The Envy of Idols

by Stunich, C. M.

  “I should’ve made Andrew stay here with you,” Miranda murmurs, sighing as the bus pulls up and her coach calls for the girls to climb on. “Who needs an overseas trip to Tokyo when you could be here, at gorgeous Burberry Prep, home of a serious Infinity Club throwdown?” She pauses her rant, leans over, and gives me a big kiss on the cheek. “Stay safe, don’t do anything stupid, and try not to get killed by Harper before I get back, okay?”

  “What did you mean about the talent show?” I ask before she pulls away. She shrugs her shoulders, tosses her pony, and then gives me a look.

  “If you don’t think your new beaus are going to fuck that shit up, you’ve got another thing coming.” Miranda gives me a wink and bounces off to join her team, leaving me standing there and wondering.

  If the old adage, an eye for an eye holds true …

  “You’re going to dump paint on them while they perform, aren’t you?” I ask, finding Tristan and Creed waiting for me near the stained glass doors that lead into the chapel. We’re still trying to stick with the chaperone thing. If my boys assaulted the entire Company on their own, then what’s going to happen if the entire Company finds me alone?

  “Paint?” Tristan asks, sounding bored. His gray eyes take me in appreciatively, and he lets a naughty little smirk take over his mouth.

  “Definitely not paint,” Creed drawls, his white-blond hair catching the light. “That much I can promise.” I give him a look, but he just gives me a slow, little wink. “No lies, right?”

  “No outright lies, I’m sure, but you’re clearly running circles around me.”

  “Are we, Creed?” Tristan asks, tilting his head to one side. “Running circles around her, I mean?”

  “Maybe,” Creed replies slowly, and I think what a deliciously evil pair they make. If they spent as much time working together as they do competing with each other, they’d be a serious force to reckon with. I’m wondering if I’m starting to see the beginning of that right here. Creed smiles at me, this deadly twist of lips that makes my heart pound. “But fuck that. We have more important things to worry about, like how we’re going to spend an entire week off school together.”

  “I thought you had Infinity Club crap to keep you busy?” I ask, and the two Idol boys exchange a glance. They both look so handsome in their uniforms, I don’t even mind that they have to wear them every day. Although it’s always a treat to see what clothes they pick when we’re outside of academy time.

  “Just a few little parties here and there.” Tristan moves toward me, and Creed steps up on the opposite side. I’m framed by two glorious Adonis boys now. I bite my lip. “The rest of the time we’re … free.” He circles around me and runs a single finger along the back of my shoulder blades, making me shiver.

  “Free for all the dirty work,” Creed continues, tracing my lower lip with his thumb.

  Tristan comes back around to stand beside him, and I realize that I’m shaking slightly. Having the two of them turn their flirtations on me like this makes it feel as if I’m standing under a spotlight. My skin feels tight and achy and hot.

  “What are you going to do while we’re busy?” Creed whispers, leaning over so he move his lips against my ear. “Read all of those dirty boys’ love comics you like?”

  “Boys’ love comics, huh?” Tristan purrs, and then he laughs, this sumptuous sound that makes me shiver. “You like watching boys kiss?” He glances over as Creed stands back up, reaching out long fingers to touch the smooth, porcelain line of his friend’s jaw. Tristan leans in enticingly, eyes closed, lips brushing up on Creed’s cheek, right at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, delicious.”

  “Fuck off,” Creed says, lazily pushing Tristan away as the Burberry royal laughs. The sound is just as cruel as his smile. “Marnye can go read about bad boys teasing their fingers up each other’s shirts.” He slides his palm under my jacket to grip my waist. “Or down each other’s pants …”

  “Stop that,” I whisper, grabbing his wrist as he tries to dip his hand down below the waistband of my skirt. Miranda’s words ring in my head like a bell. Virgin, virgin, virgin. Is he really though? “Yes, I get the point. I can’t wander around the empty school by myself when Harper’s ready to slit my throat. I’ll let you lock me in my room while you party tonight.”

  “Tonight, we’ve got nothing to do but let you entertain us,” Creed says as he guides me toward the door and Tristan opens it for us. They’re doing an almost disturbingly good job sharing me. It makes me wonder if they’ve ever shared a girl before—other than Lizzie, I mean. Although from what I hear that was pretty platonic.

