Stuck With The Four Hotties

“That’s why we stick together at all times, pairs at the very least.” Tristan straightens out the rich red Burberry jacket with the little crest on the pocket, and then takes up the lead, heading for one of the idling academy cars. The driver opens the door, and Tristan steps aside, letting me slide in before he does. Pretty sure I hear Zayd grumble about that, and I smile.

The leather sticks to the backs of my thighs, and I realize then that I’m sweating. I’m nervous. And not just about Harper and her cronies, but … about the boys, too. Are they going to betray me again? Because being here in this car with all of them feels kind of … good.

“Remember,” Tristan whispers as the car rolls down the gently sloping hills that surround the school. I look up at him as ambient conversation from the others fills the inside of the limo. “You’re an Idol now.” He reaches over and adjusts the necklace I’m wearing, making my cheeks flush.

“I’m not exactly Idol material,” I say, giving a slight smile. Tristan frowns and looks away, out the tinted windows towards the forest beyond the hills. Everything he does is so dramatic. I’m not even sure he means to be that way; it’s just his natural personality.

Tristan is silent for the remainder of the drive, but the rest of my new friends are pretty chatty. Their talk helps calm my nerves a bit.

“You got this,” Zayd reassures me, winking before he climbs out of the limo with his bookbag thrown casually over his shoulder. Miranda follows behind him, then Creed, Andrew, Zack, Lizzie, and Windsor. Tristan and I

are last, and I’m happy to see that the courtyard with the stag is empty when we walk up the steps toward the fountains and the surrounding towers.

“Let’s do breakfast,” Tristan says casually, and we make our way into the chapel building and down the hall toward The Mess.

It’s strange, being back in these halls after everything that happened at Royal Pointe, and the Hamptons, and my birthday party. Surreal, almost. My palms are sweaty as I cling to my bookbag and follow the group inside the dining hall.

I breathe a sigh of relief as we walk in and find that special table, the one up on the dais, empty.

We all squeeze around it together and take up our menus while Miranda laments the lack of coffee, mumbling under her breath about Ms. Felton being a caffeine Nazi.

“Coventry Prep has catered buffets for every meal,” Lizzie explains, sitting on Tristan’s right. I’m on his left, next to Creed. He’s leaning back in his chair like he’s ready for a nap, but his eyes are intense, laser-focused on me as I pretend to peruse the menu.

“What?” I ask finally, turning to look at him and most definitely not thinking about the hot tub. I mean, why would I? What purpose would that serve? No, my cheeks are not red at all. “Why do you keep staring at me?”This is from NôvelDrama.Org.

“I’m trying to figure out how to ask you to be my girlfriend,” he drawls with all the confidence and nonchalance of the idle rich, and all the color drains from my face.

“What?!” Miranda shrieks from across the table. I feel faint and dizzy all of a sudden, like I may very well do a face-plant into the fancy white plate with the gold leafing that’s in front of me. Visible tension rises in the other boys-even Andrew. But that’s when I realize he’s the only one not looking at me and Creed. Instead, he’s staring at the door.

My attention swings that way, only to find Harper, Becky, and Ileana, a sea of Bluebloods behind them. They make straight for us, and the tension in our little group shifts.

“What do you want?” Tristan asks as they approach the table. Harper’s the only one to climb the few steps up to stand directly beside us. Without hesitation, she reaches out and shoves Windsor’s water glass over and into his lap. He lets it happen, and turns to her with this look that promises future pain.

“This is our table. Bluebloods eat on the dais. You should know: your great-grandfather invented the tradition of the Idols. Rules are rules, Vanderbilt. You’re not exempt from them because your name’s on half the buildings.”

“Idols have to possess a special je ne sais quoi, Harper. There has to be something about them that makes them stand out from the rest of the crowd. Money, good breeding, looks, connections, or some combination thereof.”

She snorts and interrupts Tristan before he gets a chance to finish.

“Well, we all know you don’t qualify on that first account.” The Bluebloods snicker behind her, and my hands curl into fists. I don’t know why. The last person in the world I should be standing up for is Tristan William Vanderbilt, but I can’t seem to help myself.

He continues on as if Harper didn’t speak.

“You might tick a few boxes, but you’re petty, pathetic, and you walk a fine, fine line when it comes to playing by Club rules.” Tristan shakes his napkin out with a snap and places it carefully in his lap, his blue-black hair shimmering in the glow from the sconces behind him. “You’re so pathetic that even though your family’s blood money would wet the Vanderbilt coffers, I simply can’t stand your presence, let alone your touch. You’re nothing but the granddaughter of a man who built his fortune on the broken back of this country’s changing healthcare system. Now, get the fuck out my sight before I really get angry.”

“You don’t have shit to back you up,” Harper snarls, her hair long and dyed a honeyed blonde. It’s so thick and full and pretty, I’m guessing she’s got human hair extensions in. Long ones, too. Her glossy new hair goes all the way down past her breasts. My hands ache to cut it all off. How satisfying would that be? To get her not once but twiFe. “You think you’re an institution? Guess what? The money your family made from being railroad tycoons is over. Finished. Dried up. William is going to slaughter you for breaking our engagement.”

“Maybe. And you’ll never be taken seriously because no American aristocrat worth their weight in salt wants to marry you. I can get any girl at the academy if I wanted.”

“Please,” Harper snorts, but Tristan’s face is already twisting into a cruel smile.

“Really? Because I’ve fucked every one of your friends but you, and that shriveled trollop you call a best friend. Imagine that.” Harper’s blue eyes go

wide, and she swings her arm at the table, knocking dishes to the floor.

“Get up from our table.” She turns her gaze to me. “And get that whore off of my chair before she leaves one of her peasant diseases on it.”

“Harper, get fucked,” I snap, tossing my orange juice in her face. Her cronies are up the steps in an instant, and all the boys are rising from their chairs, legs scraping across the floor. There’s a bit of a standoff there where Zack and John Hannibal are in each other’s faces, and Windsor is clutching a knife like he might stab Gregory Van Horn in the neck.

The doors open again and in walks Ms. Felton.

She pauses when she sees us all up in arms, and frowns.

“Is everything okay in here?” she questions, her voice stern and accusatory. A long moment passes before Windsor very carefully and purposefully puts the knife back on the table and spins to face her with a huge smile on his princely face. There’s a darkness flitting behind his gaze that I don’t miss though. Like I said, Windsor York is dangerous. As much as I like him, I’m going to have to keep an eye on him, too.

“Just splendid, bloody fantastic. These folks were just explaining to us how lovely the scrambled eggs are.”

“Of course they were,” Ms. Felton says with a tired sounding sigh. “Alright, anyone who’s not eating at the big table needs to find a seat elsewhere.” Just then our waiter appears and starts laying out the dishes we ordered. Creed is the first to sit back down, slumping into his chair like a boneless doll. A sexy, muscular doll with ice-blue eyes who just asked me to be his girlfriend, but … still.

We all take our seats as Harper leans in and hisses at me.

“You are so fucking dead, Working Girl,” she snaps, eyes blazing.

“Harper du Pont,” Ms. Felton warns, and Harper turns to go, only to trip on Wind’s outstretched leg. She goes down hard, tumbling right off the dais and onto the floor where her jaw hits with a resounding crack and a lot of blood. “Oh my God!” Ms. Felton is there an instant, helping Harper up along with Becky’s assistance.

It all seems like an accident, so nobody gets in trouble, but I meet Windsor’s eyes from across the table and I know. That was no accident at all.

Right now, all I can do is eat my French toast, but later, we’re going to have to have a talk.

No, not just us: everyone.

Because if they’re going t

o play my game, they need to know my rules.