“You deserve it, every single scrap of it,” I tell him, pulling back a few inches, like I’m afraid he’s going to strike out at me. Zack stands up suddenly and tears his jersey over his head, dumping his shoulder pads to the floor with a growl.
When he turns to me, he’s shirtless and sweaty and glorious.
Too bad I hate him.
“You’re right,” he blurts suddenly, and my eyes go wide with shock.
“Ex-excuse me?”
Zack takes several steps towards me and pauses, swiping his palm down his face.
“You’re right. Marnye, you’re right.” He drops his hands by his sides, and it’s freaking impossible for me not to notice how muscular his arms are, how rounded his biceps, how flat his chest. My breath hitches as he takes a step forward, and I cross my arms over my chest to keep myself in check. Zack’s eyes drop down to my waist, and his brows go up. When he reaches out to me, my heart stops in my chest. He takes the edge of my skirt and with a little tug, pulls me forward. His fingers dive under my waistband, searing me with wicked hot heat and dragging my waistband down just far enough that he can see my tattoo.
He lets out a long string of curses, his voice so dark it’s almost scary.
“Marnye, what is this?”
“The Infinity Club,” I start, sucking in a deep breath and puffing out my chest. I wish he’d take his fingers away. It feels good for him to touch me like that, and that’s the last thing I want. I won’t let myself get soft on these guys. There’s nothing sexy or cool or endearing about being an asshole. If this were a bully romance, well, I’d probably end up marrying Miranda because I just don’t abide by bullies. “They’re going to learn that they can’t treat people like collateral damage.”
Zack rubs his knuckles against my tattoo, and curses again before lifting his eyes to mine.
“You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into,” he whispers, and I purse my lips. I know that, and yet … I can’t seem to control myself. These rich a-holes need to learn that a person is a person, no matter the size of their bank account. There’s no such thing as Social Darwinism or royalty or Idols, it’s all a façade, a bunch of bullshit that lets certain people get a free pass for throwing away their humanity. “You don’t have the resources or the insider knowledge to take down the club.”
“I don’t—” I start, and Zack leans in toward me, so close that I can see his pulse thundering in his throat, can trace the beads of sweat running down his muscular chest.
“But I do,” he says, and his eyes fall to my lips. My body trembles as his huge form towers over me, his knuckles stroking my tattoo. Damn hormones. He leans in a little bit closer. “I can help you, Marnye.”
“I’m never going to fall for you,” I blurt, but my eyes can’t seem to look anywhere but the thickness of his lower lip. “Never.”
“Good,” he whispers, closing his eyes and putting his forehead against mine. He’s sweaty, but I don’t care. My palms somehow end up on the flat planes of his chest, my fingertips curling against his damp, hot skin. “Because I’m in love with you, even though I know I’m not good enough for you.” My heart stops in my chest, and my eyes go wide. My gaze transfers from his lips to his eyes, and it stays there; I can’t look away. Zack puts his left hand over one of mine, pressing my skin against his. His right hand continues to stroke my tattoo. “You want to know why I’m helping you? Now you know. But you’ll never be with me, and that’s okay. Because I’m not enough for you. I’m the kind of person who tries to make a girl kill herself to get into some stupid club. All I want to do is try to make up for it, even if takes me the rest of my life.”
“Shut up,” I whisper, but he just leans in even closer and puts his lips right up against mine. I can taste him now, right there on my mouth. I flick my tongue out and we both groan as I trace his lower lip. “I don’t trust you, and I don’t believe you. Whatever you have to say, it’s all bullshit to me.”
“Good,” he repeats, his mouth moving against mine. “Maybe someday, you’ll forgive me and we can be friends. Until then, let me help you.”
I’m panting; he’s panting.
We’re sharing breaths.
After a moment, Zack turns his head slightly to one side, and I follow his gaze.
The Idols—all six of them—are standing there watching us.
Tristan’s face is hard, dead, cold. Creed’s hands are curled into fists at his sides, belying the bored, lazy expression in his half-lidded eyes. Zayd, he’s just scowling openly, even as he’s holding hands with Becky. It’s so clear in their gazes how much they all hate Zack. Despise him, even. Looking back on that day at the lake, I can see things as they really are. Hindsight is twenty-twenty, and all that.
They didn’t tell me about Zack and Lizzie because they cared about me.
They told me about Zack and Lizzie to hurt me. And hurt me they did.
I turn back to Zack.