  Lizzie.

  She’ll be with Tristan at the parties this week, and I won’t.

  My stomach hurts all of a sudden, and I recognize the emotion right away: jealousy.

  “Zayd stole the key for the school theater,” Tristan says, tucking his right hand into the front pocket of his blazer, his eyes scanning the hall as we walk. He knows as well as I do that even together, the three of us could be ambushed. “We’ll watch a horror movie, something gruesome and bloody.”

  “Tristan loves blood,” Creed says, and I raise an eyebrow as both boys grin.

  “How many of the Company are left on campus?” I ask, and Tristan glances back with one dark brow raised.

  “The Company?”

  I grin a bit sheepishly, and swish the pleats of my skirt.

  “That’s what I’ve started calling the ex-Bluebloods. In my head, I was just calling them Harper and Co., and I figured it was easier to think of them as the Company.”

  “Zayd’s been calling them the Harpies,” Creed drawls on the tail-end of a yawn. “Seems apropos for the situation, don’t you think?” I grin as we weave our way through the halls of the chapel building, up the stairs, and to the two-story theater that we only get to use to watch boring educational movies.

  Zayd, Windsor, Zack … and Lizzie are there when we show up. Myron’s there, too, already seated in one of the luxurious black leather chairs with the automated footrests. Even though he’s weird and dark and kind of a creepy sidekick to Tristan’s elegant villainous charm, I’m glad Myron Talbot is here. If it were just me, the boys, and Lizzie Walton, it might be weird.

  “Hey,” she says, giving me a little wave, and a smile. She grabs my arm the way Miranda always does and pulls me down several rows to grab a choice seat. “We decided on Pet Sematary for the movie tonight—the new one, not the old one.”

  “I’ve never seen the original,” I admit. I’m a bit of a baby when it comes to horror movies. I’ll probably end up spending half the film with my face buried in someone’s shoulder. Zack sits down on my left, and I feel this little … sparkle inside of me. Sounds lame as hell, I know, but how else could I possibly describe it? He smiles at me, his full lower lip drawing my attention. There’s a little dip in the center that I desperately wish I could run my tongue over. “I hope you’re prepared to see a side of me you never wanted to know,” I warn, giving Zack a fair chance to escape.

  “There’s no part of you I wouldn’t want to know,” he says, and the other boys groan.

  “Good god, chum, lay off a little, would you? Give the rest of us blokes a chance to schmooze the lady.” Windsor flops into the chair behind me, and wraps his arms around my neck. All the feels, man, all of them. I get all twisted inside, but like, in such a way that I never want to come undone. Does that make sense? I have no idea.

  “Just speaking the truth,” Zack says, putting his hands behind his head. He’s switched out of his uniform and into a tight black wifebeater and black board shorts. He must know how beautiful I find his arms, all of those muscles, the hard strength in those biceps.

  Zayd sits in front of me, his ashy-lavender hair begging for another touch, and Tristan sits next to Lizzie. Not my favorite thing in the world, but I ignore it. I’m going to play fair here. If something happens between them, then so be it. I’m not going to force feelings, manipulate them, or try to destroy them. What’s t
he point in that? There’s no fight between me and Lizzie. There’s no fight at all. How we feel is how we feel.

  “So, how does this group dating thing work?” Myron asks, his voice dark, his hand buried in a bowl of popcorn. Zayd is fiddling with the remote, and I can smell the faintest hint of butter and salt in the air. A timer goes off somewhere, and Zack makes a sound of pleasure, rising to his feet to go tend to it. I’m praying it’s fresh popcorn.

  “Why don’t you mind your own fucking business, and let us worry about that?” Tristan says, leaning back in his chair, and pressing the button for his footrest. It lifts up nice and slow, raising his shiny loafers up to knee-height. He keeps pressing it until his ankles are even higher and he’s lounging back just a bit.

  “I’m just trying to understand how the sex works,” Myron continues, and Tristan leans forward, dropping his feet to either side of the leg rest so he can poke his friend in the back of the head.

  “Mind your damn business, Talbot. We aren’t sleeping with Marnye—not just yet.” Tristan and I meet eyes across Lizzie’s lap, and a shiver goes through me. I try really hard not to think about the two of them having sex, but … they must have, right? I mean, there’s no way for me to ask, so what’s the point in getting nervous about it?

