“Please open the gate,” I repeat, and the girl laughs at me, moving away to stand next to the brick pillar on the left, tossing her hair perfectly, and then giggling at something one of the guys says. The other asshole, Ileana’s older brother apparently, snorts and flips us off before sauntering back to the group. With a sigh, I put the Lambo in reverse and pretend like I’m leaving.
I’m not.
“Marnye …” Andrew begins, just before I put the car back in drive, and slam my foot on the gas. With the squeal of tires and the stink of burnt rubber, we shoot forward and smash through the gate. It’s not locked, so it opens easily, the metal flying back and smashing into the bricks. The kids gape at us as we roll across the lawn and park next to the dozens of other fancy cars already there.
I take note of Zayd’s, Creed’s, and Tristan’s cars before I climb out and lock the doors, tucking the keys in my bra. Andrew’s still gaping at me, and Miranda’s grinning, just barely resisting the urge to hop up and down. Okay, so, maybe she jumps up and down a little. Jessie just raises her eyebrows and whistles in surprise.
“Okay, who are you, and what have you done with the Marnye Reed I know?” Miranda asks as the group from the gate storms across the yard towards me. I ignore them, toss my hair (poorly, I might add), and head for the front porch and the crowd of gawping students.
Zayd’s right there in the thick of it, a beer in one hand, his mouth open, his green eyes tracking me as I make my way toward the front door.
“Hey!” the Taittinger guy shouts, pounding up the steps to cut me off. His ugly face is twisted in a sneer, and I’m pretty sure he’s about ten seconds from putting his hands on me. The bitchy first year girl is right behind him, taking up on his left like a sentinel.
“You fucking bitch!” she snarls, and it’s pretty disturbing to see such a hateful expression on her baby face. I look at them both with a so what? expression before glancing over at Andrew and smiling softly.
“I’m sorry about the car, but there doesn’t even seem to be a scratch. Your family makes quality vehicles, I have to say.” He stares at me for a second, blinking past the shock, and then grins.
“I guess we do.”
“Shut your mouth, faggot,” Taittinger sneers, stepping close to Andrew. He seems a bit tentative about hitting a girl, but I’m worried for Andrew.
“Back off of him, Craig!” Miranda shouts, just as much a Blueblood as she ever was. No, no, more of a Blueblood than she was before. She’s practically regal in that cream colored dress of hers, like a princess. Or maybe even a queen. “If you touch him, I’ll kill you.”
“Yeah?” Craig sneers, shoving Andrew in the chest with a palm. Andrew stumbles back, nostrils flaring, but he holds his ground. Miranda is there in an instant, despite Jessie’s attempts to pull her back. She throws herself at Craig Taittinger, and he raises a fist. I’m ready to step in if I’m wrong, but …
A pale hand clamps onto his wrist and jerks him back so hard that he stumbles, falling into a heap on the porch. A crowd’s gathered around now, as Creed looks down at Ileana’s brother with a face so full of darkness that I barely recognize him.
“Were you thinking about touching my sister?” he whispers, his voice like jagged sheets of ice, as sharp as glass and freezing cold. They can cut to bleed and poison the flesh with frostbite, all at once. “Are you fucking kidding me?” Creed puts his foot on Taittinger’s throat, and the crowd gasps in shock. Me, I’ve got my phone recording and nobody knows it.
He’s just protecting his sister, I think, but I banish the thought, remembering the impassive way he stared at me while I was humiliated, remembering my panties clutched in his hand. He threw them at me like he was tossing trash at a stray dog.
“Lay off, Cabot,” the first year girl snaps, her hands curled into fists. “These idiots rushed the gate. Craig was just trying to help.”
“By hitting my sister?” Creed Cabot says, his voice sending a chill down my spine. I remember the way he tore Derrick Barr up with words last year, and then proceeded to flip him off the deck into the weeds. Scary. “And what did I say about homophobic garbage? I won’t stand for it.” He pushes his feet even harder into Craig’s throat, and I feel this little twinge inside of me. I’m not a proponent of violence, but … Creed’s message is a good one. Still, I keep recording. “Leave them alone.”
“But the Working Girl—” the first year chick sputters, and Creed’s eyes, normally half-lidded and lazy, snap up to her, sharp with rage. She retreats back a few steps and pinches her glossy red lips closed. A moment later, Tristan appears in the doorway with Ileana on his arm. She’s giggling and flirting until she sees her brother on the ground.
