by Laura Lee
I fight a shiver as I scoot my chair back. “Asshole.”
Raucous laughter sounds from across the room, stealing my attention. It's coming from the self-proclaimed royals' table—the same spot where my tablemates used to sit every day. Peyton, Imogen, and Whitney are still there, but there are four new guys and one new girl. They look familiar, but I don't know their names.
“What’s going on there?” I ask. “I thought that table was reserved solely for the super-elite?”
All three guys frown while Ainsley rolls her eyes.
“Well?” I prompt. “Is anyone going to explain?”
Ainsley’s the first to speak up. “During your absence, Peyton’s established a new faction. She seems to think she can designate who the kings and queens of Windsor are, despite the fact that everyone knows that’s not how it works. She’s even decided to expand the court.”
I turn to Kingston. “What does that mean for you guys?”
“Nothing. Peyton can spout off whatever bullshit she wants; doesn’t mean the entire school will listen. There’s an order that needs to be followed. It’s been that way since this school was founded.” Kingston’s jaw clenches as he glances over there. “If we went over there and told them to get the fuck out of our seats, they’d have to obey.”
I look around the room and see the other students giving the royals' table a wide berth and averting their eyes like they did when my guys sat there. From where I'm sitting, it looks like the school is listening.
Wait a minute...when did I start thinking of them as my guys?
“Who are the new people?”
“Mostly douche nuggets from the football team,” Bentley replies sourly. “The guy sitting next to Pey Pey is Lucas Gale—he’s been her fuckboy since Davenport here gave her the ax. He’s also Windsor’s star QB. Then, you have Aspen Evans—she’s a cheerleader—followed by Christian Taylor, David Wright, and Barclay Baker.”
“Why don’t you tell them to leave the table?” I inquire.
Reed answers this time. “Because that would imply we care, and the last thing any of us wants is for Peyton to think she's getting to us."
What is Peyton hoping to accomplish by doing this?
“Is this another ploy to make you jealous?” I ask Kingston. “To make you want to be with her again?”
He finishes chewing the giant bite of pizza he just took. “Probably, which is exactly why we’re not feeding into it. Just drop it, Jazz. It’s no big deal.”
I don’t buy that for a second. She is getting to them. Whether they want to admit it or not, I can tell by their rigid spines and how they're discreetly watching the other table. These three are alpha males to the core, and Peyton's actions are a direct challenge.
Right before lunch is over, some girl timidly approaches our table and drops a cream-colored envelope in front of me. She’s younger—couldn’t be more than a sophomore—and the poor thing looks like she’s about to shit herself.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“It’s from Peyton Devereux.”
I scoff. “She couldn’t give it to me herself? She lives down the hall from me. Like, literally, right down the hall. She could’ve easily slipped it under my door.”
“I just do what I’m told,” the girl says before scurrying away like a cockroach.
Kingston grabs the envelope and breaks the seal before I get the chance. He pulls out a square made of thick cardstock and looks it over. His nostrils flare as he angrily shoves it back in.
“What is it?” I grab it from him and pull out the card. It’s an invitation to Peyton’s eighteenth birthday party, only there’s a big red circle over it with a backslash symbol through the middle. “What the fuck does this even mean? Is she trying to tell me I’m not invited to her party? As if I’d go anyway?”
“Don’t react, Jazz,” Kingston commands. “It’s what she wants; it’s why she’s doing this publicly. She’s trying to humiliate you.”
Fuck that. Half the school has been trying to humiliate me today, and I have a sneaking suspicion she’s behind it. I’m not into playing my wicked stepsister’s games, but I will not bow down to anyone, especially her. I turn in my chair to find Peyton and her groupies looking in my direction, having a good ol’ laugh at my expense. Or so they think. Never once breaking my stare, I grab the envelope and walk over to her table.
Peyton turns her nose up, haughtiness seeping out of her every pore. “What do you want, whore? If you’re looking for some crack, you’ll need to go back to the ghetto.”
