Shit, it smells like him, too, I think, doing my best to hold back a groan. Last time I wore his hoodie, I almost died from the scent. Sporty, but earthy, too, like musk and cedar.
“Okay, lover boy,” Windsor says as he herds Zack toward the rack of bowling balls behind us. “Pick one and let’s get this game going. I quite enjoy kicking ass, even when there aren’t any stakes involved.” He grins, and I think about what he did to Ben. I mean, Ben deserved it, but still. I don’t think Windsor’s joking right now.
The game starts off with a bang, and I’m surprised to see that both Zack and Windsor are damn good bowlers. Fortunately, everyone else is mediocre … and Tristan sucks. Like, he’s by far the worst.
“Something you’re not good at?” I ask with surprise as he gets another gutter ball and narrows those beautiful gray eyes of his on the lane. He glances over at me, but I’m grinning. “That’s a shocker.”
“I’ve never bowled before,” he says, and the grin falls right off my face. Now I’m just gaping at him.
“You’ve never been bowling before?” I choke out, and then I find myself smiling again. “Well, there’s a first time for everything, right? You’ll get better at it.” Tristan stares at me like I’m insane, and then steps back so Lizzie can take her turn.
Her engagement ring sparkles as she picks up a gold colored ball.
“You’ve never let loose enough to try something like bowling,” she says, stepping forward, and prepping for her throw. She gives a slight smile before exhaling, focusing those amber eyes on the pins, and then releasing the ball like a pro. “Strike!” Lizzie squeals and bounces up and down, throwing her arms around Tristan’s neck.
He looks like he’s just been gut-punched.
I feel like I’ve just been gut-punched.
Lizzie pulls back, blushing, and then pushes some dark curls away from her face. She glances my way, but I pretend not to notice. Inside, my stomach is all twisted up with angst.
“Letting loose isn’t in my vocabulary,” Tristan says finally, and I cringe slightly.
Having sex in a public bathroom sure seemed like letting loose, I think sourly, not sure why I’m suddenly so worked up about it. Or in a janitor’s closet on the first day of school. My attention drifts slightly to Lizzie as Zayd makes his way up to the lane. Did she and Tristan ever … and if they did, do I really want to know?
Her amber eyes meet mine, and I flush.
“Ah, fuck a bunch of hairy goat balls,” Zayd groans as his ball bounces into the next lane. He slides his palms over his face while I laugh, smearing his eyeliner just enough that it gives him that sexy rocker look. “This game is harder than it looks.”
“That’s an interesting curse,” I say with a small laugh, covering my mouth and trying to ignore the anxiety that the Lizzie/Tristan thing gives me. She’s retreated back to the bench to sit next to Zack, but the King of Burberry Prep is still staring at me with those unnerving gray eyes of his. They’re the color of gravestones, aged and worn beyond his seventeen years, and full of so much more emotion than the stone they’re made of it.
“Yeah, well, I’m an artist,” Zayd purrs, and there’s just something about the way he talks that tells the whole world that he can sing. One day, I’d like to see him live. I bet he’s a real treat to watch. For a split-second there, I feel a sting of guilt over what I did. But then I remember the trophy, and how I wore his red dress, and then …
I exhale and shake out my hands.
I’m working on forgiveness here, not grudges. What’s the point of holding one? Take the actions you need to take, and move on. These blue-blooded Idols needed to learn a lesson; I taught it to them. Now, I let it go.
The girls, on the other hand, are a whole different story.
School starts in just a few days; I have to be ready.
“Okay, sir artiste,” I joke, hefting my own ball from the track and licking my lower lip, “watch and learn how a pro does it.”
“You’re so going to regret that,” Zayd chuckles, folding his arms over his chest. When I throw a glare back his way, he lifts one tattooed hand and waves it lazily at me. “Go on, Miss Bowling Expert Extraordinaire, and let’s see these pro moves.”
I scoff and turn back to the lane, doing this dramatic little run thing before I chuck the ball and watch as it warbles, twists, and then knocks over one single stupid pin before disappearing.
“Honey soaked beeswax balls,” I curse, and Zayd howls with laughter. Damn, I missed that laugh. He’s laughing so hard he’s bent over at the waist.
“Beeswax balls?! That’s your idea of cursing?!”
“Hey, it’s better than hairy goat balls,” I grumble, collecting my ball, and pausing as Zack steps up beside me. He raises his dark brows.
