Stuck With The Four Hotties

“Shut the hell up, dickhead,” Zack grumbles, closing his eyes. I’m not sure how long it takes, but with the way my skin aches, and the way my core flushes with warmth, it feels like forever. I shift and wiggle on the cushion, glad that I’m not sitting on anyone’s lap.

With a deep, guttural groan, Zack finishes, and I can see his muscles going tight, body shivering with climax. He exhales sharply and hangs his head for a minute. Windsor digs into the bag by his side and pulls out a roll of paper towels, tossing them Zack’s way.

“I’ll … be right back.” Zack takes the paper towels, and I glance away so he can have a second of privacy. He then disappears in the direction of the bathrooms.

“Well, holy shit,” Zayd whispers with a chuckle. “He seriously did it.

Maybe I don’t hate the guy quite so much after all?”

“Is there a reason you guys hated him in the first place?” I ask, looking between the three Idol boys.Nôvel/Dr(a)ma.Org - