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13
At the end of the night, I still won’t own a private jet or a series of islands in the fucking Caribbean. “Do whatever you want; I’m no good at hair or makeup.”
Miranda lets out a small sound of excitement, downs her champagne, and pours us both another round.
I wish I could drink it.
I have a feeling I’m going to need it to get through tonight.
The walk down to the beach is easy, lined with solar-powered lanterns that give the winding, pebbled walkway a warm yellow glow. Picking my way down in the stilettos that Miranda brought me is no easy feat, and I’m sure I look like I’m already drunk by the time we get to the bonfire.
Doesn’t matter, I suppose, since it looks like everyone else here already is. “Mandy!” this redheaded girl calls out, waving her arms like she’s on crack. At my old school, she might have been. Here … she still could be. Instead, she stumbles over to Miranda with her heels hanging from one hand, the distinctive red bottoms of the Louboutins obvious even in the flickering orange light from the bonfire. The bottoms are scuffed and the shoes are wet and covered in sand. Without a second thought, the girl chucks them into a pile of other expensive designer shoes, like they’re Walmart flip-flops or
something. “I’m so glad you’re here. Tristan was asking about you.”
“Right,” Miranda says, biting her bottom lip and glancing over at me. She seems nervous about something, but I’m not about to ask what it is with the redhead standing next to us. I know I’m supposed to know her name, but even though I’ve memorized the entire list of Bluebloods, I can’t remember exactly which one she is. Inner Circle, for sure. Anna, maybe? Or Abigail? “I’ll talk to him later. For now, point us in the direction of the drinks?”
The redhead is too drunk to care about me, or maybe she just doesn’t recognize me with a headful of big, chocolate curls, and a designer dress. She points us over to a table that’s been hastily piled with glass bottles and cups. There isn’t any hired help here tonight, and it’s starting to look like a rich teen party is much the same as a poor teen party, just with much better alcohol.
“I’ll make us some drinks,” Miranda says, dragging me toward the table by my wrist. She lets go and starts to put together some concoction while I stand there and fidget, my eyes searching the beach for potential predators. After all, I’m used to being hunted.
My borrowed outfit is far too tight and too short to be comfortable, and I find myself tugging the fabric down in the front. I don’t feel right in it, like I’m playing the part of somebody else, somebody who wears bodycon dresses and Manolo Blahniks, and parties with the children of the ultra- wealthy.
“Wow. Looks like you’ve already taken my advice,” a voice drawls from behind me, raspy and husky and sexy. The sound of it gives me chills in the best way possible, but when I turn around, I find Zayd Kaiser standing there in a pair of black swim shorts, sans shirt and shoes, his body ripped and muscular, all of those hard planes catching the red and orange light from the bonfire.
“I’m sorry, what?” I ask, my heart hammering as I take in his sea green hair and emerald eyes. He’s got more tattoos than I thought, including that chest piece I glimpsed on Monday. It’s hard to tell what it is in the half-light, but I’m not about to take a step closer and find out. Already, I’m on edge and waiting for an attack. If I were the Marnye Reed from middle school, I would probably crumble at just the sight of Zayd. His eyes are narrowed to slits, and his mouth is just a cruel slash on his face.
“You’re dressed like a Working Girl now. Good for you. But I’d still like to get a price. How much for a fuck?” My cheeks heat, and my nostrils flare, but I’m not going to lose my cool, not over something so pointless. Still, I
can’t help the twisting anxiety in my stomach, the embarrassment creeping its way up the back of my neck.
“Having sports cars and private jets and mansions isn’t enough? You have to add a little cruelty into the mix, too?” I ask, but Zayd’s already circling me, his eyes taking in my every curve. My dress feels too short, too tight, the neckline too low, but I stand there with my back straight, waiting for him to lose interest and go the hell away. I’m stronger now, because of what I’ve been through, but I’m not invincible. I still want to believe there’s good in the world. Zayd is working really damn hard to make sure that I change my mind about that.
He smiles at me, stepping so close that I can smell the salt on his skin, see the hickeys on his neck.
“Why are you still here? We’ve been nice this week, but it won’t last. Starting Monday, you’re going to be really sorry you haven’t gone crawling back to whatever shithole suburb you crawled out of.”Text property © Nôvel(D)ra/ma.Org.
“Zayd, screw off,” Miranda says, appearing at my side before I can respond. I’m so mad, maybe that’s for the best. Who knows what might escape my mouth right now. “Creed invited her tonight.”
“Did he, really?” Zayd asks, and if possible, his scowl gets even more intense. His green eyes lock with mine, but I refuse to look away. At the very least, I can do this, hold his gaze. “Idiot. He’s going to get himself in trouble trying to appease your every whim.” Zayd pauses as several busty brunettes hop up to him, grabbing him by his surprisingly muscular arms. “Fine. Keep your pet peasant for the night. Just remember: there’s a class system for a reason. Some people belong on the bottom.”
Zayd turns away with his two new girlfriends, smiling at them in a way that’s not entirely different from the way he was smiling at me. He’s just not a very good person.