“It’s a pajama party,” Zayd says, and I notice then that he’s barefoot and wearing shorts, and a loose tank that shows off all of his tattoos. He’s also smoking a clove cigarette that I deftly pluck from his lips, tap out against the stone floor, and chuck into the nearest trash can.
“You all really are wearing pajamas,” I say as I study Tristan’s crisp black satin pajama set with the subtle white pinstripe, and the stuffy slippers that look like suede loafers. Creed’s got on white linen pj pants, and nothing else—no shirt, no shoes. Zack’s in loose-fitting boxers and an old football jersey, and Windsor’s seriously dressed up in flannel pj’s with penguins on them.
Penguins.
Cartoon freaking penguins.
“Are you sure you’re a prince?” I ask him, and he pauses, reaching into the bag on his shoulder and pulling out two plastic gold crowns. He puts one on my head, and then places the other atop his flaming red hair.
“I wasn’t until just now,” he says, hazel eyes glittering with mischief. “But with my princess by my side, and the royal jewels safely ensconced”—he grabs his crotch and I roll my eyes while the other boys scowl—“in these gorgeous robes of state, I’m now positive: I am absolutely not king material. Prince, I can do. Princes get to frolic and fuck and crash yachts into harbors.” I almost stop walking at the frank way he’s just blurted his truth. But then I look a little closer, and I see darkness and shadows dancing behind his mask of cheerful, carefree wonder. Windsor York is hurting on the inside. What’s wrong, exactly, I don’t know, but I want to find out. “Anyway,” he continues, blowing past the emotions, “I’m perfectly suited to be a prince, but never a king. Perhaps that’s why I enjoy scandals so much? All the attention makes me giddy.”
He hooks his arm with mine, and our little group makes its way to the library.
The cavernous ceilings, the towering columns of books, and the cozy glow from the lamps invites us in, but when I look around, I notice that all the librarians are missing.
“Skeleton staff on-campus right now,” Zayd says, swinging around a huge ring full of keys. “And I pilfered the master key, so we’re golden. We’ve got this place all to ourselves.” He holds his inked arms out to indicate the massive library. “Beauty, your library awaits.”
I grin as I follow Tristan and Creed deeper into the rows of novels, the fresh scent of ink and paper surrounding us.
A thought occurs to me.
“Were you the one who stole the keys to my locker, and my dorm room during first year?” I ask, and Zayd cringes. He glances back at me with an apology in his emerald eyes.
“What can I say? I’m a fucking prick.” He pauses and waits for me to catch up to him, reaching down and taking one of my hands in his. Zayd gives it a little squeeze and then lifts my knuckles to his lips for a kiss, his lip rings teasing my skin with a little tickle. “I’m sorry, Charity, I really am.”
“I’ve forgiven you, Zayd,” I tell him, looking into his eyes and getting lost there. “Just don’t disappoint me again, okay?” He pulls me toward him, and lifts me in his arms as I laugh, carrying me over to a ring of white candles.
The boys have pushed aside one of the study tables, and set up a circle with candles and pillows. There are several bottles of alcohol gathered there, the liquid glowing a deep amber brown in the candlelight. Tristan takes a seat beside it, and I notice there are exactly six cushions laid out for us.
“We skipped the rest of the Club party,” he says, voice smooth, a Lucullan feast for the ears. “We’ve accomplished what we needed to.”
“And it was oh-so fun,” Creed adds, sprawling onto his own pillow. He looks boneless, the way he lounges.
“If the Company didn’t want to deal with a firestorm, they shouldn’t have shot the first bullet,” Zack growls, and that darkness I remember from junior high comes rushing back in. His brown eyes are heavy-lidded, and as I watch, he rakes his fingers through his brunette hair. There’s something going on between him, his dad, and his grandfather. That much is obvious. I mean, the family was completely cut-off from funds and Zack was sent to Lower Banks High with me. It doesn’t get much worse than that. What kind of man would force his grandson into a school that breeds gang members, dropouts, and assholes?
Okay, so I guess Burberry Prep is a breeding ground for assholes, too, but still.
This time, though, when I see Zack’s darkness rush to the surface, I don’t cringe away from it the way I did when he started to tear Ileana down in the gym. No, this time I watch it happen and I wonder what I can do to help
“From now on, I'll try to be a better man. It wasn't Marnye’s job to teach me how to be one, but she already has anyway.”
It might not be my job, but I want to help Zack. I want to help all of these boys. And maybe that’s a problem. Reforming a bad boy, changing a bully, those are pretty lofty ideals. In the real world, it doesn’t often go right. But these guys are my friends now, they’re … I’ve forgiven them. I really have.
