“You’re a guest, Marnye Reed. Don’t fuck it up.”
“First rule of Infinity Club, don’t talk about Infinity Club?” I joke, but Zayd doesn’t laugh. Instead, he starts off down the hallway, a trail of cigarette smoke wafting behind him. With a sigh, I follow after, taking the same path as yesterday out to a gravel parking lot.
There’s a crimson colored sports coupe with dark rims and tinted windows.
“Maserati GranTurismo,” Zayd says, gesturing lamely in the direction of the car. “I borrowed it from Sheldon Barnes.” He finishes smoking his cigarette and then just chucks the butt like he expects somebody else to clean up after him. I bet for most—if not all—of his life, people have. “He’s allowed to have a car on campus because he’s eighteen, and his grandma’s like, sick or something, and she only lives fifteen minutes from here. He gets to come and go as he pleases.”
“Well, for his grandma …” I start, but Zayd’s already tossing a smirk over his shoulder at me, sea green hair flopping into his face. He reaches up and twists it into a gelled spike.
“He never actually visits the old bat. She’s got an entire nursing staff on-hand at home anyway. He just uses her as an excuse to go pick up hookers in the city.” My brows go up at that, but I can’t decide if Zayd actually means this Sheldon guy pays prostitutes for sex, or if he’s being a judgmental, slut-shaming prick again.
“It’s a nice car,” I hedge instead, and Zayd howls with laughter.
“You could buy a hundred for these for the price of that Ferrari Spider.” Zayd cracks the driver’s side door and climbs in. I notice he doesn’t bother to open my door for me. Not that I’d expect him to, but still.
The inside has that new car smell, this mixture of leather and oil that makes my nose tingle. There’s a torn scrap of paper with a lipstick smudge and a phone number on it stuck to the dash, but that’s really the only sign that anyone’s ever used this vehicle before. There aren’t any old coffee cups or fast food wrappers or muddy boot smudges like in my dad’s truck.
Zayd starts the car, and then cranks up the stereo, blasting a stream of rock music from his own band. That husky voice of his is just too recognizable. As he pulls out of the parking lot, I slide my phone from my pocket and surreptitiously do a search for Zayd Kaiser.
He comes up right away, with over ten million results. Zayd Kaiser, lead singer of the American band Afterglow, a contemporary rock group with several number one hits. Their latest summer tour was a huge success, opening for headliners and superstars Indecency. Also on the roster were Amatory Riot, Beauty in Lies, Caged Impulse, and Pistols and Violets.
“If you want to know something about me, you could just ask,” Zayd says, turning the music down slightly. He’s got rubber bracelets trailing up his right arm, and I notice that the names of the bands listed on the tour roster match up. Interesting. Too bad I don’t follow popular music much. Instead, I’m the weirdo in the corner listening to obscure Carlos Salzedo pieces.
“My dad listens to some of your dad’s songs,” I start, “but personally, I spend most of my time listening to classical music. Honestly—and don’t take this the wrong way—I have no idea who you are, other than some jerk who goes to my school.”
“Some jerk, huh?” Zayd asks, but he sounds slightly pleased by the sentiment. “I’m the fourth generation in my family to have a number one hit. My personal net worth is larger than the family net worth of some of these other assholes. I play four different kinds of instruments, and my manager is fucking the vice principal.”
I blink at him and then cock an eyebrow.
“That doesn’t tell me a whole lot about you as a person. I mean, do you have any hobbies other than music and bullying?” Zayd smirks at me, green eyes sparkling, but he doesn’t take his attention off the road. Good thing, too, because now that we’ve exited the academy gates, he’s edging close to a hundred miles an hour.
“I like fast cars, pretty girls, and wicked ink. What else is there to know?”
“Do you ever sit down and just lose yourself in a good book? Are you overly emotional, or do you clamp down on your feelings? What’s your greatest fear and your biggest pleasure?” Now Zayd does look over at me, eyes wide and brows raised. He’s staring at me like I’m some sort of alien creature.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he asks, shaking his head and turning back to the road. “You’re seriously fucking strange, you know that? Most girls would either be trying to suck me off, or cursing me out right now. You let us beat up on you, but you barely fight back, just enough to stay standing. And yet, you could’ve fucked all three of us by now if you’d wanted. Why haven’t you?”
