The Envy of Idols

by Stunich, C. M.

  “How about Marnye comes up with me, and we finally get it on?” Zayd says, lighting up a cigarette and giving me a wink. He dances out of the way when I try to pluck it from his lips, and I sigh. I put my hands on my hips and stare him down. After a few puffs, he sighs dramatically and then hands it over to me, watching sadly as I tap it out against the stone ground, and then throw it away. “You’re such a shithead,” he murmurs, but he says it so affectionately that it doesn’t bother me.

  “I’m going to go back to my room now,” I tell them all, lifting an eyebrow. “And I’m going to read some of my gauche manga books, and then take a nap. None of you should have time for sex, not with finals around the corner. Third year’s the most important when it comes to getting into college, and I’m off to Bornstead if it kills me.”

  I attempt a hair flip, fail, and then saunter off in my shiny kitten heels, and hope I look hot as fuck.

  Probably not, but, you know, it was worth a try.

  A few weeks later, when I seriously feel like I have nothing left to give back to the monster that is the brutal Burberry Prep academics schedule, I find Zayd asleep in the library. He’s lying facedown on his notebook, a pen still clutched loosely in his tattooed hand. Carefully, I pull it out and pack up his things for him.

  Then I gently shake his shoulder in an attempt to wake him up.

  “He’s out, isn’t he?” Miranda asks, chuckling behind me. But even her laughter is diminished in quality. We’re all so tired, overwhelmed, stressed out. I don’t know if I can beat Tristan this year. I’m trying. You bet your ass I’m trying with everything I’ve got, but maybe I’ve overextended myself a bit?

  “Hey.” I shake Zayd a little harder, and he lifts his head up, this sleepy, groggy mess. He’s so damn cute, with his mussed green hair, and tattoos, one of his lip rings sticking out a weird angle. I reach out and poke it back into place with a finger. “You feel asleep.”

  “Shit,” he says, checking his watch and then groaning. “Eleven o’clock? Seriously?” He gathers up his stuff, and the librarians follow us all out, locking the door behind us. Usually the library close at eight, but they have extended hours for the end of the year. “Imagine all the shit the Harpies could’ve pulled on me if I hadn’t been snoring in direct view of the librarian’s desk,” he says, rubbing at his face.

  “I thought you didn’t care about your grades much?” I ask, wondering if I’ve ever really seen Zayd studying before. The answer is … no. In three years, I don’t recall many—if an—attempts on his part to improve his grades

  “Yeah, well,” he murmurs, but then he just stops talking and yawns, and I’m too tired to press him for answers. Jessie meets us about halfway back to the towers, and asks Miranda to join her for a late night snack in The Mess. The dining hall, too, is open until midnight until finals are over.

  “Go,” Zayd tells her, linking his arm with mine. “I’ve got this.”

  “Thanks,” Miranda says, taking her girlfriend’s arm and peeling off to head into the dining room. One of our new ‘Inner Circle’ members, Briana Chow, opens the door and follows them inside, big purple circles of fatigue under her eyes.

  “I’m too tired to eat,” I admit, and Zayd grins.

  “Same.”

  We head back to my room, and I invite him in, smiling as he collapses on my bed. I head into the kitchen to make a quick cup of chamomile, so my exhausted but still wired brain can actually get some sleep.

  “Do you want any tea?” I ask, but Zayd doesn’t answer. I check on him again and find that he’s passed out. I don’t have the heart to wake him again, so I untangle his bookbag from his shoulder and go to put on the chair in the corner. As I move it, a piece of paper falls out and flutters to the floor.

  Bornstead University Application Checklist.

  That’s the title.

  My breath hitches, and I flick my eyes over to Zayd again.

  This the rock star here, the lead singer of Afterglow, son to rock royal Billy Kaiser.

  And yet … he’s studying his ass off and trying to get into one of the most prestigious universities in the country.

  Why?

  Because of me?

  I finish my tea, sip it slowly as I watch Zayd sleep, and then turn the lights before I climb into bed. I curl my body around him and cover us both up with the blankets. Before I know it, I’m asleep too, the hard, warm shape of his body bringing me more comfort than the chamomile tea ever could.

