"We never tried to hide that," Creed says, stepping forward in his watermelon costume. By all rights, he should look ridiculous, but with that little cutout that reveals his abs, his beautiful white-blond hair, and those ice-blue eyes of his, he's anything but. Actually, the look on his face is the same one he wore when he was fighting Derrick Barr, and when he was confronting Greg and John in the woods. This is his take no shit, fighting face. "In fact, we're all quite proud," he drawls as he moves over to stand beside me, curling an arm around my waist. "Because even if we're all dating her at the same time, that means we're not dating you."
Harper ignores him, sweeping out the front door with her cronies at her heels. John flips us off and curses us all out before heading down the steps and climbing into his Aston Martin. There's the sound of peeling rubber and churning gravel, and then silence.
Tristan scans his blade gray gaze over the crowd, and smirks.
"You're either with the Bluebloods, or you're against us. You're here with the Idols and our Inner Circle, or you're not." Tristan and Creed exchange a glance before Tristan continues speaking. "Just remember: they've closed ranks, and we're still recruiting."
Tristan nods his chin, the music starts up, and the party goes on.
Miranda gives me a look, grabs my hand, and pulls me onto the dance floor. Maybe, like me, she knows there'll be time to talk later. Right now, I'm not sure if I'm frustrated with the boys or flattered by what they've done for me.
It's always nice to feel protected; I just don't want that feeling to come at a price that’s too high to pay.
Despite all the partying and the drama, Burberry Preparatory Academy is the best high school in the country, and even students like Zayd and Windsor are full-up on coursework and extracurricular activities. Students like me and Tristan are completely swamped.
It takes me almost an entire week to get a moment to talk to the boys as a group. Creed and I have a study session in the library, and I invite the others to join us.
The five of them fan out across the long table, and it occurs to me that the way they each sit is indicative of their unique personalities. Creed slouches, Tristan sits with his back ramrod straight, Zayd kicks his heels up on the table, Windsor rests his elbows on the table and leans in close, and Zack sits with his arms folded tight across his broad chest.
I smile.
It isn’t until I start writing in my notebook again that it really hits me: I have a boyfriend. No, not just a boyfriend, five of them. Anyway, I start jotting my feelings down (and don't worry, I hide my notebook inside the cabinet of my vanity, taped to the top above a stack of towels), and it’s only then that I truly realize what I’ve gotten into.
I agreed to date these guys. Date them.
I have five freaking boyfriends.
They all have a streak of cruelty in them, a velvety stripe of darkness that's woven into their souls. The question now is: can I channel that cruelty, that darkness, into something positive?
“It's so quiet in here,” Zayd says, leaning back in his chair and looking up at the decorative copper tiles on the soaring ceiling of the library. “No wonder I never come in here. The quiet stresses me out. I like noise.”
“We’re well-aware,” Creed drawls, waving a hand lazily around. “You talk just to hear your own voice; it’s constant.”
“How about you eat a bag of dicks?” Zayd replies, grinning and flipping Creed off. I let them do their thing for a minute, and then switch off my academy-issued iPad, tucking it into my bookbag. “What are we doing here anyway?” he continues, raising his pierced brow. “We should be in The Mess having dinner at the high table. God knows, Harper and her bald buddies are probably already in there.”
I smile because come on, the term bald buddies is hilarious.
“You guys didn’t tell me what you were planning at the party,” I say, and Windsor and Zack exchange a look before the prince turns back to me.
“Do you know what bet I made to get into the Infinity Club?” he asks, tilting his head to one side, a small grin working its way across his lips. “I’d wager it’s bloody killing you that you don’t know.” I purse my lips and narrow my eyes on him.
“It may have crossed my mind a time or two.”
“Ah,” Windsor says, leaning across the table and grabbing my hand. He puts my knuckles to his lips, his hazel eyes flashing a green-gold color as his grin doubles in size. “You’re lying now, and that was one of the rules, wasn’t it? No lies?”
“Fine. I’m dying to know, so tell me, for crap’s sake.” I take my hand back, and pretend to rub his kiss off on my red blazer. In all actuality, it’s tingling, and I wish he’d never stopped kissing it.
