"I … no, it's fine," I say, pushing some strands of rose-gold away from my face. I smile to lighten the mood, but there's a tension between us that's been growing since … shit, I don't know, sometime last year? "Grab some pillows."
I turn and head back into the room, listening to the murmur of late night Comedy Central as I make up a little pillow fence between us. It's a tad juvenile, but I do it anyway.
Zack grins as he puts his pillow on the left side of the bed and climbs on, his big body denting the mattress. I suddenly find myself with sweaty palms, and a pounding heart.
"What are you waiting for?" he asks, reclining back in the pillows and crossing his arms behind his head. "Is my butt that scary?"
"I said funny, not scary," I mumble as I get on my side of the bed, and lay on top of the covers. It's a bit warm in here, so I don't feel the need to be under the blankets just yet. Neither does he apparently.
We sit in silence for a few minutes, watching a particularly raunchy episode of South Park together. It's one of the older ones where one of the main characters, Stan, pukes every time his crush, Wendy, looks at him. I feel that on a spiritual level. My crushes—all five of them, ahem—make me feel sick. But, like, in a really good way.
It's so confusing.
"You know … I thought by leaving you alone, I was doing the right thing," Zack says when a commercial starts up. Ugh, I'd forgotten how annoying commercials were. I use ad blocking apps on my phone, so I never have to look at them anymore.
I stay silent because I'm not sure what to say.
He turns over and leans on the pillow wall to look at me.
"But you wanted me to fight all along, huh?" I say nothing, but Zack just smiles. "Now that I know, I hope you're ready."
"Ready for what?" I ask, as he sits up and then puts his arms on either side of me, a cocksure smile on his face. I haven't given back his letterman jacket yet. To be quite honest, I love wearing it. I love his smell, that sporty scent that I recognize in an instant, but which always seems to present new notes. This time, I smell mint and nutmeg and lavender.
"For me to go hardcore," he says, reaching up and sliding his fingers along the side of my neck. A small moan escapes me before I can hold it back, and then Zack leans in. Just like I did with Creed, I kiss him like there are no boundaries, no barriers, nothing holding us back.
It feels so damn good, this refreshing surge of want without guilt. Well, okay, there might be a tiny bit of guilt, but I tell myself this is the last piece of my revenge clicking into place. I get to date these guys, explore my feelings for them, and I don't have to pick just yet. I don't have to choose.
Another moan escapes me, and I find my fingers digging into the muscles of Zack's back, pulling him into me, dragging him closer. He lets me grip onto him like that, even seems to like it. We adjust ourselves, so that I'm more or less lying down, and he's … more or less lying on top of me.
The weight of his body feels good, his skin hot and slick under my hands.
His right hand slides up my side, ruffling up my shirt, and I groan, wiggling underneath him. Creed's voice pops into my head: “Don’t wiggle like that; you’ll give me a hard-on.”
If I keep doing that, then Zack …
I adjust myself again, and he ends up between my thighs, his body hot and hard, and smelling so good. I slide my fingers down his back, scratching him with my nails, and he makes this growling sound that I can feel in my bones. My back arches up against him, pressing my breasts into his chest.
Our kissing actually slows down a little after a few minutes, dropping into this hot sensual rhythm. That's when I feel his hardness between my thighs, pressing up against his boxers. I'm fully aware of the fact that there's only two thin layers of fabric between us.
I put my palms between us, intending to push Zack back a bit, but end up getting this jolt of excitement when I feel his hard pecs, and the stiff points of his nipples. I make a small sound of pleasure, and he groans, reaching up to cup my breast through the soft, thin material of my shirt.
The pleasure is so intense that I throw my back into the pillows, breaking the kiss, panting hard. Zack moves his palm down to my bare waist, his skin hot and sweaty against mine, and then he slides up until he's dipping beneath the material of my shirt and cupping my bare breast.
The sound that breaks past my lips then is so foreign that I almost startle myself, shaking as Zack chuckles and nuzzles against my collarbone.
"If you're not quiet, you're going to wake up the rest of those jerks."
"Quiet?" I choke, forgetting the meaning of the word for a moment. Zack grins at me, dipping his head to my breast. When he takes my nipple into his mouth, I moan so loud that I'm positive someone else is going to hear me. The sensations though are so new, so overwhelming, I can hardly breathe.