  Next week is finals week.

  I barely see my friends. I hardly kiss my boyfriends (that’s a serious crime in and of itself), and I get my ass kicked so hard by the exams that when the last day of school comes, I stumble over to the roster on the wall and find Tristan’s name above mine.

  “You son of a bitch!” I choke as he grins and grabs me around the waist, pulling me close and kissing me on the side of the neck.

  “It only took three years for me to beat you,” he whispers, but I’m not mad. Second place is still good enough to get into Bornstead, and I only lost by a fraction of a percent. Besides, I always have next year to redeem myself.

  “Third years get to skip the ceremony,” Zayd says, catching up to us. Creed, Wind, and Zack aren’t far behind. Really, the whole school is here to see the roster, but they don’t crowd forward. They know better: when Tristan Vanderbilt is front and center, pushing and shoving is not acceptable. “Should we head to the lake now?”

  “Let’s do it,” I say as Miranda and Lizzie join us. We’ve got other plans for the next few days, but we’re going to at least stop by the beach house, and make an appearance. I just hope I don’t have to see the Harpies or the Company boys anywhere near me.

  It feels like Harper’s spirit’s been broken, but I know she’s just biding her time.

  Eventually, she’s going to strike back, and it’s not going to be pretty.

  For now though, I’m just excited to have survived third year with my life, my grades, and my heart intact.

  “I can’t believe you beat me,” I groan, sitting in the driver’s seat of my rose-gold Maserati with Windsor in the passenger seat, Creed behind me, and an empty spot where Miranda would be if she weren’t making out with Jessie Maker in the back of Brianna Chow’s yellow Mustang.

  Tristan leans on the driver’s side door of the car with the most self-satisfied smirk I’ve ever seen. Just looking at it makes me want to either punch him … or grab his face and kiss him until we both can’t breathe.

  “You’re second in the class, still a major accomplishment,” he drawls, standing up straight and stretching his arms above his head. “For a Working Girl, I mean.”

  “Haha, very funny,” I say as I turn the key in the ignition and start up the engine. As third-years, it’s our right to use the beach house at the Royal Pointe Lakeside Lodge. We’re going to make an appearance, and then get the hell out of there. Tristan’s family’s main house—the Vanderbilt Manor—isn’t too far from there, and his dad’s overseas on business.

  He’s invited us all to hang out there for a few days instead.

  Considering I almost died at Royal Pointe last year, I’m okay with skipping out after a few hours.

  Charlie’s already okayed the trip, so I don’t worry about that. What I do worry about is the fact that Lizzie’s going to be there, too. As the last few weeks of the year rolled around, she started hanging out with him more and more, to the point that I struggled to find a moment of alone time.

  He leans in and brushes a smoldering kiss to my lips.

  “Oh bloody hell, can we go already?” Windsor asks as Tristan steps back. Zayd’s waiting next to his own car which is parked beside Zack’s, waving at us as I grin and pull out of the parking spot, trying my best to avoid getting killed by the dozens of other students eager for their summer break. “Finally. Thought you two might get hitched right on the spot.”

  “Oh, please.” I roll my eyes, push my sunglasses down, and head for the winding road that I remember from last year.
The Maserati hugs the curves just as well as Andrew’s Lambo, and in just a few hours, we’re pulling into the same parking lot where I was assaulted by the Company/Harpies. In my head, I’ve started calling the boys the Company, and the girls the Harpies. Is that sexist? It’s not meant to be.

  Trust me: I hate them all equally.

  We put the top up on the car, leave our luggage, and take the funicular—that weird ass elevator thing I was so disturbed by last year—down to the beach.

  The ‘guest house’ is no less impressive than the lodge, just slightly smaller. It has soaring ceilings, walls of windows, and several balconies with roaring firepits.

  We take up the topmost balcony, roasting smores, and drinking (alcohol only for those who aren’t driving) and gather our new team of Bluebloods around us. It’s hard to miss the Harpies watching us from the corner, the few Company boys they have left surrounding them.

  Tristan has done a damn good job of setting us up for next year.