“Let me kiss you,” he whispers, and I realize then that I’m trembling. I’ve just destroyed this guy’s football career, lost the big game for the academy, maybe even sent Zack running back to Lower Banks High. And yet … “Let me help you, and I’ll only go as far as you’ll let me. We can take down the Infinity Club together.”
“Pretend to date you?” I ask, and he shrugs his big shoulders, his favored response to every question.
“Or just fucking kiss me.”
My heartrate picks up speed, and a bead of sweat works its way between my breasts, tickling my skin. Zack moves his hand and tugs up the waistband of my skirt to hide my tattoo. He grabs hold of my hip then and pulls my body against him. Before I can think too hard about it, my hands are sliding up his chest and curling around his neck.
Our mouths clash together in a rush of heat and desperation and need.
It feels so good that it almost hurts.
Zack’s mouth is warm and soft, and he tastes like cherry Gatorade. He wraps his left arm around me and lifts me up against him, his tongue teasing mine, taking control of the kiss without being domineering. I tell myself I’m only doing it because they’re watching. That’s what I tell myself, anyway. On the inside, I’m melting.
“Well, well, it’s the Working Girl doing what she does best,” Harper sneers, but I barely hear her. I’m so wrapped up in Zack’s big, strong arms, in the taste of his hot mouth on mine. Even if I hate him, even if I’ve just gotten him expelled … this feels too good.
And if it hurts the Bluebloods, then that’s just the cherry on top.
We stumble back into the wall, but I know I can’t let this go any further.
Zack must know it, too, because he pulls back and rests his forehead against mine for a moment. Both of us just breathe, slow in and outs. We’re both trembling, even as he moves away from me and picks up his discarded jersey and pads.
I don’t look at the Bluebloods as I fix my uniform and brush my palm over my hair before exchanging a look with Zack. He gives me a grim smile before heading into the locker room, and I turn back for the field.
“Fucking whore,” Becky snarls as I pass, but I just pause and smile at her.
“Takes one to know one,” I say, and then I’m sweeping past and heading back for the cluster of cheerleaders in their black, red, and white uniforms. I know I’m going to have to talk to Dad after about Zack, but that can wait.
For now, I dance.
Revenge On The Bluebloods of Burberry Prep
A list by Miranda Cabot Marnye Reed
The Idols (guys): Tristan Vanderbilt (year one two), Zayd Kaiser (year one two), and Creed Cabot (year one two)
The Idols (girls): Harper du Pont (year one two), Becky Platter (year one two), and Gena Whitley (year four) (graduated), Ileana Taittinger (year one)
The Inner Circle: Andrew Payson, Anna Kirkpatrick, Myron Talbot, Ebony Peterson, Gregory Van Horn, Abigail Fanning, John Hannibal, Valentina Pitt, Sai Patel, Mayleen Zhang, Jalen Donner … and, I guess, me! Kiara Xiao, Ben Thresher
Plebs: everyone else, sorry. XOXO
Zack Brooks
Halloween is on a Thursday this year which makes partying difficult, especially with all the Bluebloods—and Zack—restricted to the Burberry Prep campus. According to school gossip, there’s going to be a party Friday night at the cemetery. Technically, that is on campus, so there’s less risk of being discovering.
“I’m over the ‘slutty’ theme,” Miranda says, flipping through a magazine as we sit in The Mess and binge on a colorful stack of macarons. “For Halloween, I mean. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, I just … feel like I’d rather go as a giant bowl of popcorn than a sexy kitty, sexy firefighter, sexy nurse, or sexy warthog.”
“Warthog?” I choke, pounding on my chest with a fist and raising a brow. Miranda throws her head back and laughs, the sound like the tinkling of bells. I notice Jessie Maker watching her and biting her lower lip. Those two … “Whoever dressed as a sexy warthog?”
“Academy legend says that in the nineties, when The Lion King first came out, that Ms. Felton came to school dressed as a sexy warthog, in furry panties, a furry bra, and tusks. The yearbook from that year is missing from the library which totally makes me think it’s true.” She stuffs a pink cookie in her mouth and presents me and Jessie with the glossy page of the magazine.
Ah, print is still alive and well on the Burberry Prep campus, particularly between Monday morning when we hand in our phones, and Friday evening when we get them back. Of course, I snuck a burner phone in here by hiding it in a box of tampons (of which I carefully used glue to reseal the flap so it looked unopened). I’m sure I’m not the only student to have thought of that.
I examine the costume—it’s a giant bowl of popcorn made out of papier-mâché that’s totally not going to work considering Halloween is tomorrow—but it’s cute.