The Envy of Idols

by Stunich, C. M.

  Tristan pours a generous helping of alcohol into a red plastic cup (it wouldn’t be a party without them!) and then passes it around the circle until it makes its way to Zayd. Everyone else gets their drink of choice: vodka for Creed, a beer for Zack, gin for Windsor, and cognac for Tristan. Seems appropriate. That’s how I think of his voice, nice and smooth and velvety. I’ve never had it, but I’ve heard Dad go off on tangents before.

  The boys have brought me a bunch of cold drinks, all non-alcoholic, and I smile. They never forget, and I appreciate that.

  “Once you empty that beer, Zack,” Zayd says, his husky rockstar voice echoing around the quiet library. “We can play spin the bottle. But only if Marnye is the one who’s spinning it. I’m not kissing any of you assholes.”

  “You will if we play a round of truth or dare,” I say with a smile. Zayd glances over at me and raises his pierced brow, grinning all the while.

  “Word on the street is you like gay romance novels,” he says with a chuckle, and I flush.

  “I read the occasional boys’ love manga, but that’s about it.”

  “Don’t let her fool you: those things are practically porn,” Creed drawls, still lying on his side, his elbow propping his head up. “Anal sex, blow jobs, plenty of cum. Buckets of it, really.”

  “You’re as crass as your sister,” I choke out, unscrewing the top on a bottle of tropical juice. Pineapple, I think it is. Nice and tangy.

  “So you like to read your porn instead of watch it?” Zack asks with a deep chuckle, the sound reverberating through me. “Makes things easier on campus, that’s for sure. Fuck the no phone rule.”

  “I’ve been working on cracking that shit since day one. I mean, I’ve figured out how to sneak a phone in, but I swear there’s literally no service out here, and the Wi-fi is locked down hard. They’re freaking Nazis about that shit.” Zayd lies down on his stomach, his cup already emptied, and pillows his head on his hands.

  “I’ve got a satellite phone,” Windsor says, unbuttoning the top two buttons on his stupid penguin pajamas. His stupid penguin pajamas that I actually really like. “It doesn’t exactly run apps, but I can make calls. That’s as far as I’ve gotten.”

  “It’s because of my mother,” Creed says, still lounging, draped over his cushion like a languid doll. “She helped Principal Collins set up the closed network. Unless you’re a tech genius like her, you’re not getting in. Say goodbye to weekday Facebook posts while you’re at Burberry.”

  “Good thing Marnye’s got her porn in print then,” Tristan adds, smirking at me. I throw the cap to my juice across the circle, but he just catches it in his palm like it’s nothing. “I prefer … to actually fuck, instead of watching porn. Although I’ll be the first to admit: I’ve had a bit of a dry spell lately.”

  “There’s also Kleenex and Jergens,” Zack says mildly, and I flush, thinking about that trash can full of tissues at the B&B. Ugh, how embarrassing. At least I know I wasn’t the only person who touched myself that night.

  “Oh, trust me, I’ve got toys in my rooms. Better than tissues and lotion. But they don’t help, not when Marnye’s around.”

  “Tristan, shut up,” I blurt, but he just keeps smiling at me in that not-quite-so-nice way of his.

  “Let’s start a game,” he murmurs, his voice a seductive song. “Let’s play truth or dare. I’ll go first. Marnye.” Hah. Of course Tristan wants to go first, and of course he’s looking right at me. “Truth or dare.”

  “Truth,” I whisper, because I’m afraid to see what sort of dare he’ll level my way. Frankly, I should probably be afraid of what he’s going to ask me for truth, too, but I figure it’s the lesser of two evils. Tristan chuckles and shakes his head, raven-black hair falling across his forehead in shimmering strands.

  “Marnye, Marnye, Marnye, that’s the easy way out.” Tristan is sitting nice and straight still, his legs folded underneath him, hands clasped in his lap. I’d love to see him let go for once, get messy. “But okay. Truth: are you really a virgin?”

  “Yes.” Just that one word, but saying it in front of these guys makes it so different. I can feel them looking at me. I can imagine the taste of each one of their lips, the feel of their hands, the white-hot flare inside of me when we make eye contact.

  Tristan smirks, nods, and then lifts his hand to indicate me.