“I bet I could keep you safe until the end of second year.”
My mouth drops open, and Windsor and Zack exchange another look. Zack’s eyes are narrowed, his shoulders taut. He sighs heavily, but I can tell he’s relieved when he starts to talk.
“That night, in the amphitheater, when you went to make a bet with the girls and I sat with the boys … I bet them the same thing.” My brows go up. He’d told me he was going to make up some ridiculous bet that they’d never go for, just to distract them. Guess that’s not how things turned out. “I bet that I could keep you safe. Or rather, I tried to make the bet—and I came up with the idea before he did.” Zack gives Windsor a look that the prince pretends not to notice.
“Okay …” I start as Tristan sighs. My mind is whirling. So Windsor met me, sensed an opportunity, and leapt on it. He saved me from the pool. He watched my back. Of course a bet was involved. Of course the stupid Club was involved.
“And we didn’t take Zack’s bet because we didn’t have an interest in winning that wager,” Tristan says, turning to look at me for a moment.
“How the fuck was I supposed to know that?” Zack growls, and the two boys stare each other down.
“Who did you bet against?” I ask, redirecting my attention back to Wind. He gives a tight smile, and shakes his head.
“Other members of the Club. Idiots. It doesn’t matter. Winning got me into the Club where I needed to be. I joined for you.” I shake my head, and then put my fingers up to my temples. Do I believe Windsor is trustworthy? Sure. But sometimes I think his motivations are questionable. He joined the Club for me, huh? I give him a look. “It’s true, whether you believe it or not.” He gives me this slow, confident, cocksure little smile that I don’t want to like but do anyway.
I lift my head and put my palms flat on the table.
“That doesn’t explain why you guys didn’t tell me your plan. I mean, it was a bit more heavy-handed than I would’ve gone for, but also sort of brilliant.” I grin as I think about the Company, and all the girls’ fancy new wigs. The boys are just dealing with their shiny bald heads. “Why not tell me? I mean, there is such a thing as lying by omission.”
“We want to protect you,” Zack says, his red and black letterman jacket pulled taut over his broad shoulders. Just looking at him reminds me of the weight of his body, the heat of his mouth. Ugh. Pretty sure I’ve spent the last few months just ogling the guys. I figure as long as I keep my grades up (I outranked Tristan during Parents’ Week again, so score for me) then I deserve a little indulgence. “And not just physically, but emotionally, too.”
“What he’s trying to say is … let us be the assholes.” Zayd gives me a devilish little grin. “It’s what we’re good at, after all.”
“You have a sort of …” Creed trails off, waving his hand around lazily. I swear, when I close my eyes, I can just imagine him dressed in a blue velvet jacket with lace trailing from the sleeves, an aristocrat in a crumbling old castle. He might be new money, but he doesn’t need to marry some girl with a fancy name to act like he deserves to sit on a throne. He’s the embodiment of luxe, the very definition of opulence and sumptuous extravagance. “Sweetness, yes, that’s the word.” He snaps his fingers and leans in close to me, his fresh soap scent wafting around me. “You have a
sweetness to you, but one that isn’t bought and paid for with naivety. We like it.”
“We love it,” Tristan corrects, reaching up to run his hand down the smooth red and black plaid silk of his tie. His smirk is tinged with darkness, bathed in shadows, and I know for sure then that whichever one of these boys I choose, I’ll never change them. The way Zack confronted Ileana in the gym, nearly reduced her to rubble with a few sentences. The way Windsor’s eyes gleam when he’s plotting something. The cruel words that Zayd spat at Becky in the music room. They have it in them, these filthy rich boys of Burberry Prep, this vitriolic simmer, this wanton disregard for authority, and a devil-may-care attitude that can’t be tamed.
I’ll never tame the academy’s bad boys.
I’m not sure that I want to.