“Good one, baby,” the guy beside her laughs.
I completely ignore Peyton’s pathetic gibe—and the idiot she’s fucking—and smile, which causes her to frown. “I just wanted to let you know what I thought about your silly little birthday party, or celebrating your existence in general.”
I can feel the entire room's eyes on us as I hold up the fancy invitation and rip it straight down the middle. I raise a challenging eyebrow as I tear it in half a second time. I keep going until Peyton is positively fuming, and the last piece of paper is floating in tiny little pieces down by her Louboutin-heeled feet. When I'm done, I brush my hands off and lean into her.
“You see, Peyton, the difference between you and me, is that I actually have the balls to fight my battles. Next time you have something to say to me, just say it. Grow the fuck up.”
A chorus of, damn or burn or some variation thereof, echoes throughout the dining room. While Peyton’s mouth is still hanging open, and that Lucas guy is glaring holes through me, I walk back to my table, sit down, and take a bite of my penne, as if none of that ever happened.
“Holy shit, Jazz,” Ainsley whispers. “That was epic!”
I smile victoriously, knowing Peyton’s plan backfired. Damn, that bitch really is cuckoo if she thinks the invitation thing would bother me. I’ve known about the party all along—it’s not like she’s been keeping it to herself—but I never had any intention of going. Since it’s being held at the mansion, Ainsley and I made plans to hang at her place that night.
Knowing Peyton though, she’ll probably act like that whole confrontation never happened, which is why I’ll need to take measures to reinforce my message. I chuckle under my breath as I think of the perfect solution.
Bentley pulls me into him and kisses my temple. “Jazzy Jazz, it’s good to have you back.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
JAZZ
“Girl, you look amazing.” Ainsley coats her lips in a fresh layer of gloss. “But are you sure it’s okay to take the splint off?”
I lift my arm and flex my wrist experimentally. “I’m sick of that thing; it’s heavy and itchy. Besides, it doesn’t exactly go with this outfit. Wearing it two-thirds of the recommended time is totally enough, don’t you think?”
Ainsley shakes her head. “Um...I’m not a doctor, but I think they say six weeks for a reason. You know your body better than me, though. If you say your wrist feels okay without it, who am I to argue? Just promise me you’ll be careful.”
“I will.”
“Peyton’s going to be pissed when she sees you.” Ainsley gets a Cheshire Cat grin.
I laugh. “You, too.”
We both check ourselves out in the vanity mirror, pleased with our reflections. When I decided to crash Peyton's birthday party, I resigned myself to the fact that I'd have to glam myself up because that's what will annoy Peyton the most. She seems to get off on picking apart my preferred attire, and this way, she doesn't have the option. When I ducked my head out earlier and saw Peyton pre-gaming in the living room with her girls, I knew it was the right decision.
Peyton’s really working the living Barbie angle tonight in a skin-tight hot pink corset and mini skirt, sky-high heels, and an actual fucking tiara. Imogen and Whitney are wearing almost identical outfits—sans the tiara—but in different colors. Since I’m totally clueless about fashion and makeup, Ainsley came over early to help me get ready.
It helps that Ainsley and I
are the exact same size, so I can borrow her clothes. My walk-in closet is filled with designer pieces, but I needed something less demure and more vixen to have the most significant impact. My beautiful friend here has a freakishly vast array of club attire, which works perfectly for this evening.
“My brother’s going to shit when he sees you.” Ainsley laughs. “I wouldn’t put it past him to take the shirt off his own body to cover you up from wandering eyes.”
“Yeah, well, that’s because your brother’s possessiveness is misplaced.”
She gives me a wry look. “You’re still lying to yourself, I see.”
I freshen my cherry red lip stain. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Ainsley rolls her big hazel eyes. “C’mon, Jazz. You know there’s something special going on between you and Kingston. He would do anything for you. I know you have feelings for him, so why are you fighting it?”
I sigh. “Because I don’t trust my feelings for him.”
