“Um, what?” I ask, as Miranda spins to me, smacking me in the face with her shiny blond hair. She almost smells like Creed, too. Is it weird that I notice that?
“That’s Zayd’s agent’s car,” she chokes out, pointing at it. “Before Ms. Felton collects our phones, look it up.” I pull my phone from my bookbag and do as she’s asking. Not that I need to, since I know exactly what’s going on. “This has your signature all over it,” she whispers, leaning in toward me as several staff members try to herd the students away from the courtyard. I glance up and our eyes meet. Miranda squeals, and I smile sheepishly.
All I did was upload Zayd’s conversation, and part of his song. That’s it.
His own words, however, are like a hole in the side of a ship, slowly filling with water. Zayd Kaiser is going to sink.
Son of Famous Rocker Billy Kaiser Rips on his Fans
That’s the first article that pops up. They didn’t even identify him by name in the headline, just by his dad’s accomplishments. Good. My brows go up as I keep scrolling.
Easy-to-Love Zayd Kaiser is Actually Full of Shit
Oh, I like that headline.
“Marnye,” Zack says, coming to stand beside us. His hair is still wet from his morning shower—he always makes time to shower after his morning run—but his uniform is in order, even if his tie is slightly crooked. “This is brilliant.”
The crowd parts and a hush falls over the gathered students as a man in a suit storms forward, a shaggy-haired guy in jeans close on his heels. Zayd is right there, trailing along behind him, his face crestfallen, his eyes wet with angry tears.
He follows the other two men down the steps to stand by the car, and they speak in hushed tones for several minutes before Zayd steps back and the others climb in and speed off.
“That was Billy Kaiser,” Miranda whispers in my ear. It’s pretty easy to tell, even without her confirming it. The way Zayd watches him, with this mix of hatred and yearning, he couldn’t be anyone else. After a moment, Zayd turns and heads back up the steps. At first, I think he’s going to walk on by, but then he stops and turns.
Our gazes met, and the crowd takes in a collective inhale as Zayd makes his way over to stand in front of me. His chest is heaving, and he’s soaked in sweat, his pale blue hair stuck to his forehead. There’s no gel in it this morning, no liner around his eyes. He looks like he wants to kill me.
“What have you done?” he snaps, but all I do is stand there and stare. I make myself remember my panties in his hand, that video of us kissing on the screen. The trophy, his face, the way he just stood there with his arm around freaking Becky Platter instead of me.
“Challenge accepted, met, and executed,” I say, and Zayd lets out this scream that’s strangely melodic. He was born to sing. Also born to be a dick, apparently. He reaches up and grabs his hair in two fists like he might be this close to having a nervous breakdown.
Zack steps up next to me, crossing his arms over his massive chest, like he’s a bodyguard or something.
“You do not fucking intimidate me,” Zayd hisses, sneering. “You’re no angel, Zack Brooks. Eventually, Marnye will see it, and she’ll dump you for someone like me.” This last part snaps off his tongue like an insult before he spins away and storms through the crowd, elbowing people out of the way as he goes.
My list is in the front pocket of my bag, so I pull it out, unfold it, and enjoy the squeak of the red Sharpie in the silence of the courtyard.
It feels so good to cross Zayd’s name off my list.
Tristan is a tricky little Idol to pin down. I almost feel like he’s actively avoiding me which makes zero sense, considering all the threats he’s leveled my way.
So my next step is sitting down with Miranda and going over exactly what happened in the Hamptons during the summer. According to her—and she is the gossip queen—Lizzie Walton declared war on the Burberry Prep Idols. Tristan, in particular, was on the receiving end of her wrath.
“She did it all for you, I think,” Miranda hazards, but even though I’ve sort of forgiven Zack, how can I deal with Lizzie? What can I do to get back at her that will even the odds? But contacting her is probably the best chance I have at finding some way to get under Tristan’s skin. I mean, I’m still kicking his ass in the academics department, but I did that last year, too. It’s not enough, not even close.
Besides, I won’t admit it aloud, but … I miss Lizzie. Every Friday, I looked forward to our conversations. Burberry Prep life feels much emptier without her.
“She’s still in love with him, too,” Miranda adds with a wistful, sad sounding sigh. “She’s going to marry that douche guy, what’s-his-face, the one that always adjusts his junk and licks his lips while he does it? Anyway, she’s going to marry him, but it’s going to be Tristan she’s dreaming about on her wedding night.”
