about her then … he has to decide that. I can't force him.

  "Yes."

  Just that one word.

  It feels like a challenge.

  "Shame. I was looking forward to a challenge.”