Her delicate eyebrows pinch together. “What do you mean?”
I hop on the counter, careful not to flash my panties in the process. Easier said than done in this dress.
“I don’t understand how I could have feelings for him after everything he’s put me through.”
She gives me a sympathetic look. “But you said he explained that, right?”
I gave Ainsley the abridged version of my conversation with Kingston regarding why he was so cruel to me when we first met. I focused solely on the he’s a typical guy afraid of his feelings type of thing, but she seems to have bought it. I hate withholding information from her, but I know Kingston’s right in that respect.
"Yeah...and I want to believe him—I honestly do—but something is niggling in the back of my brain telling me to keep my guard up."
Ainsley takes a seat on the vanity bench. “Do you know what that something is?”
I wring my hands together. “It all comes back to that night at Donovan’s party. Bentley swears they didn’t drug me, but nothing else makes sense, Ains. I had two drinks. Two. You know that’s not enough to fuck me up, yet I barely remember anything from that night. Only flashes here and there.”
Mostly flashes of making out with Kingston and Bentley, but I keep that part to myself.
She gives me a closed-mouth smile. “What exactly did Bentley say?”
“He told me they would never do that to me. Then he told me to ask him about a girl named Carissa some time, then I’d have no doubt.”
Ainsley’s breath stutters. “And did you? Ask him about Carissa?”
“No.” I shake my head. “Honestly, it kind of slipped my mind until now. Who is she anyway?”
“She was my best friend,” Ainsley whispers.
“Was? Did you two have a falling out or something?”
“No, Jazz.” She shakes her head. “She died. Committed suicide, actually.”
I suck in a harsh breath. “Oh. I’m so sorry, Ains. I know that’s a shitty platitude, but it’s true. I know how hard it is losing someone you love.”
She sniffs, dabbing at the corners of her eyes. “I know you do, and I’m okay now. I mean, it’s been almost two years. I still miss her every day, but it gets easier to not think about it so much. Bentley took it the hardest out of all of us, I think. He may joke around a lot, but that boy’s holding on to a lot of grief and regret.”
“What do you mean?”
“That’s not my story to tell, Jazz. I think you should talk to him, though. I really do think it would alleviate your concerns.” Ainsley gives me a sad smile. “I know what they did that night was awful—with the pictures, I mean—but if it’s worth anything, I’m positive they wouldn’t have drugged you. One thousand percent positive. And trust me, they got a mouthful from me about circulating that video and those pictures. I actually slapped my brother across the face and kneed him in the balls.”
My lips twitch. “Are you serious?”
“Yep.” She nods proudly. “And I would’ve done the same to the other two, but Reed held me back. I decided that particular revenge was a dish best served cold. With the way Reed's been behaving lately, though, his comeuppance will likely be sooner rather than later."
“He still won’t tell you what’s going on?”
She shakes her head. “Nope. And quite frankly, I’m done waiting.”
I raise my brows. “You’re giving up?”
“I don’t know.” Ainsley shrugs. “I don’t want to, but I’m sure as shit not going to let him ruin my night. I’m going to go out there, have some drinks, maybe dance with a few hot boys, and forget about all the Reed drama for one night.”
“Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s get down there.”
Ainsley smiles. “By the time this night is over, the birthday bitch will know for damn sure you won’t take her shit lying down.”
We're both grinning like fools as we exit my bedroom and make our way down the stairs. Eminem's "Godzilla" blasts through the speakers, setting the tone perfectly for this freakin' madhouse. I still can't believe Charles and Madeline went away for the weekend just so Peyton could have a house party. Seriously, what kind of parents do that, knowing what kind of debauchery these people are capable of? Spoiler alert: shitty ones.
When we get to the main level, this shindig seems to be in full swing. Peyton's party planner certainly went all out. All of the existing furniture down here has been replaced with a large dance floor, D.J. area, and several different seating options. There's a staffed bar in the back next to a towering champagne fountain. The back patio is crammed with bodies, and the subtle lighting that was out there has been replaced with bulbs so bright, the whole area is lit up like a football field. Jesus fuck, I don't even want to know how much all this shit cost.