I could’ve slept with them? I think, and then even though the only person I’m talking to is myself, I add, not that I care because I definitely don’t want to. Definitely not. No way.
“You seriously need to ask?” I lean back against the door and look Zayd over. “Because maybe I don’t want to have sex with men who treat me like shit. Is that somehow surprising to you?”
“Honestly, yeah, it sort of is. I’ve never had a girl tell me no before, not when I’ve blatantly offered myself up. Most of the girls at Burberry Prep drool and hang all over me.”
“That’s their prerogative,” I say, exhaling and closing my eyes. “Everyone is looking for something different.”
“What are you looking for, Working Girl? Romance? Affection? Love?”
“A good education, a promising career, and some outlet for me to play the harp for an audience. That’s it.” I open my eyes again, but Zayd doesn’t look like he’s listening. Instead of answering me, he just cranks the music up and sings along with the lyrics, harmonizing perfectly with his own voice. I’m guessing he doesn’t use auto-tuner.
“Basking in the glory of my followers, bathing in the blood of my enemies, drowning in the waves of my own lies. That’s what it means, that’s how it feels, that’s what it’s like to be me.”
I listen to Zayd sing his own lyrics and I wonder if any of them are true.
If they are, then I feel really sorry for him.
Money can’t buy everything.
I must be exhausted because I end up falling asleep on the drive, waking to an empty car. Zayd is nowhere to be seen, and I’m left wondering where the hell I’m supposed to go. The building in front of me is very clearly abandoned with boarded up windows and doors, overgrown brush crowding the pathways.
A knock on the window startles me, and I scream, turning to find Zack waiting for me with his brows drawn together. I open the door, and he helps me out, his hand cool and dry against mine.
“I was wondering where you were when Kaiser sauntered into the party without you.” Zack runs his fingers through his chocolate hair and sighs. “I still don’t understand why you’re hanging out with those guys.”
“They warned me away from you, too, you know,” I tell him, and watch as his eyes darken. “And you’re warning me away from them. Frankly, I’m inclined to stay away from all of you.”
“Why did you come out here, Marnye? You’re not a part of the club; you never will be.” My mouth tightens, and my nostrils flare. If I have to hear Zack rip on me for being poor, then I’m going to lose my shit tonight.
“Tristan made me an offer I couldn’t refuse,” I say, chewing on my lower lip and looking up at the multi-level casino. The name on the sign is hard to read, but I’m pretty sure this used to be a Native American run place. That would explain the remote location. I think we might be on a reservation. My skin prickles, and I feel disrespectful for even standing here. Clearly, the casino’s closed. Maybe they’d rather not have annoying white people traipsing all over their land?
“What did he offer you?” Zack asks, putting his hands into the pockets of his letterman jacket. It’s blue and gold, and I figure those must be the colors of Coventry Prep. Burberry Prep is all about red and black although the jocks most definitely don’t rule our school: money does.
“A month without anyone bothering me about my scholarship status—or anything else for that matter.” I glance over at him, but he’s as unreadable as ever. “He wants to play me at poker. You know I can kick his ass.” The faintest brush of a smile touches Zack’s lips before it disappears again.
“Just be careful with those guys. They’re Idols for a reason. They demand sacrifice.” He starts off down the path without bothering to explain that cryptic little nugget of information. With a sigh, I follow after, around to the back of the house where white lights are strung, kegs are set up, and people are already dancing. There’s a bevy of gorgeous sports cars lined up back there, too, with girls lounging on the hoods or making out with guys inside them.
Zack leads me in the back door, past counters fitted with dark screens where customers used to drink and play slots. Some of the machines are plugged in, glowing brightly, and raucous laughter fills the room as students tug on the handles and watch the screens light up.
“Those don’t actually give out money, I’m guessing?” Zack shakes his head at my question.
“Any bets made are private bets. The machine just makes it all random.” He shows me to an area enclosed by a half-wall. It looks like it used to be a restaurant or something. The plants lining it, and hanging from the ceiling are all fake, so it looks weirdly current, even amongst the strange urban decay of the rest of the place.
Tristan, Creed, and Zayd are seated around a table with three girls, all of them topless.
My nose wrinkles, as the girls giggle and pretend not to know what to do with their cards. Either that, or they really have no idea how to play poker.
“Strip poker,” Zayd explains to me, flashing a bright grin. “You should get in on this, Working Girl.”