  “Do we have rules about that?” Zack asks, reappearing with the popcorn and handing it over to me. Our fingers brush, and I get that glittery, shiny, sparkly feeling all over again. “I mean, are we trying to take it slow or …”

  “We’re all just … dating,” I whisper, feeling my cheeks flush with heat. I reach my right hand up to tousle my hair. Before she left, Miranda gave it a sexy little curl on the top that I wish I knew how to recreate on my own. I even let her do my makeup with that steady hand of hers. No matter how many YouTube videos I watch, I’m just no good at it. “Whatever happens, happens.” I pause as Lizzie looks over at me with her pretty amber eyes. “Or doesn’t happen. Whatever doesn’t happen is fine, too.”

  “Soda?” Wind asks on the end of a laugh, a cooler situated in the chair next to him. He hands me an ice-cold Coke, and then gives out beer to everyone else. Sometimes I wonder what it’d be like to get drunk, just once. But then I can’t decide if that’s the addiction in my DNA talking, or natural curiosity.

  “Alright,” Zayd says as he finally gets the movie started up and cranks the volume. “Let’s see what sort of scaredy-cat Marnye really is.” He turns around, and I catch a glimpse of that Never Again tattoo on his neck. I want to ask what it means, if it’s in reference to me or not. Or perhaps I’m just being narcissistic? “And Charity,” he sits up in his seat so that he’s kneeling, leans forward, and presses a kiss to one of my knees. Heat rockets through me, and I feel a bead of sweat run down the side of my face. “If you get scared, just come sit on my lap, okay?”

  I chuck a piece of popcorn at him, and he catches it in his mouth.

  We both laugh, but only until the movie gets started. And then, you know, I do end up in a lap. Zack is closest, so he gets the honor, and I spend the rest of my movie with the steel band of his arm around my waist, and my face buried in the warm, sweet-smelling crook between his neck and shoulder.

  I wish I could spend every evening just like that.

  The boys and I get to spend most of the break together, eating breakfast in The Mess, or downing those tiny snack-sized boxes of cereal in my dorm. But then Wednesday hits, and they disappear to their parties. I’m not sure what sort of bets they’re making, but I have a feeling it all goes back to my list.

  Something big is coming.

  The Company or the Harpies, or whatever you want to call them, are going to pay dearly. I can feel it.

  I try not to worry about it and enjoy some time off from studying, relaxing in my room and reading, playing the harp—but only when Mr. Carter is around for protection—or texting Miranda, Andrew, and Dad.

  On Saturday, the boys surprise me by showing up at my door.

  “Come on, Marnye,” Zack says, reaching out his hand for mine. Lizzie and Myron aren’t with them, and I raise an eyebrow as I glance down at my tank top and sweats.

  “I’m not really dressed to go out—” I start, but Zack just grins and grabs my wrist anyway, tugging me out of the room and pulling me into his arms.

  “It’s a pajama party,” Zayd says, and I notice then that he’s barefoot and wearing shorts, and a loose tank that shows off all of his tattoos. He’s also smoking a clove cigarette that I deftly pluck from his lips, tap out against the stone floor, and chuck into the nearest trash can.

  “You all really are wearing pajamas,” I say as I study Tristan’s crisp black satin pajama set with the subtle white pinstripe, and the stuffy slippers that look like suede loafers. Creed’s got on white linen pj pants, and nothing else—no shirt, no shoes. Zack’s in loose-fitting boxers and an old football jersey, and Windsor’s seriously dressed up in flannel pj’s with penguins on them.

  Penguins.

  Cartoon freaking penguins.

  “Are you sure you’re a prince?” I ask him, and he pauses, reaching into the bag on his shoulder and pulling out two plastic gold crowns. He puts one on my head, and then places the other atop his flaming red hair.