My jaw drops when my eyes stumble on the setup in the back corner of the living room. “What the hell?!”
There are actual stripper poles installed, all three of which have half-naked drunk girls swinging around them, surrounded by two dozen or so guys.
“Wow, she really wants to make it memorable, huh?” Ainsley asks. “Just what every girl wants for her birthday: pole jockeys.”
I shake my head at the ridiculousness of it all as we walk through the room. Ainsley and I are subjected to more than a few people trying to either murder us with their glares or make our clothing magically go poof! with their leering gazes. Funny thing is, these dresses are so short, there’s not much that’s not already on display. I have to keep tugging my dress down to ensure I’m not showing ass cheek.
“Let’s check out the back,” Ainsley suggests.
We're hit with a rush of warmth from the outdoor heaters as we step outside. Damn, I think there are more people outside than in. Although it's late-October, the pool is even packed because Madeline keeps the water heater set at a balmy 82°. Thanks to the enhanced lighting, bare tits greet me from all around, and I spot a few couples in the pool that are definitely screwing up against the tiled wall. I don't even want to know what's going on back in the small grotto.
“Remind me not to use the pool until it’s fully disinfected,” I mutter.
There are speakers out here, but the volume isn't nearly as high as it is on the inside. It was no doubt staged that way to avoid noise complaints. However, the massive, clearly inebriated crowd certainly isn't helping that cause.
“Holy shit, is that Peyton?” Ainsley points to the group of people playing an apparent game of chicken in the pool.
When the blonde goes down and resurfaces, we see that it is indeed Peyton. She climbs back on Lucas Gale’s shoulders in her hot pink string bikini. Whitney is in the same position on that Christian guy’s shoulders, only she seems to have lost her top somewhere.
“You lose, Birthday Girl!” Christian yells. “Take it off!”
I turn to Ainsley. “He can’t possibly...oh, yep, that’s exactly what he meant.”
Peyton is making a show of untying her bikini top, swirling it in the air, and tossing
it to the side.
Ainsley shakes her head when both girls start making out, groping each other’s breasts, getting more into it as the catcalls get louder.
I throw my hands out. “Is this really happening right now?”
Bentley swings his arm around my shoulders. “What’s the big deal? I don’t think there’s a single person in our senior class who hasn’t seen their tits at some point.”
Where’d he come from?
I tilt my chin up. “Well, I hadn't seen their boobs, and I was perfectly happy keeping it that way!”
Bentley watches the two girls as they kiss. “As much as I despise those skanks, you gotta admit, they’re putting on a good show.”
Ainsley makes a face and verbalizes my thought. “Ew, Bent. They’re acting like over-the-top porn stars.”
“Exactly my point.” Bentley laughs.
“God, it seems like they’re really enjoying themselves,” I observe. “I didn’t realize Peyton was into girls.”
“She’s not,” Bentley says. “My guess is they’re doing this half for the attention and half because they’re rolling.”
My brows rise. “Molly?”
He nods. “One and the same.”
“Huh.” I would’ve never pegged Peyton as a drug user either.
Bentley seems to read my mind. “Peyton’s a white-collar drug enthusiast. She thinks weed is for slackers.” He rolls his eyes. “But coke, pills, or Molly is totally up to her refined standards.”
"I think I need a drink." I try dislodging Bentley's arm, but he pulls me back in to him.
“Hot damn, baby girl. What are you wearing?” He scans my body head to toe, lingering on my exposed thighs and pushed-up cleavage. “And how did it take me this long to notice? You’re fucked when your boy gets here, and I do mean that quite literally. He’s not going to be able to keep his hands off you.”
Nope. Not going to picture that. Maybe if I repeat it enough times in my head, it’ll work. Gah, I definitely need a drink.
“Where is he anyway?” Ainsley asks. “Reed said they’d be here by ten.”