“Look at you,” Zack growls when I step out and find him in his black jersey, the number 60 printed on the front. He doesn’t even need shoulder pads to make him look big and broad. He curves a muscular arm around my waist and pulls me close. “I’ve never seen you look so damn hot.”
“Uh-uh.” I put my palms on his chest and push him back just enough to look him over. He really is beautiful, his hair like dark chocolate, his eyes just as decadent, his body hard and toned to perfection. He’s certainly come a long way from the bully of Lower Banks Middle School, now hasn’t he? “So you have a thing for cheerleaders, huh? Good to know. I’ll have to keep an eye on you.”
Zack looks me over, eyes staring at the intertwined black and red ‘V’ shapes on the top of my uniform, the white background, the Burberry Prep crest in the center of my chest. The arms are long, patterned with black and red, and the skirt is a super mini in white, no pleats this time, just a small ‘V’ cutout on one side, and more black and red stripes along the hem. Underneath, I have on bloomers—aka spanky pants, but like eww, I’m not about to call them that—ankle socks, and brand-new sneakers.
The whole uniform costs like six hundred bucks, but extracurricular activities are covered by the Cabot Scholarship Award, so I’m covered. Of course … I could probably ask any one of my boyfriends to help me out with costs, but the thought just makes me sick.
I’m not dating them for their money, and I refuse to take advantage of it. Even Windsor purchasing Dad’s house has left me feeling uncomfortable. Charlie doesn’t even know about it, and I don’t know how to tell him. All he knows is that the house sold, and that our current landlord has briefly suspended rent payments …
Zack cups my face in one, big hand and looks at me from heavy-lidded eyes.
“There’s only one cheerleader I have my eye on,” he says, his mouth curving into a sharp smile. “Well, I’m only checking out one cheerleader, I should say. There are a few others that I’m watching in a different way.” He pauses, and I know we’re both thinking about the Harpies. Most of them are on the team with me: Mayleen, Abigail, Kiara, and Ileana. They’re trying to start a trend on campus, calling themselves the Reigning Royals. I’ve heard it whispered a few times here and there, but I hear the term Harpies just as often.
“Don’t worry about them,” I say, taking his hand and letting him walk me to class. The game isn’t until this evening, but the academy is trying to drum up some school spirit by having us wear our uniforms during the day. I don’t mind it, especially not with the way everyone looks at me as I walk the halls. I’m not the Working Girl anymore, not to the majority of the students. They watch me with respect … and maybe a little bit of fear.
Zack drops me off at my math class where Tristan’s waiting, and everything seems to be going just fine until we step into the hallway after and find Harper and her friends waiting. I’m sad to see that Isabella is with them, too, and wearing a cheer uniform. She's on the JV team though, so hers isn’t a midriff. Instead it’s similar to the one I wore during second year.
“Look, it’s the charity cases,” Harper says, tilting her head to one side, blue eyes gleaming. Everyone but her and Becky is dressed in a cheerleading uniform, and they’re all watching me very, very carefully. “Do you need some lunch money?” Harper’s new red hair slithers over her shoulder like a snake, and my eyes narrow.
“No bullying allowed at my school,” I tell her, before Tristan can even open his mouth. I don’t need to tell you how unusual that really is, considering he’s so used to being king. “Not toward me, Tristan, or anyone else.” I step forward, filling the space between us, and then I turn, reaching down to grab Tristan’s hand. “Let’s go. I’m not feeding her fire anymore.”
“Doesn’t it strike you as odd that your own sister’s standing against you?” Harper says as I try to pull Tristan away. He’s glued to the spot though, determined to stand his ground. He’s a man used to taking the offensive in most situations. The key here, however, is to play it neutral. “I mean, what does that say about you if even your own family is disgusted?” Harper walks around and comes to stand in front of me, putting her hands on her hips. She looks a bit like a witch with that bloodred hair and all black uniform. Then again, maybe that’s a little insulting to witches? “Or do you think it’s because your sister is so ashamed at the fact that her father isn’t actually Adam Carmichael, CEO and heir to a multi-million dollar fortune … Instead, he’s a drunk, just like yours.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, my voice cool and calm. Because if even I don’t know the truth, there’s no way that Harper does. My eyes slide over to Isabella’s brown ones, narrowed into two slits on her pretty face. She turns away from us suddenly, like maybe Harper’s struck a nerve.
Fuck.