  “Fair enough. Now it’s your turn.”

  Creed is smirking, too, and the way he’s lying there reminds me of a lazy housecat, all content and full of itself.

  “Fine. I choose Creed.” I give him a hard look. “Truth or dare.”

  “Dare.” His heavy-lidded eyes hold a challenge.

  ‘”I dare you to kiss Tristan Vanderbilt on the lips.” The smile that lights my face is pure pleasure. Zayd howls with laughter, and Zack grins. Windsor just sits there with that sparkling glint in his eyes.

  The elder Cabot twin scowls at me and pushes up to a sitting position, tossing white-blond hair from his face with a flourish.

  “You think I won’t do it?” he scoffs, this haughty air of self-confidence clinging to his every move. “You’re about to learn a hard lesson, Miss Reed.” Creed gets up on his knees and crawls toward Tristan. I get this feeling of déjà vu, like maybe I’ve read a scene just like this in a manga, or a book, or something. Maybe that Alice in Wonderland retelling that Miranda made me read? What was it called? Allison’s Adventures in Underland?

  Oh well.

  I’m still excited.

  I bite my lower lip, and then watch as Creed approaches a scowling Tristan, putting his fingers on either side of the other boy’s face.

  “Please,” Tristan snorts, pushing his hands away, and then grabbing Creed by the wrists. “We both know you’re a bottom, and I’m a top. We may as well as act the parts.”

  “Screw you,” Creed snarls at him, pulling his wrists back. Tristan doesn’t let him go, and the two guys glare at each other. Tristan keeps one hand on Creed’s wrists, and puts the other against the side of his friend’s face. They both look over at me.

  “This must be payback for all those times we made bets to get Infinity Club girls to make out with each other,” Tristan murmurs, and then, with his eyes still locked on mine, he leans forward and presses his mouth against Creed’s, parting the other boy’s lips with his tongue.

  For five blissful seconds, I get to see a fantasy brought to life, two of the cruelest boys in the academy kissing one another, their legs partially tangled. Tristan’s fingers slide up and into Creed’s hair, and that’s when he puts a stop to it, shoving the Vanderbilt boy back with a scowl.

  “If I didn’t know better, I might think you were really into me,” Creed says, shoving his arm across his mouth.

  “You’d only be so lucky,” Tristan purrs as Creed washes his mouth out with vodka and swallows a generous amount of alcohol.

  He waves his hand in Zack’s direction.

  “You. Brooks. Truth or dare.”

  “Dare,” Zack says, narrowing his eyes to slits and focusing his attention on Creed in challenge. “Give me your worst, Cabot.”

  “I dare you to make yourself come. Right now. In front of everyone.” Creed’s face is absolutely wicked as he spits out his directive, and Zack lets out a series of mumbled curses, raking his fingers through his hair. He glances over at me, and my cheeks flush warm.

  “You can tell him no, and do a truth instead,” I suggest, but Zack looks determined, and that scares me.

  “In our version of the game, you get one chance to swap a truth for a dare, or vice versa. If you fail again, you lose, you’re out.” Zayd sits up, like he’s gearing up for a particularly vicious game. These boys sure do like making bets, whether or not they’re doing it in an official Infinity Club capacity. It’s a symptom of their privilege, their lack of ever wanting for anything. They need challenge; they crave it.

  “What does the winner get?” I ask, and Zayd grins, shrugging inked shoulders at me.

  “Bragging
rights?”

  “How about a trophy?” I counter, and he cringes, pretending to brush off a burn.

  “Ouch, Charity, ouch.”

  “I’ll do it,” Zack says, nostrils flaring as he pulls in a deep inhale, and then … spits in his palm. Holy crap. He slides his hand inside his boxers, his eyes focused on mine. I can’t see anything, but I definitely notice the change in his breathing, his dilated pupils, the sweat that beads on his forehead.

  “Fuckin’ hardcore, man,” Zayd laughs, chugging another shot’s worth of rum. “Show us what you’ve got.”

  “Shut the hell up, dickhead,” Zack grumbles, closing his eyes. I’m not sure how long it takes, but with the way my skin aches, and the way my core flushes with warmth, it feels like forever. I shift and wiggle on the cushion, glad that I’m not sitting on anyone’s lap.

