“You look like you’d rather choke on that massive rock on your finger than marry Marcel Stone.” Miranda makes a gagging sound and rolls her ice-blue eyes. “Don’t lie and pretend you came here just for Marnye. You’re lonely, and you’re still in love.”
Lizzie flushes pink and starts to stutter. Miranda steps forward and Lizzie takes one back.
“You seem to have outgrown your fascination with Zayd and Creed, but the way you look at Tristan …” Miranda clucks her tongue and turns back to me. “I hope you know that if you’re interested in Tristan Vanderbilt, that you have direct competition. She’s playing the good girl now, but it won’t last.”
“Miranda,” I blurt, feeling my own cheeks color pink. Lizzie looks at us both for a moment with her face scrunched, turns, and takes off down the hall. “What was that all about?” I say, a little flustered. I’m not sure if Miranda was just revealing a truth to me I didn’t want to acknowledge, or if she was on the attack.
Unlocking the door, I step aside so she can pace into the room. There’s no point standing out here alone. We might be safer as a pair, but if Harper brings her whole crew with her, we’re in big trouble. Actually, now that Lizzie’s run off, I figure I’ll have to walk Miranda back to the Towers and get a pair of the boys to escort me back to my room.
“She’s a snake in the grass,” Miranda declares, lifting her chin, looking very much like she deserves to be standing in this fancy prep school. I’d never guess new money. No, she looks like an aristocrat. “Tristan either wants to use her because she’s Idol material, and everyone knows who she is, or else he’s still in love with her, too. But don’t trust her, Marnye. Don’t.” Miranda lifts her shirt and points at the bare skin on her right hip. “I am the only one who isn’t in that stupid fucking Club. I’m the only one looking out for your best interests.”
“You don’t trust any of them, do you?” I ask, and she shrugs, dropping her shirt with a sigh.
“Andrew, maybe. Windsor.” She looks away as I set my bookbag on the edge of the bed.
“Creed?” I question, and Miranda grimaces like she’s in pain, turning back to face me.
“I don’t trust anyone when it comes to you,” she says, and I blink a few times in surprise.
“Why?”
The next thing Miranda Cabot does shocks the hell out of me.
She steps forward, skirts swirling, white-blond hair flowing … and then she grabs me by the face and kisses me. There’s no time for me to react before she pulls back, and we both hear a sound at the door. I guess Miranda didn’t close it behind her, and we look to see Creed standing there with his blue eyes wide, mouth open in shock.
“You don’t have to say anything,” Miranda whispers, hitching her bag a little higher on her shoulder. “In fact: don’t say anything. I have to go.” She moves to the door, pushes past her brother and takes off down the hall. Creed looks torn between going after her and staying there to gape at me.
“What the … ?” I start, putting my hand to my mouth. I’m so shocked, there are no words.
“Damn it,” Creed curses, grabbing the handle of the door. He looks right at me. “Lock this when I go, please.” He slams it behind him and leaves me alone to contemplate what just occurred.
I barely manage to get the deadbolt in place before I’m sagging onto the edge of my bed and then falling back to cover my eyes.
Yep.
I knew it.
Third year … is going to be the hardest one yet.
The rest of the week is awkward and strange. Our little group is not adjusting well to being the new Bluebloods of Burberry Prep. Instead, Miranda will barely look at me, Zack and Creed look at me too much, and Lizzie is so quiet, I forget she’s there sometimes. Tristan is … well, Tristan. And Zayd and Windsor are chummy, maybe too chummy. Andrew’s the only normal one in the bunch.
We are going to get our asses handed to us by Harper, I think as she glares at me from across our history classroom. The last few days have been quiet, but I doubt the party tonight will be.
“Just give me the word, and I’ll have her killed,” Windsor whispers, leaning in close. He’s sitting on my right while Zayd slouches in his seat on my left. We just got teamed up for a group project, and I imagine that I’ll be doing most of the work. Or, at the very least, I’ll be in charge of whipping these two into shape. Windsor’s already made it quite clear that he’s got enough money to last a hundred lifetimes, and couldn’t care less about his grades. He says he might go to college for fun, but only if he gets in without much effort. Zayd is pretty adamant about a career in music, so … it’s only me that’s really got a vested interest in doing well.
“Hilarious,” I say, narrowing my eyes, but the thing is, with Windsor York, I’m not entirely sure he’s joking around. He’s a freaking prince, like an actual member of the British royal family. He’s rich as hell, and he’s the only student at this school that’s a billionaire in their own right.