Is this what Harper’s holding over my sister? Or did … did Isabella tell her willingly?
“You know what I’m saying: Isabella Carmichael is really Isabella Reed, right? I mean, she should be, considering your whore of a mother threw herself at a rich man while at the same time warming the bed of a poor one?”
My hands clench into fists on my skirt, and it takes everything I have in me to keep from slapping this brat again. She seriously needs to be put in her place; that is, back down on earth with all the rest of us.
“Don’t you dare call my mother a whore again,” I say, and there’s ice in my voice, shards of it that seem to cut.
“A spade’s a spade,” Harper says, shrugging her thin shoulders and smirking. “You’re lucky your fancy prince trotted in on his white horse to save you and your soon-to-be-dead dad, or I would’ve bought that house and knocked it down in front of you.” She smirks, and keeps talking, like she’s completely unaware of the anger burning inside of me. Tristan watches us carefully, almost like he’s holding back, curious to see what I might do. “Did I mention I already own the trailer park where that stupid Train Car of yours is? That’s right.” She steps toward me when my eyes widen and reaches out to pick some imaginary lint from my uniform. “Didn’t your new boyfriends tell you? My father knew the man who owned it, so he bought it without it ever touching the market. Your boy toys tried to win it for you at the Club meeting, but they lost. Just like they lost so many other things that week. Have they talked about it? Any of it?”
“I don’t care what happened at the Infinity Club meeting,” I say, reaching down with a shaking hand to pull the giant bandage off my hip. The infinity symbol with the slash through it shows, and several of the girls gasp. That’s when it hits me.
Maybe Isabella … is trying to get into the Infinity Club? I look past Harper again, but my little sister won’t look at me. The little sister I always wanted, that I dreamed about, that I asked after for years … and she won’t even look at me.
“Fuck the Infinity Club,” I tell Harper, raising my voice, so every student in that hall can hear me. Not that it matters anymore: there’s not a single person at the academy who doesn’t know about the Club—staff included. I know that now. “My friends tell me all I need to know.”
“Sure they do,” Harper says, flicking a look back at Tristan. “I’m sure Mr. Vanderbilt over here’s been a wealth of information.”
“You’d best keep that silicone plumped trap of yours shut, before I close it permanently,” Tristan growls, and there’s a darkness in his voice that makes me shiver. He sounds awful, a veritable well of hostility and neatly suppressed rage. It’s like all of that wild anger and hate inside of him as been honed down to a fine diamond’s point. Sharp, unbreakable.
“Did he tell you,” Harper starts, backing up into the sea of girls as Tristan takes a step forward. He very much looks like he’d enjoy hitting her. Instead, he adjusts the silver Burberry Prep crest cufflinks at his wrists. “Did he tell you,” Harper repeats, clearly enjoying herself as she glances my way, “that Lizzie actually made a bet with her parents? She’s free and clear of her engagement obligations now. Tristan … Lizzie, a match made in heaven. She can afford him the type of lifestyle he’s so used to living. Can you do that, Working Girl?” she asks, looking me dead in the face, her lips curved into a devil’s smile. No wonder Miranda used to call the Idols devils and the Inner Circle demons; it fits. “If you and Tristan ride off into the sunset together, can you give him the standard of living he’s accustomed to?”
“Harper,” Tristan says, reaching out. Becky and Ileana act like they think he’s going to hit her, and the other girls crowd forward like they’re willing to beat the shit out of both of us, here and now. I don’t doubt their ability; I was victim to it once before. “Stop being so jealous.” He curls strands of her red hair around his fingers, and she watches him with narrowed eyes. Clearly, she expects scissors. And rightfully so. “Here’s the thing: you’ve thoroughly pissed me off now. I mean, I thought you’d done it before, but kudos.” He yanks on her hair and jerks her forward, and she slaps him away with a scowl. “You’ve really and truly incited me.” He narrows his blade-gray gaze on her. “I’d rather be a charity case … I’d rather be a homeless fucking drunk than married to a speed-addicted whore with too much plastic surgery.”
“Takes one to know one,” Harper snaps back, acting like she’s not bothered at all by Tristan’s words. Watching them exchange blows is painful, like two sets of knives being thrown across the hall. I can’t take it. “How many girls did you sleep with during first year? Two dozen? Three dozen? More?”
Tristan grits his teeth and opens his mouth, but I’m already stepping between the two of them.