  With a deep, guttural groan, Zack finishes, and I can see his muscles going tight, body shivering with climax. He exhales sharply and hangs his head for a minute. Windsor digs into the bag by his side and pulls out a roll of paper towels, tossing them Zack’s way.

  “I’ll … be right back.” Zack takes the paper towels, and I glance away so he can have a second of privacy. He then disappears in the direction of the bathrooms.

  “Well, holy shit,” Zayd whispers with a chuckle. “He seriously did it. Maybe I don’t hate the guy quite so much after all?”

  “Is there a reason you guys hated him in the first place?” I ask, looking between the three Idol boys.

  “Besides the bet he made with Lizzie?” Zayd asks, shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t know. He’s just always been an asshole. He never liked the status quo.” His grin gets a little lopsided, and he reaches out to ruffle my rose-gold hair. “Little bit like you, I guess.”

  “Yeah, sure,” I say, but my heart is still racing, and I can’t believe I just saw that. Zack, masturbating, right in front of me. And I liked it, too. It feels so wrong, sitting in a place we’re not supposed to be, with a stolen set of keys, hard liquor, and a game with no real prize.

  Just because.

  We’re doing this for the fun of it.

  Zack comes back fairly quickly, face flushed, and sits with one knee up, his elbow propped against it, and his face in his hand. He looks right at me, too, and shrugs those broad shoulders of his.

  “I hope you’re not like, scarred for life,” he says, and I get one of those rare, warm smiles of his.

  “If I were going to blame anyone for the trauma, it’d be fucking Creed,” I say, giving him a look and taking a sip of my juice. He just stares at me with those bedroom eyes of his, and then smirks.

  “Alright,” Zack says, sitting up straight and glancing over at Windsor. “Your Majesty, truth or dare?”

  Windsor reaches up and fixes his plastic crown.

  “Truth. Because any idiot can jump through hoops, but it’s much more difficult to lay your soul bare. Have at me, you fuckin’ wanker.” Zack flips Wind off, but the gesture does nothing to clear the haughty expression of superiority on the prince’s face.

  “Fine. Have it your way.” Zack lifts the bottle of beer to his full lips and studies the prince through narrowed eyes. “Why the fuck did you crash that yacht into the harbor? There’s a girl still in the hospital, isn’t there?”

  Windsor’s face … God, if I could only describe the way he shuts down. There’s a hardness that comes over his features that’s ten times worse than the stony mask that Tristan wears.

  “Technically,” he says, his voice ice-cold, “that’s two questions. Pick one.”

  “How did you end up crashing?” Zack repeats, and Windsor reaches up to take off his crown, spinning it around in his fingers, his hazel eyes so dark they look more like Tristan’s charcoal gray than their usual bright multi-faceted brilliance.

  “I’d had too much coke, too much booze, and I was angry; I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

  He stops talking and just stares at me.

  “Why?” I ask, but Windsor simply turns to Zayd and ignores my question.

  “You. Rocker boy. Truth or dare?”

  “Uh,” Zayd starts, rolling onto his back, so he can stare up at the tin ceiling tiles. Even with the weird atmosphere, and Windsor’s dodgy answer to Zack’s question, it’s pretty cozy in here. How could it not be, with all these books? “Dare.”

  “I dare you,” Windsor says, chucking his crown into the center of the circle, “to text your dad and tell him how much you hate being ignored.” He glances up and meets Zayd’s eyes. “Right now. Text him and tell him.”

  “I’m not going to tell him that,” Zayd says, rearing back like he’s been struck. “Are you stupid or insane or both? If I send him a message like that, he’ll go off on me. He doesn’t like when I say shit like that.”

  “Then I double dare you to tell Marnye how you feel about her.”

  “That’s basically a truth,” Zayd murmurs, sweeping his fingers through his lavender-ash hair. “You really do like to stir the pot, huh?”

  Windsor just smiles.

  “I just love honesty from others—even when it hurts.”

  “Even if you’re not being transparent yourself?” Zayd quips back, and the two men stare at each other. “Fuckin’ fine then.” He glances over at me, and our eyes meet. “I told you I liked you from day one, didn’t I?”