If he wanted to turn sour, things could get bad—and quick. I glance over at him, smiling softly to himself, his hazel eyes just slightly narrowed as he studies Harper, Valentina, and Abigail as they use their academy issued iPad for research. The way he’s staring, it’s like when crocodiles sit beneath the surface of the water with just their eyes sticking out, searching for prey.
The chapel bell rings, and we all stand up.
“Meeting in my room, now.” I give Windsor a look and he grins.
“You see, this is why I like you. Little American girl ordering a prince around. Won’t you put me out of my misery and marry me already?”
Zayd bristles beside me, but surely he knows that Windsor’s joking.
“What’s the meeting about?” Zayd asks, but I just make a little zipping motion with my fingers, and give him a tight smile. He raises his pierced brow at me, emerald eyes sparking with curiosity, but he gives in and follows me and Windsor outside and along the little winding gravel path that heads back toward the chapel building.
I use my keys to let us into my dorm room, ignoring the various items shoved up against my doorjamb. I don’t even look at them anymore. Instead I keep one of the wastebaskets from my room near the door and scoop everything into it. If there’s something useful—like an unopened box of condoms—I keep it. Sorry, but I’m not ashamed.
“I’ll make some tea while we wait,” Windsor says, heading into the kitchenette and opening his special cabinet. Seriously, second day back at the academy, and I got a knock on my door from the school courier, delivering a massive chest full of loose leaf teas, strainers, cups, saucers, teapots, and tiny spoons. There were doilies in there, and when I questioned him about it, he just grinned and said his great-grandma made them for him.
It took me a whole day to realize that his great-grandmother is the literal Queen of England.
“Flavor preference?” he asks, pointing at Zayd with a silver teaspoon. Like, I mean, I’m pretty sure it’s a real silver teaspoon. “I know Marnye likes English breakfast with two lumps of sugar, and a generous dash of cream.” He grins, and winks at me, and for some reason, I blush.
“Tea?” Zayd asks, like he’s beyond confused. “The fuck would I want tea for?”
“Because it’s the nectar of the gods,” Windsor warns, frowning at Zayd. “If you’re a tea virgin, I know just the right profile to whet your appetite.”
“Uh, sure, whatever,” Zayd says, looking a bit skeptical. He still seems so uncomfortable in my room though the shame he carried around for the entirety of second year is gone. Our eyes meet, and I wonder if he’s thinking about that red dress I wore to the graduation gala. It’s still in my wardrobe, sparkly and pretty and in desperate need of another night out. “What are you going to tell Creed and Zack?” he asks, his voice tinny and unnatural. It’s such a different tone from his usual rockstar purr that it catches my attention.
“Why?” I ask, thinking about the end of first year. Part of me had really and truly believed we were going to be an item, that I could fall into his inked arms whenever I was having a hard day, that he’d kiss my hair and tell me everything was going to be okay. Now, I know he couldn’t break the Infinity Club bet, even if he’d wanted to, but … there must’ve been another way to handle that situation. He didn’t have to hurt me like that, break me, humiliate me. “Does my answer matter to you?”
Zayd exhales and looks up at the stone ceiling above us, reaching up and putting his palms over his face. His sleeves are pushed up like always, covered in rubber bracelets, and his jacket has little pins all over the lapels. A big one with the words Inked Pages and a watercolor guitar catches my attention. Underneath it, he’s got one with a snowboard on it that says Kings of Snow. Both of those names sound vaguely familial, but I’m not exactly a pop culture expert so the references escape me.
“Well?” I realize that I’m quivering slightly as I wait for his answer. I can’t decide if it’s because he smells so damn good—like geraniums, sage, and tobacco—or if it’s because he definitely added in some extra workouts over the summer. My eyes can’t stop tracing the rounded shape of the muscles in his upper arms, the way his inked skin ripples in his forearms as he drops his hands to his sides. “And don’t lie to me. I’m sick of being lied to. It doesn’t make me feel protected: it pisses me off.”
“You want me to be dead honest, huh?” he asks, dropping his head and looking right at me. My heart clenches tight, and I nod. Zayd steps forward and puts his beautiful tattooed hands on my hips. We’re standing so close together that I have to tilt my head back to look up at him. “I’m pissed-off.”
“Why?” It’s the only word I can manage, forcing myself to swallow past the tightness on my throat.