“Do you think he still loves her?” I ask, an idea taking place in the back of my mind. Even though I know it’s ridiculous, I wait with bated breath for Miranda to answer my question.
“Definitely,” she says, and it’s like an arrow’s just gone through my heart. Doesn’t make any sense. As soon as I saw Tristan look at Lizzie Walton last year, I knew it, too. Everyone knows it. He never loved me. How could he? It was a game all along. Although Zack … Nope. I shut that part of my brain down and refuse to go there. Dating Zack won’t work, not with the plans I already have in mind. “Why? You want to share a room with him on the ski trip or something?” Miranda chuckles, and I wrinkle my nose. “Are you jealous?”
“Gross,” I laugh, pushing at her as she pushes back at me. “I’m not going on the ski trip.” Miranda blinks stupidly at me. Instead of the winter formal, second-years are given the option to attend an academy-sponsored ski trip. The cars leave the last Friday before winter break, and drop students at their houses (or the airport) on Tuesday which is Christmas Eve.
“You have to go on the ski trip,” she groans, putting her forehead down on the picnic table. We’re sitting outside, enjoying the icy morning and the bright rays of sunshine that make the frost evaporate like fog. “It’s a rite of passage.”
“The last time you used that phrase on me, you dragged me to that beach party.”
“And you had fun, despite the assholes in residence, right?” she asks, lifting her head up from the table. I sigh, and Miranda smiles softly. “I know you want to get back home to your dad, but it’s just a few days.” I give her a skeptical look, tapping my fingers on the table. “Oh, at least think about, Ms. Revenge. But factor this in, at least: there’s so much cheating and fooling around on the ski trip that it’s now academy legend to call the lodge Hookup Point.” She grins at me as I raise my eyebrows. “Do you see how messed-up Jalen and Ebony still are from the journal? Come on the ski trip, and I guarantee you’ll find some dirt worth digging up.”
“After some careful consideration …” I begin, and Miranda squeals with laughter, giving me a huge hug. From the corner of my eye, I see Creed watching us and flip him off.
His sister would rather be with me than with him.
He smirks at me as he rounds the corner, and I see then that he’s got Anna Kirkpatrick on his arm.
Hmm.
Fine. Challenge accepted is right.
“I’ll go,” I tell Miranda, watching Anna carefully.
If she’s not messing around with one of the other Bluebloods, I’ll be shocked.
Loyalty isn’t exactly in their DNA.
The door to the music room opens, and Zayd walks in, surprising me. He's got his fingers tucked into the pockets of his wrinkled white academy slacks. His jacket is nowhere to be seen, and his tie is loose and flipped over his right shoulder. With the sleeves rolled up, I can see two muscular arms wrapped in ink.
My fingers pause in their dance across the harp strings, putting an end to the harp solo from Donizetti's opera Lucia di Lammermoor. I sit back in my chair and watch him warily as he approaches. Mr. Carter is in his attached office with the door closed, so nothing truly bad can happen here. I cross my arms over my chest and wait.
Oddly enough, one of the things I miss most from last year is having Tristan attend my orchestra practices. Having him sit in one of the back rows, fingers steepled, eyes locked on me … There was an intensity in him that transferred to my music. I feel like I played better when he was around.
Zayd comes all the way down the steps of the auditorium and pauses next to the raised platform in the front. I’d call it a stage, but it's only ever used for teachers giving lectures. No performances actually happen here.
“Is this how you got me?” he asks, reaching up to rake his fingers through his pale blue hair. He looks around the room like he's never seen it before. But I know he's in here all the time. That look of sweet, mussy confusion is bullshit, just like all his other expressions. Zayd plays charming very, very well. “Eavesdropped outside this door and fucked me?”
“All I did was upload your own words to one website.” I hold up a single finger. “One.” His green eyes meet my brown ones, and I can't deny that there's chemistry between us. There’s always chemistry between us, whether I want to admit it or not. His being a jerk doesn't change that. “If you hadn't said those things, then they wouldn’t be around to haunt you.”
I lift my hands back to the strings of the harp, and get ready to play again, dismissing him. He doesn't go anywhere though, just sits down to watch and listen. I play through three songs before I realize he's not going away, dropping my hands to my lap and glaring.
“What do you want?” I ask, and Zayd smiles tightly. He uses his tongue and plays with his lip rings for a moment before responding.
“I have to admit,” he says, tapping inked fingers on the arm of the chair, “you’ve got bigger balls than I thought.”
I frown at him.