“So you’re saying … let you do the dirty work?” I ask, my heart pounding. I feel dizzy, lightheaded, like a goddess surrounded by devils. But I like it, the way they offset my personality, total opposites in every way that counts. And opposites, they really do attract. On the inside, I’m burning. On the outside, I stay cool, calm, relaxed. Or at least I think I do. I feel sweat beading on my forehead, dripping down my spine, sliding between my breasts.
Ah, my breasts.
I’ve never been so aware of them in all my life.
“That’s exactly what we’re saying,” Windsor purrs, propping his face in his hand and giving me this sort of love-drunk grin. See, I don’t think he’s faking it. I’m pretty sure he is in love, but what I think he’s in love with is the aforementioned dirty work, and not necessarily me. “Keep your honeyed hands clean, and let us play.”
“My honeyed hands?” I choke out on the end of a laugh.
“Give me your list,” Tristan says, holding out his hand. It’s not a request, it’s an order. Do I want to follow it? He stares at me with those beautiful gray eyes of his, watching, waiting. I swallow hard and reach into my purse, pulling out the notebook, and tearing the list out before I give it to him. He smiles this wicked, black little smile as he takes it. Next, I tear out the rules, and I hand those over, too.
“Play dirty, but play by my rules.” Tristan takes it, but he doesn’t look nearly as excited by it. “I’ll never forgive you if you don’t.”
Now that I have a crew to call my own, a boyfriend (or two or three or five), and a better idea of what colleges I’m interested in, and what I want to do with my life, the year starts to feel like it’s going by at warp-speed. One minute, I’m lecturing the boys in the library, and the next, I’m gearing up for fall break.
“I want to go to Bornstead U,” I blurt, sitting next to Zayd behind the auditorium curtain. I have no idea how he talked me into this, but I’m signing up for the talent show, I guess. Auditions are today because at a place like Burberry Prep, even something as silly as a talent show has to be monitored, graded, and appraised.
“Bornstead, huh?” Zayd says, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms behind his head. He’s changed his hair color to an ashy-lavender that just begs to be touched. Without thinking, I reach up and run my fingers through it. This horribly embarrassing moan escapes Zayd’s beautiful mouth, and every single person sitting backstage with us turns to look in our direction. My cheeks flush, but I don’t stop touching him. “That’s a ritzy school. You have the grades for it, definitely, but I’m guessing you’d need another scholarship in order to afford it, huh?”
“Pretty much,” I say, but I’ve already started on that. I’ve been forcing myself to spend at least three hours a week in the library’s computer lab so I can submit applications and essays for any scholarship program I can find. “But that’s what I want.”
“Best high school in the country, best university in the country. The sky’s the limit for you, huh, Marnye Reed?” Zayd’s name is called, and he stands up, grabbing his guitar, and leaning down to put his arm on one side of me, our faces so close together I can smell the mint he’s sucking on. “If anyone could do it, it’d be you.” He leans down and puts his cheek against mine. All I want is for him to kiss me, but the asshole pulls back and turns to head onstage.
I sneak up to the break in the curtain to watch as he gets situated at the mic.
Zayd’s emerald eyes glance my way, and he winks.
“Introduce yourself and give a brief explanation of your performance, please,” Mr. Carter says, situated at the same table he sat at when I won first chair for the harp. Zayd sat right near him, and surprised the hell out of me by clapping for my performance. That, I think, was also a very genuine response. It feels good to know that not every moment I enjoyed with the boys was bullshit.
“Zayd Kaiser,” he says, that husky rockstar purr of his melting the panties of every girl in that room—including mine. “And I’ll, uh, be performing a song that I wrote.”
“What’s the name of the song?” Mr. Carter asks, sounding incredibly bored. He has his hand poised above his iPad to type it into some field on a form. Zayd and his music, he’s so much more than that. I fist my hand into the fabric of the black slacks I wore to perform. They’re so unbelievably comfy. If I had time for anything besides school, extracurricular activities, and time with my friends, I’d probably add creating a petition to abolish gender-specific uniform requirements to the list.
“I haven’t named it yet,” Zayd starts, slinging the strap of his guitar over his head and then reaching up to twist some of his gelled hair into spikes.
“Pick something, please.” Mr. Carter looks up and raises an eyebrow as Zayd glances over at me again.