“Craig!” She pushes away from Tristan and stumbles forward, knocking Creed out of the way in her frenzy. As he bumps into me, my hand sneaks into his pocket and fishes out his keys. They’re in my own pocket before he realizes who he’s just bumped into, turning to look at me. He’s panting with rage, but he quickly closes his eyes, takes several deep breaths, and banishes the emotion. When he opens them back up, they’re the same lazy, insouciant eyes I’m used to.
As he stares at me, I lean down and switch out my flats for the heels he bought me last year, the ones with the gold moon and silver star designs.
“What do you think you’re doing here?” Tristan asks as Craig pushes up to his feet, choking and glaring at Creed. A good fourth of the crowd actually seems to be sympathetic towards him. Nice. This should have been my seventh rule: Create a divide between the Plebs and the Bluebloods. Craig Taittinger, as haughty and arrogant as he is, is still nothing but a Plebeian in the Burberry Prep social scene.
“Me?” I ask, sauntering up to Tristan and putting my hands on the front of his wool jacket. I trail them down, palms flat, as Tristan’s blade gray gaze narrows. I know what I look like, dripping diamonds, wearing a tight, gold dress and heels. A whole summer of working out and preparing myself for this moment, and it shows. I’m still curvy, but my body is much tighter. He can see it, I know he can. God, this is so weird, I think as I curl my fingers around the edges of his pockets. As far as I can tell, there are no keys inside.
I’ll have to look elsewhere.
“I’m here to party.” I push Tristan back, and he stumbles. But only because he’s not expecting the move. As Zayd watches us, still gaping, his eyes following me inside the door, I take off for the drink table and pour myself a beer. No way in hell I’m going to actually drink it, but when I see Harper du Pont glaring at me from across the crowd, I lift my cup in salute and pretend to take a chug. She sneers at me, but I just smile, waiting for Andrew, Miranda, and Jessie to catch up with me.
“What was that all about?” Miranda gasps, looking at me like she’s never seen me before. “Was that part of your revenge plot?”
“It just happened,” I say, which is true. It did. But there are certain ways to play this game, tips and tricks to set the Idols versus the Inner Circle, the Plebs versus the Bluebloods. When Harper’s gaze is safely averted, I dump my beer in the sink and fill the cup with water. Next time she looks, I really do chug the entire cup in one go, getting a few stray cheers from some first years who don’t quite know who I am yet.
“Well, that was scary,” Miranda says, exhaling and running her hands down the front of her dress. “Jessie, drink? I know I could use one.” Miranda starts mixing up two cocktails in red plastic cups while I peek out the back door and see, surprisingly, that the pool isn’t in use. It’s covered up with a tarp, but there’s water pooled on the top along with heaps of dead leaves, weighing it down so that it sags into the pool water. As surreptitiously as I can, I refill my cup.
I look back at Andrew.
“What are you planning?” he asks me, and I shrug. I’m sort of playing things by ear. I mean, I have a list, but … this is much better, this new idea I’m cooking up. “What do you need from me?”
“Can you help me find Tristan’s and Zayd’s keys?” I ask, and he raises both brows before Zayd pops into the kitchen and interrupts us. It’s awkward as hell when he pauses next to me and sighs, holding a beer bottle in his tattooed right hand. He clears his throat and tosses his chin in the direction of the living room.
“Beat it, Payson,” he says, and Andrew frowns, but exchanges a quick look with me before heading in the direction of the staircase. I’m hoping he’s off to find Tristan’s keys. I turn my attention to Zayd. He returns my stare with a hard one of his own, his hand tightening even harder around the bottle. The motion makes his tattoos look like they’re liable to slide right off his skin like stickers. “Marnye, come on, what are you doing here?”
“I’m partying,” I say, tipping the drink to my lips and swallowing a huge mouthful. Zayd raises his pierced brow at me, teasing his right lip ring with his tongue. He’s painfully beautiful, especially with that silver-gray hair of his. It’s spiked up with gel, and as I watch, he reaches up to tease it with his fingers.
“Did you think last year was a joke? It was a warm-up session, Marnye. You shouldn’t be here.”
“So you keep saying,” I retort, taking another sip of my water. Zayd frowns hard, and tips his beer back. Irresistible by Fall Out Boy and Demi Lovato comes on, and I smile. I don’t know a lot of pop songs, but this is one of Miranda’s favorites. She puts it on a lot when we’re getting ready. “But what are you going to do about it? Is there a medal for destroying me a second time, something to hang up beside your trophy?”
Zayd just stares at and then chucks his beer into the sink. When he steps forward suddenly, I’m so surprised that I move back, my butt bumping into the counter. He puts a hand on either side of me, effectively penning me in. I can smell him now, that sweet tobacco and cloves scent that had me swooning last year. Then I remember that he brought a camera into my room to film us while we made out.