“I know,” she whispers, looking guiltily down at her lap. “It’s just … I want someone to look at me the way you two look at each other.” My cheeks flame red, and I stutter to come up with the right response. Do Creed and I really look at each other a special sort of way?
“Miranda, you’re seventeen,” he says with a small chuckle. “You have plenty of time to find a girl that cares about you. Don’t rush it.”
“Mom and Dad met in high school,” she says, sighing, sunshine slanting across her beautiful face. “You believe in young love, too. I know how you feel about Marnye.” Creed’s cheeks darken with color, but he lifts his chin in the most infuriatingly arrogant way possible.
“You will find someone who loves you more than the moon,” he says, and it’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard in my life … said in the most arrogant way possible. I’m not sure if I love him or hate him in that moment. Maybe a little bit of both? “And if you don’t, you always have me. I’m your fucking twin. We’re inseparable. You’re stuck with me for life. You know that, right?”
Miranda nods and sighs, glancing over at me and then attempting a miserable looking hair flip. Yep, she still sucks at it.
“At least I hope he treated you well,” she says, and I nod, feeling myself getting all teary, too. “I told him if he slept with you, and he blew his load as fast as he did in the hot tub, you’d never pick him and he’d be alone forever.”
Laughter escapes my through as Creed scowls and rolls his eyes.
“I’ll have you know, I made her come before I finished. I bet you’ve never made a girl orgasm.”
“You guys are definitely twins,” I choke out through the embarrassment. “Crude as hell, and I love you both for it.”
“Whatever. If I can’t have you, Marnye, then you know I’m Team Creed all the way. Just dump those other assholes, and marry into the Cabots. My mom already loves you.” My heart feels light and giddy, and yet heavy and pained, all at the same time.
Just dump them, she says.
But it’s not that easy; it never is.
Winter break feels so long without my friends around. They’re becoming a second family to me, and I’m already longing for another group holiday like we had for my birthday at the bowling alley. I text the guys every day, Miranda, Lizzie, and Andrew included, and I try to find some way to tell my dad I’ve finally got a boyfriend.
Or … five boyfriends, actually.
He seems so much sicker than before though, and I’m afraid to stress him out, so I take the coward’s route and say nothing. At least for now. I know I can’t keep my relationships hidden forever, but at least for those two weeks, I just enjoy his company. Those little moments—playing videogames with him in the living room, listening to him read The Night Before Christmas aloud, and making Christmas cookies together—those are the things I’ll remember for the rest of my life.
Missing your body already, Creed sends on Christmas Eve, and I bite my lip, turning my phone screen off before Dad and I have one of those awkward over-the-shoulder text reading moments.
“What time is your friend coming?” he asks, and then we both pause as a knock sounds on the door. I open it to find Windsor, bundled up in a shiny coat with fur trim, wearing a grin and dragging a suitcase in one hand, a duffel bag slung over the opposite shoulder.
“Come in, Your Majesty,” I purr (or at least try to, I sort of suck at it), opening the door and gesturing him into the house. I only had one day in person with the guys before break started, so I’m still not exactly sure how they all feel about the sex thing. It hasn’t come up much in texts.
“Why, thank you, milady,” Windsor says with a grin, stepping into the house and letting Dad take his rolling suitcase for him. He insists on moving the duffel bag himself. Maybe he can see how weak Charlie’s becoming? My heart clenches, and I swallow past a lump in my throat.
“That better be faux fur trim,” I tell him, pointing at his jacket, and he grins.
“The lady in Paris said it was raccoon fur. She assured me she did not go and shoot zat poor thing in the head or anything like zat.” He winks at me and sets his bag on the floor near the couch. I’d offer him up a guest room … if we had one. Nope. Sorry. But we have this lovely couch a few extra blankets. With the glittering white lights of the Christmas tree, and the fire crackling in the fireplace, it’s actually pretty damn cozy. “Pretty sure this is roadkill.”
I roll my eyes, but as is often the case with Windsor York, I have no idea if he’s joking or not.
