Stuck With The Four Hotties

He might be new money, but he doesn’t need to marry some girl with

a fancy name to act like he deserves to sit on a throne. He’s the embodiment of luxe, the very definition of opulence and sumptuous extravagance. “Sweetness, yes, that’s the word.” He snaps his fingers and leans in close to me, his fresh soap scent wafting around me. “You have a sweetness to you, but one that isn’t bought and paid for with naivety. We like it.”

“We love it,” Tristan corrects, reaching up to run his hand down the smooth red and black plaid silk of his tie. His smirk is tinged with darkness, bathed in shadows, and I know for sure then that whichever one of these boys I choose, I’ll never change them. The way Zack confronted Ileana in the gym, nearly reduced her to rubble with a few sentences. The way Windsor’s eyes gleam when he’s plotting something. The cruel words that Zayd spat at Becky in the music room. They have it in them, these filthy rich boys of Burberry Prep, this vitriolic simmer, this wanton disregard for authority, and a devil-may-care attitude that can’t be tamed.

I’ll never tame the academy’s bad boys. I’m not sure that I want to.

“So you’re saying … let you do the dirty work?” I ask, my heart pounding. I feel dizzy, lightheaded, like a goddess surrounded by devils. But I like it, the way they offset my personality, total opposites in every way that counts. And opposites, they really do attract. On the inside, I’m burning. On the outside, I stay cool, calm, relaxed. Or at least I think I do. I feel sweat beading on my forehead, dripping down my spine, sliding between my breasts.

Ah, my breasts.

I’ve never been so aware of them in all my life.

“That’s exactly what we’re saying,” Windsor purrs, propping his face in his hand and giving me this sort of love-drunk grin. See, I don’t think he’s faking it. I’m pretty sure he is in love, but what I think he’s in love with is the aforementioned dirty work, and not necessarily me. “Keep your honeyed hands clean, and let us play.”

“My honeyed hands?” I choke out on the end of a laugh.

“Give me your list,” Tristan says, holding out his hand. It’s not a request, it’s an order. Do I want to follow it? He stares at me with those beautiful gray eyes of his, watching, waiting. I swallow hard and reach into my purse, pulling out the notebook, and tearing the list out before I give it to him. He smiles this wicked, black little smile as he takes it. Next, I tear out the rules, and I hand those over, too.

“Play dirty, but play by my rules.” Tristan takes it, but he doesn’t look nearly as excited by it. “I’ll never forgive you if you don’t.”

Now that I have a crew to call my own, a boyfriend (or two or three or five), and a better idea of what colleges I’m interested in, and what I want to do with my life, the year starts to feel like it’s going by at warp-speed. One minute, I’m lecturing the boys in the library, and the next, I’m gearing up for fall break.

“I want to go to Bornstead U,” I blurt, sitting next to Zayd behind the auditorium curtain. I have no idea how he talked me into this, but I’m signing up for the talent show, I guess. Auditions are today because at a place like Burberry Prep, even something as silly as a talent show has to be monitored, graded, and appraised.

“Bornstead, huh?” Zayd says, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms behind his head. He’s changed his hair color to an ashy-lavender that just begs to be touched. Without thinking, I reach up and run my fingers through it. This horribly embarrassing moan escapes Zayd’s beautiful mouth, and every single person sitting backstage with us turns to look in our direction. My cheeks flush, but I don’t stop touching him. “That’s a ritzy school. You have the grades for it, definitely, but I’m guessing you’d need another scholarship in order to afford it, huh?”

“Pretty much,” I say, but I’ve already started on that. I’ve been forcing myself to spend at least three hours a week in the library’s computer lab so I can submit applications and essays for any scholarship program I can find. “But that’s what I want.”

“Best high school in the country, best university in the country. The sky’s the limit for you, huh, Marnye Reed?” Zayd’s name is called, and he stands up, grabbing his guitar, and leaning down to put his arm on one side of me, our faces so close together I can smell the mint he’s sucking on. “If anyone could do it, it’d be you.” He leans down and puts his cheek against mine. All I want is for him to kiss me, but the asshole pulls back and turns to head onstage.

I sneak up to the break in the curtain to watch as he gets situated at the mic.

Zayd’s emerald eyes glance my way, and he winks.

“Introduce yourself and give a brief explanation of your performance, please,” Mr. Carter says, situated at the same table he sat at when I won first chair for the harp. Zayd sat right near him, and surprised the hell out of me by clapping for my performance. That, I think, was also a very genuine response. It feels good to know that not every moment I enjoyed with the boys was bullshit.

“Zayd Kaiser,” he says, that husky rockstar purr of his melting the panties of every girl in that room-including mine. “And I’ll, uh, be performing a song that I wrote.”

“What’s the name of the song?” Mr. Carter asks, sounding incredibly bored. He has his hand poised above his iPad to type it into some field on a form. Zayd and his music, he’s so much more than that. I fist my hand into the fabric of the black slacks I wore to perform. They’re so unbelievably comfy. If I had time for anything besides school, extracurricular activities, and time with my friends, I’d probably add creating a petition to abolish gender-specific uniform requirements to the list.

“I haven’t named it yet,” Zayd starts, slinging the strap of his guitar over his head and then reaching up to twist some of his gelled hair into spikes.

“Pick something, please.” Mr. Carter looks up and raises an eyebrow as Zayd glances over at me again.This is property © of NôvelDrama.Org.

“How about …” He turns back to our music teacher and grins. “Charity?”

Mr. Carter nods, and Zayd sighs, clearing his throat, closing his eyes, and exhaling. When he opens them again, he’s got his performer vibe going strong. His inked fingers strum the guitar, and he starts this beautiful, sweet- sad little melody

that makes my heart thump.