“Want some pointers?” he asks, and my heart starts to beat like crazy. I nod, and he comes up behind me, putting his big hands on my hips and making me shiver. He guides me to a specific spot, and then shows me how to hold the ball, where to place my fingers. “Since you’re the birthday girl, I’ll help you throw this first time. After that, you’re on your own.” He stands behind me, sliding his fingers along my right arm before leaning over my shoulder to brush a light kiss to my right cheek.
I almost melt right there in front of everyone.
Instead, I exhale and shudder as Zack helps me throw the ball in just such a way that I actually pick up a spare.
“Holy crap,” I blurt, grinning as I spin around and find him still standing way too close to me. We look at each other a moment before I duck past him and take up a spot on the bench between Miranda and Andrew. Seems like the safest spot in the room, to be quite honest.
We finish our game, and Zack just narrowly beats Windsor.
It’s all fun and games until the prince loses, and I see his jaw clench. There’s a flash of darkness in his gaze that I recognize from when he tried to get me to plant drugs on Tristan, or when he was talking to me during Ben Thresher’s arrest. He notices me watching, and instead of denying it, he walks right up to me and leans in to whisper in my ear.
“I told you I was a bloody, awful wanker,” he whispers, and then he nibbles my earlobe. I’m so startled that I jump, and fling my hand up to cover my ear. I end up smacking him in the face, and he groans, covering up his mouth, shoulders shaking with laughter. When he moves his hands, there’s a bit of blood. “I think I just cut my lip on my tooth.”
“I’m sorry,” I groan, but Windsor just laughs some more and excuses himself to clean up in the bathroom while the rest of us gather around a table to eat burgers from a huge stack on a silver platter, fries from dozens of red and white paper trays, and sodas from cups with the bowling alley’s logo printed on the side.
This is about as far from the luxe nature of Burberry Prep as one could get.
Conversation is light, shallow, but nice.
I think we’re all still trying to get a feel for how to interact with each other.
By the time the cake comes, it’s not quite so awkward, and I realize as I pass Creed a paper plate with a big slice on it that I’m actually having fun. Honestly, this may be one of the best birthdays I’ve ever had. I even forget about Jennifer for a while, standing in the corner like an outcast. This time, it’s not me that’s the social pariah here: it’s her.
Dad gifts me another sentimental object that makes me weepy: a big, beautiful frame he welded, filled with pictures of the two of us, starting from the day I was born, and including one for each birthday thereafter. I’m so happy with the gift, but at the same time I’m terrified.
He thinks he’s dying.
I don’t want to consider it.
I tear into the other gifts to find—not surprisingly—a plethora of ridiculously expensive items, like a bottle of Clive Christiansen Imperial Majesty perfume that costs a whopping twelve grand per ounce. Miranda gifted me with that one. I almost choke and die when she sprays me with it, like watching dollar bills misting in the air around me. To be fair, it smells delicious.
The pile of fancy gifts—shoes, clothes, jewelry, a new suitcase (Andrew must be tried of seeing my ratty duffel bag year after year), and other assorted items—sits at the end of the table as I pick up Windsor’s small, black satin envelope.
“It’s just a little thing,” he says, resting his chin in his hand, his hazel eyes glittering as I tear up the flap to find … a key on a glittery pink Princess keychain. My eyes narrow at the same time my heart thumps like crazy. Pretty sure my hands are shaking, too.
“Princess?” I say, and he just laughs, gesturing for me to dig around in the envelope.
Inside, there’s a pink slip for a car with my name on it.
My eyes widen, and then I’m standing up and racing outside.
There’s a rose-gold fucking Maserati convertible with a bow on the hood.
“Windsor,” I start as Dad comes sprinting out behind me. His jaw drops when he sees the car. I turn to look at the prince, standing there with his hands in his pants pockets, his red hair sticking up in the front like it always does. He’s smiling pleasantly, like he’s happy I’m excited, but also like it’s no big deal. He also has this … I don’t want to say smugness, but self-satisfaction, like he wanted to make sure he had the biggest gift, and gets off on it, too. Hmm.
“Seriously?” Miranda coughs. “You one-upping asshole.” This last part is mumbled under her breath, but I hear it anyway.
“I can’t accept this,” I whisper, looking between him and the car.
“You can’t?” he asks with a small, faux frown. “That’s too bad. I had to special order this color. I can’t return it.” He smiles at me, and there’s something not quite so perfect about that expression, an almost sloppy sort of grin that I like. I bite my lower lip and squeeze the keys against my chest. “Just one ride in it, and then I’ll sell it on eBay?”