“Apple cider?” Dad asks, and Windsor tips his head, reaching up to remove his beanie so he can ruffle up his red hair.
“I’d love that, Mr. Reed, thank you.”
“How’s that host club thing going for you?” Dad asks as he moves into the kitchen, and I give Windsor a look. If the glimmer in his hazel eyes is any indication, he finds the whole thing hilarious.
“Fantastic, Sir.”
“Good, good.” We hear Dad shuffling around in the kitchen for a little while before the soft sound of Christmas music spills from the speakers, giving us a moment of privacy in the small house.
“I come bearing gifts,” Windsor says, slipping out of his jacket, and gesturing at the giant duffel bag. “Nothing so extravagant as the car this time, since I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, but I hope you like what I’ve picked out.”
“If there are lacey panties in one of those boxes, and I open them in front of my dad, I swear on Frosty’s snowballs, I will kill you.”
Windsor chuckles and steps toward me, curling his fingers around my upper arms and looking down into my eyes.
“Why on earth would I give you lacey panties in front of your father?” he asks, leaning down and pressing the softest, lightest kiss against my lips. That, too, feels like a tease, and I end up pushing him away from me, so I can catch my breath. If it bothers him that I slept with Creed, he still doesn’t let on.
“Because you said you were going to—as we were touring the art museum, no less. The security guard heard you and started guffawing. It was embarrassing as hell.”
“Well, my dear,” Wind says, sitting down on the couch and crossing his legs at the knee. His boots are shiny with dew from the wet grass. No snow here in Cruz Bay, not this close to the ocean. “That was a joke. The lacey knickers are a gift for private moments.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pair of red and black lace panties with tiny jingle bells on them, and tosses them my way. I catch them and look at the word scrawled across the ass.
“Naughty?” I ask in a dry voice, one brow raised. Windsor pulls another pair of underwear from a different pocket—how many freaking pairs does he have?!—and throws those at me, too. These have angel wings on them and the word … “Nice? Seriously?’
“Thought I’d let you choose,” he whispers as Dad walks back in the room, and I quickly tuck the two pairs of underwear into my back pockets.
We sit around with cider and put on a series of crappy Christmas movies, me and Wind on the couch, and Dad in his favorite chair. By the time we’re ready for bed, most of the Christmas cookies are gone, and the pumpkin pie I bought from the local bakery for tomorrow has already been consumed.
“If you’re in the bedroom at the same time, door open,” Dad says, standing up and stretching as he yawns. “And remember: this is a small house, and moans carry through the walls.”
“Dad,” I grind out, but Windsor just laughs.
“Yes, sir, we’ll remember that,” he says as Charlie gives him a long, lingering look and then disappears into his room. The door isn’t closed five minutes before we hear him snoring. Honestly, it’d probably take a freight train to wake him up.
“Well … you’ve got blankets and pillows,” I say as Windsor lays back on the couch, his arms folded behind his head. “Do you need anything else?”
“How about a good-night kiss?” he asks, and I pause, looking down at him all stretched out. The urge is there to climb in his lap and cudd
le, but … even if Dad is fast asleep, maybe that’s not the best idea here.
“Just one,” I say, but when I bend down to give Windsor a kiss, he pulls me into his arms until I’m lying on top of him.
“Maybe two or three. I’m jealous of Creed you know, and can be quite the right proper asshole when I’m jealous.”
“You didn’t seem jealous,” I whisper, and something in Windsor’s face hardens. He slides his fingers into my freshly cut and dyed hair and pulls my head toward his.
“I was.”
Our kiss is slow and sensual, and tastes like apple cider. It’s one of those kisses that isn’t easy to forget, one that burns a brand into the memory that lasts a lifetime.
Before I know it, he’s got his hands under my shirt, massaging my bare back, and I’ve got his buttons undone, my palms sliding across the smooth, hard planes of his chest. We kiss well-past the midnight chime of the clock that sits on the mantle, and into the early blush of a winter dawn.
My body is on fire, throbbing, and desperate for another taste of what I had at the hotel.
