Home > Filthy Rich Boys (Rich Boys of Burberry Prep #1)(12)

Filthy Rich Boys (Rich Boys of Burberry Prep #1)(12)
Author: C.M. Stunich

I take a bite of my pasta, and try not to wonder how much this plate cost the scholarship fund.

“My dad should be here,” I hedge, trying to decide how best to describe my mom. The full truth is too hard to say aloud; it cuts like a knife, and I’m already bleeding from the scene on the yacht. “My mom … remarried and moved.” Yeah, across town. From the trailer park to a mansion. “She lives in Grenadine Heights actually, with my sister.”

“You have a sister?” Miranda asks, her glossy pink lips parting in surprise. “Would I know her?” I shrug my shoulders in response because the last thing I want to say is: maybe, but I don’t. “And how did I not know you had a sister?” she continues when I stuff my mouth with more pasta.

As Miranda frowns at me, Andrew stops by our table and pulls up an extra chair. Pretty sure he and Miranda have been getting into trouble for hanging around with me, and yet, they still do. I’m starting to wonder if I might actually be making real friends with the pair of them.

“You have a sister?” he repeats as I sigh and swallow my food, picking up my water glass and staring at the clinking ice cubes.

“Her name’s Isabella. But she’s three years younger than us. She just started sixth grade at Grenadine Heights Middle School.” I take a drink of my water and hope this story ends here. Now I’m kicking myself for bringing my mom up at all. See what I mean? I’ve already got that tight, sick feeling in my stomach.

“Isabella Carmichael?” Miranda asks, and I feel that tight feeling get even tighter, like a knot with a chokehold around my stomach. “Yeah, I remember her. I think I had her in one of my art groups, like when they pair older kids up with younger ones.” She shrugs and raises a perfectly arched blond brow at me. “I still don’t know how I’ve been friends with you for weeks and haven’t heard about your sister.”

“Maybe because I’ve never met her?” I blurt out, and both Andrew and Miranda share a look. Standing abruptly, I turn and slam into the firm body of Creed Cabot. He puts his hands on my shoulders, and my skin burns, even through the fabric of my black academy jacket. He scoots me back a space, and turns his attention to his sister.

My gaze lifts to his cold, cruel face, his porcelain skin and angelic hair. And those eyes of his, like chips of ice, blue but cold as winter. His heavy lidded expression makes him look bored and tired, like at any moment he might just lie down and take a nap like a cat.

“Tristan wanted me to talk to you about something,” he says, his voice cocksure and drawling, like it’d be too much to speak up or enunciate. For a split-second, I think he’s talking to me which is just stupid because, like, why would he be? He’s staring at his sister, but he hasn’t bothered to take a step back from me. We’re so close that if I were to breathe in deep, my breasts would brush up against the slightly rumpled fabric of his white shirt. “Do you have a second? Or are you too busy giving charity to the working class?”

“I don’t have anything to talk about with you,” Miranda says, flicking a glance in Andrew’s direction. He pretends not to notice, but I swear, there’s something going on here that I’m not getting. It’s bugging the crap out of me, but I’m afraid to ask. These two are the only ones in the whole school that I feel comfortable with, and I refuse to mess that up. “Not when you’re treating Marnye like she doesn’t exist.”

“Oh, I’m aware she exists,” he says, still looking at his sister, and lifting long fingers up to tousle his white-blonde hair. “Trust me: we’re all very aware she’s here.” He turns his attention over to me, and I’m forced to take a step back. Just the weight of his stare is enough, like a physical push to the chest. “What I don’t understand is why she’s still here.”

“She is standing right in front of you,” I grind out, remembering Creed’s face on the yacht, his bored, almost put-out expression as Tristan torched the book. “You can throw whatever you want at me. I might bend, but I won’t break.”

In a flash, Creed’s long fingers are on my chin, lifting my face to look at him. My skin, where his fingertips touch it, tingles and burns. Swallowing down a lump, I force myself to look him straight in the face.

“Made of stronger stuff, hmm?” he asks, tilting my head from side to side like he’s studying me. I slap his hand away, and take another step back. The way his mouth twists to the side in an arrogant smile is disturbing, so self-assured and cocky. I’d love to see it wiped right off of his face.

“You should’ve read her scholarship essay,” Miranda interjects, rising to her feet. I’m aware that the entire room is focused on our confrontation. “Marnye is a class-act, unlike you. I know Mom and Dad have given up on you, but I expected better.” She moves around the table and grabs my arm, dragging me away as her brother tucks his fingers into his slacks pockets, watching us with narrowed eyes.