“How about …” He turns back to our music teacher and grins. “Charity?”
Mr. Carter nods, and Zayd sighs, clearing his throat, closing his eyes, and exhaling. When he opens them again, he’s got his performer vibe going strong. His inked fingers strum the guitar, and he starts this beautiful, sweet-sad little melody that makes my heart thump.
Watching his tattooed fingers tease the instrument to life gives me chills.
“That first look in the morning, such a honeyed sweetness, the only thing I’m living for.” Zayd continues to strum, getting into the song and biting his lower lip as he plays. “Nothing could never take away the first blush of morning, the glossed gold of her hair; the way she hates me makes me want her.”
“This is fucking stupid,” I hear Harper snort behind me, but there are too many teachers back here for her to do a damn thing. I’m not concerned.
“There’s no girl that burns so bright as Charity, no sunray that gives off so much light. Summer storms could never sway me, that sweet-hot rain, the taste of her warm mouth.” He closes his eyes and strokes his guitar like I wish he’d stroke me … Eek. Did I just think that?! I did. I did, and I’m not ashamed. “So complex, so un-confusing. Just the way she likes it, the whole world as her oyster, the everything I need.” He draws this last word out, and I swear, I’m swooning. Sucking my bottom lip under my teeth, I wait in tense anticipation for him to finish the song. I want to kiss him so damn bad right now.
Someday soon I’m going to an Afterglow concert, I think, trying to imagine Zayd with an electric guitar, dressed to the nines, putting on a full-blown performance for an adoring crowd. I’ve looked up some of his previous shows on YouTube, but as impressive as they are, I bet it’s nothing compared to seeing him live. There’s this charismatic energy he brings to a room that’s impossible to convey over media. Impossible.
When Zayd finishes the song, I find my feet moving before I can stop myself.
I end up on the stage, throwing my arms around his neck. Several girls that are sitting in the auditorium seats boo, but I ignore them. The inked asshole that I hated, then liked, then hated, and now … whatever it is that I feel for him, he grabs me around the waist and kisses me like he really believes all those things from his song.
We kiss for so long that Mr. Carter has to tap the microphone and ask us to stop.
I’d be embarrassed if I weren’t so elated.
My turn is nex
t, and one of the first-year orchestra students wheels my harp onto the stage.
I sit down to play John Thomas’ Watching the Wheat (an obscure piece from the eighties—told you I was far from hip), and I swear, the harp has never sounded prettier.
I’ve always played with my heart. It must just be that my heart is fuller now.
To think that has something to do with these boys … is terrifying.
I’m going to have to be careful to keep all these new feelings safe.
“They’re all performing at the talent show,” Miranda says, standing in the courtyard with water bubbling in the fountain behind her. She has a nice, high ponytail, black shorts, and a white razorback top with the Burberry Prep logo on it. Fall break is here, and it’s like first year all over again: Miranda is off to a volleyball camp, and Charlie is at a job in Napa. I don’t think he should be working right now, but bills have to be paid.
So I told him about the money, the poker money.
I called him because it felt cowardly to text it, to reveal I had damn near eighty grand in an account that I’d barely touched. Of course, Charlie being Charlie, he refused to take it. He told me to save it for college.
I cross my arms over my chest, and sigh. I’m beyond frustrated. Dad should let me come home and take care of him. Instead, I just got Harry Potter’d again and left at Hogwarts. Only, instead of magic, this school is full of gorgeous boys. Five of them. And they’re all staying for the break to attend more of their stupid Infinity Club parties.
The difference this time, is that Lizzie is here, too.
“What?” I ask, blinking and refocusing on my bestie. We haven’t talked about … the kiss. Not in a while. I’m not sure if she’s given up or if she’s still interested. Frankly, I’m scared to find out. I don’t want romantic feelings to come between us and our friendship. If I’m honest, it’s the same issue with the boys. For four of them—if not all five—this relationship we’ve just started won’t work out. Will we still be friends after? It scares me to think that we won’t because I enjoy their company so damn much.
The Envy of Idols Page 16