It’s actually Wind who pushes me back, his own breathing harsh and panting.
“You should get back in your room before I do something worthy of those naughty panties in your pocket,” he says, and I flush from head to toe, tucking a loose strand of hair behind one ear. I can feel his hardness trapped between us, straining against the confines of his sweats.
“Like what?” I whisper, and the look he gives me … it’s oh so fucking naughty.
“Bend you over this couch,” he whispers back, kissing me one, last time on the lips. “And show you what a non-virgin is like in the bedroom.”
“You knew Creed was a virgin?” I choke out. “How?” Wind just shrugs his shoulders and gently pushes me off.
“I have my ways,” he says, watching as I stand up and then slowly, reluctantly, back away toward my bedroom.
He’s all I dream about for the rest of winter break.
Coming back to school in January is a bit of a shock to the system. I always forget how hectic things are, how quickly the real world comes crashing back in. I have cheerleading, and orchestra, scholarship applications, and course work that’s so heavy I wonder why I signed up for all these classes in the first place. Couldn’t I have just been normal and taken pottery or painting or something, anything to lighten the load?
Also, I feel like I’m walking around with this exciting little secret in my back pocket.
I’m not a virgin anymore. It’s weird to think that. Even weirder when Creed and I are in the same room. He taps his fingers on the surface of the library table while I attempt to tutor him.
“I’m not thinking about math—at all,” he tells me, and I level a glare on his arrogantly beautiful face.
“Start thinking about it if you truly want to get into Bornstead,” I quip, pushing the tablet his way. “Now check over that problem. You made a simple mistake, and I know you can fix it if you try.” He makes sure his fingers linger on the back of my hand, making me shiver, before he finally does what I’m asking and studies the screen.
Miranda rolls her eyes at us from across the table, and goes back to her own schoolwork.
After we’re finished, the twins walk me back to my room, see me safely inside, and wait until I’ve locked the doors behind me before they go.
This is our ritual: at least two of our crew—I should really start calling us the Bluebloods of Burberry Prep since that’s what most of the Plebs are starting to say now—follows me home, waits until I check and lock the room, and then heads back to the Towers.
It’s not until the end of January that I have any problems with that.
Tristan and Zayd drop me off, as usual, and say goodbye, making me wish I wasn’t all alone over here in the remodeled janitor’s quarters. I used to like it, having my own space like this. Now it just feels lonely and separate. Sometimes when I head over to the Towers, I find the others laughing and joking in the halls, darting in and out of each other’s rooms.
I want that, too.
Then again, I’m here on a scholarship, so I don’t complain. Instead, I wash my worries away in the shower, dress in some pjs, and sit down on my bed to start studying for tomorrow’s statistics test. Everything seems fine until I hear the doorknob jiggle with the sound of a lock.
There’s always been the worry that the Harpies would steal or replicate one of the master staff keys and get in, so we installed a bar lock, a chain, and I still have those cameras from last year. If someone does break in, tough on them. I’ll have video proof.
“Who is it?” I ask, heading over to the door to look through the peephole. There’s nothing but black. Someone must be holding their hand over it, or else it’s been covered with tape or something. Taking a few steps back, I head for the emergency landline phone to call one of the staff members.
I don’t like the way this is going, and even with the extra locks, I don’t feel safe.
Too bad it’s only Thursday, or else I’d have my cell with me.
I pick up the handset and glance at the list of numbers that are laminated and stuck to the wall. Just before I start dialing up Mrs. Amberton, I notice that there’s no ringtone. Frowning, I hit the button on the wall unit several times, trying to get it to start up.
There’s nothing.
And that is when I notice that the cord to the handset is no longer attached to the wall.
“Fuck,” I curse as I turn around and see that the door’s already been unlocked and pushed in as far as possible. Someone is using a thick envelope to pop the bar lock, while, presumably, another person uses a string that goes from the chain lock over the top of the door. It slides right off and the door falls open, even as I’m charging forward and slamming my body into it.