But if I cowered every time one of the Idols looked at me like a bug to be crushed under their expensive loafers, I’d already be enrolled in Lower Banks High and long-gone from Burberry Prep Academy.

My dad’s been purposely avoiding my calls. I haven’t been able to talk to him once since I got here. Instead, I get missed calls and vague voicemails. Pretty sure he’s been drinking again, but there’s nothing I can do from here, a day’s drive away and trapped in a hell of my own.

Parents’ Week is supposed to start off with a special breakfast, and a speech from both the dean and the infamous Kathleen Cabot. My dad—and by proxy, me—has already missed that. I’m the last student sitting in the front courtyard, waiting for her parents to show up.

Well, second to last, really.

Zayd Kaiser leans against the stone wall of Tower Two, arms crossed over his chest, green eyes focused on the horizon. They’re devoid of expectation as he watches the winding road and taps his inked fingers against the leg of his slacks.

When he sees me looking at him, he scowls and turns away.

“My dad’s on tour right now. What the fuck is your parents’ excuse? Too busy working at the factory?”

“There’s nothing wrong with working at a factory,” I grind out, my jaw clenched tight, “but no, my dad will be here.” I’m not about to explain to Zayd that I’m worried he’s too drunk, that he passed out somewhere, that he forgot. That’d just give him more ammo to throw at me, and even without a whole lot, the Idols are doing a damn good job gunning for me. “He’ll be here,” I repeat, crossing my arms over my chest and shivering at the cool breeze. I’ve always disliked October and the cold chill of fall. While everybody else was going to the pumpkin patch with their families, trick-or-treating, having big Thanksgiving get-togethers, it was just me and Dad struggling to get by.

Zayd ignores me, humming some song under his breath that I vaguely recognize. I’m more of a classical music person, so I’m not super familiar with rock, but I’m pretty sure Zayd’s dad is Billy Kaiser, the lead singer for Battered Wings, a popular rock band from my parents’ days. I bet that’s hard, having a parent who’s on the road all the time.

Then Zayd mumbles something like poor little Working Girl under his breath, and all my sympathy fades away.

We both perk up a bit at the sound of a car coming down the winding road. It’s impossible to tell who’s in it because the windows are tinted, and it’s got the academy’s logo on the side. Parents aren’t allowed to drive up to the school and instead have to park in the visitors’ lot five miles away. Everyone—even the working class—gets a ride to the front entrance in the same vehicle.

When the door opens, and I see my dad climb out, I have to hold back a small shriek of joy, my cheeks lighting up. As I stand up and smooth my skirt out, I notice Zayd watching me, and try not to feel smug. My dad is here, so where is yours? Even if the guy’s a jerk, the thought’s just too mean. I’m not that kind of person. Or … at least I try not to be.

I start down the stairs with a perky bounce in my steps, grinning from ear to ear when Dad smiles at me and opens his arms for a hug. He’s clearly sober, and his hair looks freshly-washed and styled, his face clean-shaven.

“Baby girl!” he calls out, wrapping me up in his strong arms and spinning me around. We haven’t been separated for this long since … forever ago. When Mom first left and tried to take me with her. Shaking my head, I decide not to think about that. Those memories are best left forgotten. “I’ve missed you so much, honey.”

I open my mouth to tell him the same when a second figure climbs out of the car, and my heart turns to ice in my chest.

“Zack,” I choke out, eyes widening.

“Hey Marnye,” he says, his voice still that same dark bass it was in eighth grade. Zack matured faster than the rest of the boys, shooting up to an impressive six foot three, with big hands and muscles from football and track. But over the summer, he’s just gotten … ripped. My mouth goes dry, and my palms start to sweat.

“What …” I start to ask my ex-boyfriend what he’s doing here, but Dad answers for me.

“The school gave me two tickets for today, and your mother …” He doesn’t have to finish that thought; we both know what Mom’s up to, taking care of her replacement husband and daughter and leaving the two of us to rot. “Well, I called and asked, and they said it was okay if I wanted to bring a family friend.”

“A family friend,” I whisper, tucking a loose strand of brown hair behind one ear. It’s basically down to my ass now, and difficult to control in a strong wind. “That’s one way to put it.” My eyes sweep Zack’s large, muscular form, wondering when his chest and stomach got so flat, his arm muscles so big that the sleeves of his leather jacket look strained. His dark hair is gelled up on the top, and as I stare at him, he reaches up and smooths it flat with his palm.

   
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