  “You did.”

  Zayd just keeps staring at me.

  “Well, I like you better than any girl I’ve ever met.”

  “It’s called truth or dare, not bullshit or dare,” Wind says, and Zayd growls. It’s purely a musical sound, too, like it belongs in the middle of one of his raunchier songs.

  “Says the guy who gave a non-answer himself.” Zayd turns back to me and sighs, putting his forehead in his hand and resting it there for a minute as he looks at me. “I think … maybe I’ve been in love with you since that Halloween party. Not first year’s, but … second year. When you came dressed as a cookie, and you danced like crazy, and you fucked Creed over with that fake journal.”

  “In love with me?” I ask, and Zayd sighs, closing his green eyes.

  “Yep. Pretty much.”

  Okay, that’s it. Between the kissing boys, and the masturbation, and love confessions … this is not like any pajama party I’ve ever been to. And then it occurs to me that I never really had friends before, so the only pajama parties I’ve actually attended are between me and Miranda.

  “Yep, pretty much?” I squeak, and Zayd blinks at me.

  “Truth or dare, Charity,” he whispers, and his voice is raw and open, like he’s just cracked a stone and shown me the most beautiful geode on the inside.

  “Truth.”

  Because I don’t think I can move from this spot, much less do something embarrassing like touch myself in front of everyone.

  “Which one of us do you like best?” Zayd asks, and my heart stutters a few times before it picks back up at a galloping pace.

  “I don’t know.”

  And there’s no answer truer than that.

  It actually snows at Burberry Prep this year which is weird as hell. We’re in central California, for heaven’s sake.

  “Global warming,” Miranda says, as she stands there with her palms lifted toward the sky, tiny flakes melting on her palms. Tonight’s the talent show, but nobody really cares anymore, since all anyone wants to do is play in the snow or—depending on their year in school—talk about the winter formal, the ski trip, or, for us third years, the option of a weekend trip to San Francisco to see the ballet and the symphony.

  It’s not hard to figure out what I want to do. Even though Dad and I have used those tickets Zack bought us a couple of times already, I can never get enough. We even used the third pass to take our old neighbor, Mrs. Fleming. She might be deaf, but she said she could feel the vibrations and enjoyed the show anyway.

  “You know what John said to me today?” Andrew says, tucking his hands into his pockets and shivering as white fluff settles across the
gardens. It’s not thick or heavy enough of a snowfall to be much fun as of yet, but it’s getting there. Every student at Burberry Prep is praying it gets deep enough to go sledding.

  “If global warming is real, why is it so cold out?” Miranda mimics as she rolls her eyes dramatically. “We all heard him today. At least he got in-school suspension from Ms. Felton for snapping that poor first-year girl’s bra. He’s such an asshole.”

  “Did you all decide on what you’re doing for winter activities?” I ask, interrupting the conversation. The last person in the world I want to talk about is John Hannibal. He’s a piece of shit human, and his dad’s politics suck, so there. “Because you know I’m going to the orchestra, right?”

  “Wherever you go, the boys will follow,” Andrew says, almost longingly. He leans back on the picnic table and stares up at the swirling flakes, a white beanie pulled down over his ears. “I’m beyond jealous. I wish boys followed me around like lost puppies.”

  “They would if you’d just let your freak flag fly,” Miranda chides, pausing as Lizzie and Tristan appear, coming out the doors of the chapel building. Ugh. My heart pounds when I see them together, but I ignore it. Like I said, I have to let the pieces fall as they may. I’m not into sabotage.

  On Thanksgiving Day, we all ate in The Mess together, and the academy kitchen team prepared a pretty traditional meal. Lizzie sat next to Tristan then, too, and it occurred to me that she really is seeking him out. She’s making an effort. And yet, she’s still wearing her engagement ring. She’s as torn as Andrew is, between reality and a distant dream.

  I’m a bit of a plucky optimist: I always choose the dream.

  “Tristan, are you going on the San Francisco trip or …” I start, trailing off and huddling deeper into one of Zack’s hoodies. He left it in my room on accident, and well, it’s big and soft, and I love the smell too much to give it back. Grapefruit and nutmeg, that’s what it reminds me of.