Several other people push from the outside, and I end up losing my footing, stumbling back as all nine girls slip into my room, and Mayleen shuts the door behind them, redoing all the locks.
“Hello Marnye,” Becky says, sneering at me. They’re all still dressed in their uniforms, all of them pretty, done up with makeup and fancy wigs to cover their bald heads.
“Hello Becky,” I reply, my heart racing. At least the boys aren’t here, right? This is … well, I might die, but at least I won’t get raped first.
Crap, my life has gotten dark fast.
I watch them all carefully as they surround me, and then I reach down and snatch the baseball bat that’s leaning next to my bed, bringing it up in a sharp swing that takes Becky Platter right in the side of her hip.
No violence is a good rule.
But it doesn’t apply in self-defense. I’ll hit every one of these girls with the baseball bat if it means keeping my life.
Becky screams and stumbles, and I use the moment of confusion to race past her, grabbing at the locks on the door. Unfortunately, the mechanisms that were supposed to keep me safe backfire. There are too many locks and not enough time.
Somebody grabs me by the short hair on the top of my head and drags me back while another girl goes for the baseball bat. Too late. I’m wildly swinging it in my own defense, and I hear a feminine grunt as the weapon takes Anna Kirkpatrick right in the stomach.
“You fucking bitch,” Kiara screams, grabbing the bat and yanking so hard that it flies out of my hand and smashes into the clean China teapot that Windsor left on the kitchen counter. It shatters to pieces as I’m thrown onto the bed by the force of so many hands.
One or two girls, I could fend off. But nine?
I’m so screwed.
“Let’s hurry up before one of her boy toys shows up,” Ileana Taittinger says, opening my wardrobe and pulling out the iron. Every student has one in their dorm. Ms. Felton loves to give marks out for wrinkled uniforms. I’ve seen Creed and Zayd get plenty. Tristan, he’d rather die that have a single crease that wasn’t ironed.
“Do you have the buzzer?” Ebony Peterson asks, and Abigail Fanning tosses something her way. Ebony catches it,
and then flicks on a switch as Harper plugs in the iron, and the other girls, like Valentina Pitt and Kiara Xiao hold me in place.
I’m struggling so hard that I manage to get a kick out that nails Ebony in the nail. She drops the buzzer to the floor and the plastic bit shatters to pieces. The motor sputters out, and there’s a moment of stunned silence.
“Are you freaking kidding me?” Harper snaps, pointing her finger at the bathroom. “Go find some scissors, or a razor, or fuck, even a knife. If we take some of her scalp off with her hair, it doesn’t matter to me.”
She tests the iron to see if it’s hot, and then scowls. It must not be. Not yet.
I fight even harder, flailing and kicking. If anyone gets near my mouth, I’ll bite. Hard.
Unfortunately, nobody does.
“Got a razor and some shaving cream,” Becky says, trotting back in with Ileana on her heels. They both climb on my bed and starts squeezing strawberry cream gel into my hair.
“Don’t do this,” I say, not particularly concerned about my hair. It’s the increasingly hot heat of the iron that worries me. “I’ve got hidden cameras in here. Whatever you do to me now, it’s on video. It live streams to my phone.”
“Well, that’s too bad then,” Harper says, tapping the iron and then hissing. A grin takes over what should rightfully be a very pretty mouth. Every time she scowls, that illusion is ripped away and the villain beneath the princess rears her ugly head. “You don’t have your phone tonight, do you? And by the time you get it back tomorrow, you’ll know better than to mess with us.”
Becky takes the razor and starts shaving the hair on the sides of my head. It’s already pretty short, but even then, a disposable razor isn’t mean for such thick hair, and it quickly gets clogged up. Ileana snatches the razor, wipes it on my bedspread, and tries again.
“I’ll grab some scissors,” Valentina suggests, heading over to the kitchenette and digging through my drawers.
Meanwhile, Harper has something in her hand. It’s a piece of metal with a short wooden handle. Actually, the longer I look at it … the more I realize that it looks like a brand, one of those ones ranchers heat up to mark their cows.
The Envy of Idols Page 22