  Hopefully, I won’t have to focus on bets, revenge, or forgiveness during fourth year. Frankly, I just want to spend my time in the arms of the elite, the five beautiful boys who have so completely and utterly turned my world around that just the thought of choosing between them makes me sick.

  But, eventually, I’ll have to.

  Because nobody in the real world has five boyfriends, particularly not when all five of them have familiar obligations or careers they have to uphold. Even if they didn’t, no man wants to share a girl forever.

  I just try to enjoy whatever time I have left.

  “Dance with me?” Zayd asks after he’s down at least three smores. I take his hand and let him pull me into the house and the throbbing bass beat. People clear out of our way, and I can feel the envy in their gazes as I switch between Zayd and Creed, Zack and Windsor.

  Tristan stands aside and apart, sipping from a glass of what I hope is water and not vodka, his steely gaze focused on me. He seems almost … sad? But that can’t be right. He just beat me for the first in three years. I tell myself it’s because I took on too much with cheerleading and orchestra and tutoring, but … really, it’s because Tristan’s a worthy opponent.

  I take a break from dancing to stand beside him, hooking my arm around his the way I did in Paris, closing my eyes as I breathe in his peppermint and cinnamon scent. Clean and spicy at the same time.

  “I wish I could bottle your smell,” I tell him, and that, at least, gets the tiniest quirk of lips.

  “Mm. What would call it? Eau de Asshole?”

  “I was thinking Silken Prick Face. And the whole commercial would be about this naked guy wrapped in sulk, running through waves on a moonlit eve, while some weird voiceover whispers Silken Prick over and over again.” This time, I get a full laugh out of Tristan, and I think it startles us both just a bit.

  We’re quiet for a while, watching the crowd thin out as people—mostly couples—start disappearing up to their rooms, or down to the beach for the bonfire or the boats.

  “Why did you sabotage my test?” I ask, because that question’s been bugging me since last year. “I know now that you were trying to get me to drop out of Burberry, but … that’s not like you. Even when you hated me, you knew I was a qualified opponent.”

  Tristan is silent for a while before he sighs and looks down at me.

  “Sometimes we do things that we think are best, even if we know they’re wrong. Harper had even worse things planned for your grades. All I did was redirect her. And then I told Zayd. Marnye, I’ve never wanted to beat anyone at anything so badly as I wanted to win against you in grades.” I raise my eyebrows, but he’s not done, setting his waiter glass on a side table, and turning to look at me. “There have only ever been two settings in my life: completely hopeless failure under my father’s expectations, and ridiculous ease with the rest of the world. You challenge me, Marnye. You make me want to be better.”

  My eyes widen, but we’re interrupted by Lizzie, pulling us both onto the dance floor for one last song before we hit the road again, off to Vanderbilt Manor, and a peek into Tristan’s private life that I never thought I’d live to see.

  “Holy shit, it’s Mount Olympus,” I breathe as I stand in front of the Vanderbilt Manor, all forty-thousand square feet of it. According to Tristan, there are two art galleries, a ballroom, a winter garden, a library, a billiard room, a gun room, and … there are so many freaking rooms, I literally don’t remember them all.

  “Might as well be,” Zack snorts, “because the people who live here think they’re gods.”

  “Oh, like you’re any different, Brooks,” Tristan says, sweeping past and heading up the steps of the white stone manor. The staff greets him warmly which I find surprising. I figured Tristan was the type to treat those around him like ‘the help’. But he actually gives an older, silver-haired man a hug. A hug. How many times have I seen Tristan Vanderbilt hug anyone?

  We head into the main hall, and I’m immediately overwhelmed by the amount of space and the lavishness of the décor. There’s a stack of papers on a table with a fresh floral bouquet that’s as big as my car. Tristan grabs it and starts passing out maps.

  Literal maps. Of his house.

  Maybe, if you need to give people a map of your home, it’s a little too big to begin with?

  “Your rooms are labelled,” he explains, moving over to one of the walls to point out an intercom. “If you get lost, or need help finding something, just press the button on any of these and one of the staff can help you out.” He pauses for a minute as we all study the maps, taking note of our names scrawled onto the page. While it looks like there are plenty of guest rooms, he’s placed us all on the upper level, in the east wing, near his personal bedroom.