  “I wasn’t until just now,” he says, hazel eyes glittering with mischief. “But with my princess by my side, and the royal jewels safely ensconced”—he grabs his crotch and I roll my eyes while the other boys scowl—“in these gorgeous robes of state, I’m now positive: I am absolutely not king material. Prince, I can do. Princes get to frolic and fuck and crash yachts into harbors.” I almost stop walking at the frank way he’s just blurted his truth. But then I look a little closer, and I see darkness and shadows dancing behind his mask of cheerful, carefree wonder. Windsor York is hurting on the inside. What’s wrong, exactly, I don’t know, but I want to find out. “Anyway,” he continues, blowing past the emotions, “I’m perfectly suited to be a prince, but never a king. Perhaps that’s why I enjoy scandals so much? All the attention makes me giddy.”

  He hooks his arm with mine, and our little group makes its way to the library.

  The cavernous ceilings, the towering columns of books, and the cozy glow from the lamps invites us in, but when I look around, I notice that all the librarians are missing.

  “Skeleton staff on-campus right now,” Zayd says, swinging around a huge ring full of keys. “And I pilfered the master key, so we’re golden. We’ve got this place all to ourselves.” He holds his inked arms out to indicate the massive library. “Beauty, your library awaits.”

  I grin as I follow Tristan and Creed deeper into the rows of novels, the fresh scent of ink and paper surrounding us.

  A thought occurs to me.

  “Were you the one who stole the keys to my locker, and my dorm room during first year?” I ask, and Zayd cringes. He glances back at me with an apology in his emerald eyes.

  “What can I say? I’m a fucking prick.” He pauses and waits for me to catch up to him, reaching down and taking one of my hands in his. Zayd gives it a little squeeze and then lifts my knuckles to his lips for a kiss, his lip rings teasing my skin with a little tickle. “I’m sorry, Charity, I really am.”

  “I’ve forgiven you, Zayd,” I tell him, looking into his eyes and getting lost there. “Just don’t disappoint me again, okay?” He pulls me toward him, and lifts me in his arms as I laugh, carrying me over to a ring of white candles.

  The boys have pushed aside one of the study tables, and set up a circle with candles and pillows. There are several bottles of alcohol gathered there, the liquid glowing a deep amber brown in the candlelight. Tristan takes a seat beside it, and I notice there are exactly six cushions laid out for us.

  “We skipped the rest of the Club party,” he says, voice smooth, a Lucullan feast for the ears. “We’ve accomplished what we needed to.”

  “And it was oh-so fun,” Creed adds, sprawling onto his own pillow. He looks boneless, the way he lounges.

  “If the Company di
dn’t want to deal with a firestorm, they shouldn’t have shot the first bullet,” Zack growls, and that darkness I remember from junior high comes rushing back in. His brown eyes are heavy-lidded, and as I watch, he rakes his fingers through his brunette hair. There’s something going on between him, his dad, and his grandfather. That much is obvious. I mean, the family was completely cut-off from funds and Zack was sent to Lower Banks High with me. It doesn’t get much worse than that. What kind of man would force his grandson into a school that breeds gang members, dropouts, and assholes?

  Okay, so I guess Burberry Prep is a breeding ground for assholes, too, but still.

  This time, though, when I see Zack’s darkness rush to the surface, I don’t cringe away from it the way I did when he started to tear Ileana down in the gym. No, this time I watch it happen and I wonder what I can do to help

  “From now on, I'll try to be a better man. It wasn't Marnye’s job to teach me how to be one, but she already has anyway.”

  It might not be my job, but I want to help Zack. I want to help all of these boys. And maybe that’s a problem. Reforming a bad boy, changing a bully, those are pretty lofty ideals. In the real world, it doesn’t often go right. But these guys are my friends now, they’re … I’ve forgiven them. I really have.

  It’s freeing in a way, that forgiveness. And it’s cathartic somehow, to find out that they really are human on the inside. They have wants and needs, pleasures and pains, faults and heroisms. Basically … they’re just people.

  Zayd sets me down on my own cushion and takes up the one on my right. I’m waxing poetic yet again. Must be all the hormones.

  Yep.

  That’s it.

  The fucking hormones.

  “We thought you might like a game of truth or dare,” Zack says, turning to look at me, scanning me with that soulful umber gaze of his, taking me in. “Like an Infinity Club party, but without all the bullshit.”

  “Rules still apply though,” Zayd says with a grin, gesturing at Tristan with an inked hand that’s covered in rings, and a wrist full of rubber bracelets from past concerts. “No chickening out. No fucking way. Now pass me the rum.”