It’s freeing in a way, that forgiveness. And it’s cathartic somehow, to find out that they really are human on the inside. They have wants and needs, pleasures and pains, faults and heroisms. Basically … they’re just people.
Zayd sets me down on my own cushion and takes up the one on my right. I’m waxing poetic yet again. Must be all the hormones.
Yep.
That’s it.
The fucking hormones.
“We thought you might like a game of truth or dare,” Zack says, turning to look at me, scanning me with that soulful umber gaze of his, taking me in. “Like an Infinity Club party, but without all the bullshit.”
“Rules still apply though,” Zayd says with a grin, gesturing at Tristan with an inked hand that’s covered in rings, and a wrist full of rubber bracelets from past concerts. “No chickening out. No fucking way. Now pass me the rum.”
Tristan pours a generous helping of alcohol into a red plastic cup (it wouldn’t be a party without them!) and then passes it around the circle until it makes its way to Zayd. Everyone else gets their drink of choice: vodka for Creed, a beer for Zack, gin for Windsor, and cognac for Tristan. Seems appropriate. That’s how I think of his voice, nice and smooth and velvety. I’ve never had it, but I’ve heard Dad go off on tangents before.
The boys have brought me a bunch of cold drinks, all non-alcoholic, and I smile. They never forget, and I appreciate that.
“Once you empty that beer, Zack,” Zayd says, his husky rockstar voice echoing around the quiet library. “We can play spin the bottle. But only if Marnye is the one who’s spinning it. I’m not kissing any of you assholes.”
“You will if we play a round of truth or dare,” I say with a smile. Zayd glances over at me and raises his pierced brow, grinning all the while.
“Word on the street is you like gay romance novels,” he says with a chuckle, and I flush.
“I read the occasional boys’ love manga, but that’s about it.”
“Don’t let her fool you: those things are practically porn,” Creed drawls, still lying on his side, his elbow propping his head up. “Anal sex, blow jobs, plenty of cum. Buckets of it, really.”
“You’re as crass as your sister,” I choke out, unscrewing the top on a bottle of tropical juice. Pineapple, I think it is. Nice and tangy.
“So you like to read your porn instead of watch it?” Zack asks with a deep chuckle, the sound reverberating through me. “Makes things easier on campus, that’s for sure. Fuck the no phone rule.”
“I’ve been working on cracking that shit since day one. I mean, I’ve figured out how to sneak a phone in, but I swear there’s literally no service out here, and the Wi-fi is locked down hard. They’re freaking Nazis about that shit.” Zayd lies down on his stomach, his cup already emptied, and pillows his head on his hands.
“I’ve got a satellite phone,” Windsor says, unbuttoning the top two buttons on his stupid penguin pajamas. His stupid penguin pajamas that I actually really like. “It doesn’t exactly run apps, but I can make calls. That’s as far as I’ve gotten.”
“It’s because of my mother,” Creed says, still lounging, draped over his cushion like a languid doll. “She helped Principal Collins set up the closed network. Unless you’re a tech genius like her, you’re not getting in. Say goodbye to weekday Facebook posts while you’re at Burberry.”
“Good thing Marnye’s got her porn in print then,” Tristan adds, smirking at me. I throw the cap to my juice across the circle, but he just catches it in his palm like it’s nothing. “I prefer … to actually fuck, instead of watching porn. Although I’ll be the first to admit: I’ve had a bit of a dry spell lately.”
“There’s also Kleenex and Jergens,” Zack says mildly, and I flush, thinking about that trash can full of tissues at the B&B. Ugh, how embarrassing. At least I know I wasn’t the only person who touched myself that night.
“Oh, trust me, I’ve got toys in my rooms. Better than tissues and lotion. But they don’t help, not when Marnye’s around.”
“Tristan, shut up,” I blurt, but he just keeps smiling at me in that not-quite-so-nice way of his.
“Let’s start a game,” he murmurs, his voice a seductive song. “Let’s play truth or dare. I’ll go first. Marnye.” Hah. Of course Tristan wants to go first, and of course he’s looking right at me. “Truth or dare.”
“Truth,” I whisper, because I’m afraid to see what sort of dare he’ll level my way. Frankly, I should probably be afraid of what he’s going to ask me for truth, too, but I figure it’s the lesser of two evils. Tristan chuckles and shakes his head, raven-black hair falling across his forehead in shimmering strands.
“Marnye, Marnye, Marnye, that’s the easy way out.” Tristan is sitting nice and straight still, his legs folded underneath him, hands clasped in his lap. I’d love to see him let go for once, get messy. “But okay. Truth: are you really a virgin?”