Want and lust and need spiral through me, building in my core and unraveling until every inch of body is affected. I'm so suddenly so desperate for more that I don't know what to do with myself. Zack leans forward and his hardness brushes against the warmth of my core.
We both pause at the sound of a door opening, and I slip out from underneath him, landing on the floor on my knees.
I scramble to my feet, fixing my shirt, feeling my pulse pound.
Zayd pads into the living room area and opens the mini-fridge, pulling out a soda before he pauses and turns to look at me, standing there in my pj's in view of the door. I'm not sure he can see Zack though. His eyes stray to Zack's broken couch bed, and the pile of blankets on the floor, before he looks back at me.
"I knew I should've taken that fucking couch bed," he growls, popping the top on his soda as Zack rolls back to his side of the bed, one arm thrown across his eyes as he groans.
Zayd and I stare at each other for a long, hot moment, my eyes traveling down his tattooed muscular form. He, too, is shirtless, and my body throbs in response.
Crap.
Crap, crap, crap.
My mother lost her virginity young, and used sex as a tool and a weapon to get what she wanted. I never wanted to be like her, so I've held back, pushed the natural feelings inside of me down. But looking at Zayd's inked body, and then glancing back at a shirtless Zack, I wonder how much longer I'm really going to be able to stay sane.
"Maybe you should have," I whisper, and then I excuse myself to the bathroom, running the shower, and slipping into it. There's a need deep within me that's hard to place words to. I take care of it myself, then turn the shower to cold for one, last icy spritz, and then climb back into bed.
Zack's already asleep when I get back, but I'm pretty sure I see tissues in the trash can on his side.
We don't talk about what almost happened for quite some time after.
The Monday after our trip into town is Parents' Week.
Dad shows up as usual, but he's skinnier than when I last saw him, and he's definitely got less hair. That stresses me out to no end, but I push through the emotions, spending as much time with him as I can, having picnics in the gardens, inviting him to watch the cheerleading routine we've been working on, and letting him listen to the harp solo I've been practicing.
He gives the boys wary looks, but he doesn't say anything, and I do my best to show him that I'm doing okay here, that I'm happy.
We steer clear of the ex-Bluebloods and their families. It's not hard, considering I've got Kathleen Cabot around most of the time, making conversation with Dad, and generally putting up a barrier of don't mess with me vibes. The woman is a legend, and the richest person at the school. Nobody bothers her.
For the third year in a row, Zayd's dad doesn't come. He seems resigned to it at this point, but I make an effort to invite him to spend some time with me and Charlie. What's really interesting is that William Vanderbilt doesn't show up either. I would've thought he'd be here, harassing his son.
"He's probably thinking of the best way to punish me," Tristan says with a scowl, his hands tightening into fists. He stares toward the front of the property, gray eyes dark with anger. If William treated his son so poorly before, when he was more or less doing what he wanted, what's going to happen now?
My heart aches for Tristan, but I'm not sure what, exactly, I can do.
William Vanderbilt is a billionaire—or former billionaire if the rumors about the family's money running out are true—and I'm just a high school student with a notebook, a list of rules, and a crush.
On Friday, we attend the big game, and this time, I don't sabotage Zack, I cheer him on. He carries Burberry Prep to their greatest victory of the season, and a chance at the playoffs. When he comes off the field, all sweaty and streaked with dirt, throws his arms around me and kisses me in front of everyone, I let him.
That's how the rumors start.
By Halloween, they're full-blown.
"Your name, with the word slut, is scrawled all over the bathroom mirrors," Miranda says, chucking the lid of her shoe box against the wall in frustration. "I used the emergency line to report the graffiti, but Ms. Felton says the staff is already aware of it, and that they're actively working to clean it up. When I challenged her and said that, no, I was just in there, and they weren't, she told me that it's in every single student restroom on campus."
Miranda huffs, and throws back sheets of shiny white-blond hair over her shoulders. She's so mad that she's shaking.
I'm almost disturbingly calm, examining my outfit as it sparkles on the bed.
I'm going as bubblegum this year. Yep, literal chewing gum. Doesn't sound so glamorous until you see the pink sparkly dress, shimmery silver heels with little gum wrapper bows, and the fancy hair piece I made from craft supplies the boys and I gathered in town.
"Why aren't you freaking out about this?" she asks as Lizzie uses a flat-iron to straighten her curly hair. She decided to go as a banana, but like, a sexy banana because, come on, we've been over this before. Remember Mean Girls?