  Lizzie bites her lip, and I look up, meeting her amber eyes.

  It hasn’t escaped either of our notice that she’s sharing a room with Andrew, while I’ve got my own suite … right next to Tristan’s.

  “Come on, Charity,” Tristan says cheekily, “I’ll show you to your room.” He takes my arm and guides me to the right, through the east foyer and the banquet hall before we finally get to the stairs. The others follow along behind as we sweep up the curving staircase, and Tristan starts directing people to their rooms.

  The staff follows, loaded up with our bags. It makes me slightly uncomfortable, having other people wait on me, but now that I’m upstairs and looking at the door to Tristan’s bedroom, I forget all about it.

  “Come,” he says, dragging me forward and into a sitting room, a study, and finally … his room.

  My eyes immediately go to the black silk coverlet on the bed.

  “This isn’t a room, this is a … wow, holy shit, Tristan.” He lets go of my arm and then sweeps over to a liquor cabinet, opening it up with a hidden key that he pulls out from beneath a potted plant. Once again, I’m so struck by the casual way in which he pours alcohol from a glass decanter that I have to shake my head to clear it.

  “You like it?” he asks, turning to look at me and offering up a glass.

  I look at it for a long, long while, and then shake my head no. Tristan simply smiles, and my back straightens as I hear Lizzie come into the room like she’s been here plenty of times before.

  “It hasn’t changed a bit, has it?” she says, taking the alcohol from Tristan’s hand and throwing it back in one go. She leans back against the wall in her denim short-shorts and suspenders, looking casual and cool in a way I’m not sure that I ever will. I’ve sort of just accepted at this point that I’m a little clumsy, a little awkward, and that’s okay.

  “William doesn’t like change,” Tristan says, moving over to stand beside Lizzie. I watch them carefully as he leans over and opens the window, letting in the cool, night breeze. It’s so quiet out here, I can’t hear anything but the sounds of the household, a distant owl, and some rustling in the brush that could be a deer or a raccoon.

  “If you don’t mind my asking,” I start, as Creed joins us next, pulling
me into his arms and hugging me close. I shiver, wondering if he’s going to sneak into my room and join me tonight. I’d like that. I’d like it quite a bit. Having only had sex with him twice, I’m more than ready for more. “How is it that your family’s out of money? It looks like you’re doing just fine to me.”

  Tristan’s face gets tight as he stares out the window at the pregnant roundness of the moon.

  “We have the house, and the yacht, the cars, the businesses … but no cash flow and too much debt. Even if he sold off everything we have, William wouldn’t have enough to keep us out of the hole.” Tristan turns around and nods with his chin in the direction of the liquor cabinet. “Help yourself, Cabot.”

  “I always do,” Creed drawls, holding on tight to me.

  “Someday soon, a debtor will come calling, all our assets will be seized, and …” Tristan trails off, his eyes going cloudy, and then he just shakes his head, that layer of haughty arrogance crashing over his face in a stone mask. “Doesn’t matter. Don’t worry about it.”

  The others filter in, and drinks are poured.

  We end up downstairs in the movie theater, sitting in a small cluster in the back row. This time, we put on a series of zombie movies, but everyone’s too busy talking to pay much attention.

  Tristan, though, seems so far away, and I find that most of my attention is on him … and on the way Lizzie puts her hand over his, giving a small, private, little squeeze.

  She’s going to make a move soon, I can feel it.

  But am I ready for it?

  Creed does slip into my room at night, and we spend hours worshipping each other’s bodies. When I get up in the morning, he’s still asleep, so I sneak out and down the stairs to find the kitchen.

  True to form, I get lost for about twenty minutes before I find my way into the breakfast room. Tristan’s the only one in there, eating a plate of eggs, bacon, and pancakes, and sipping a cup of coffee. He doesn’t look seventeen-nearly-eighteen right then, more like he’s in his late twenties or early thirties. There’s so much darkness inside of him.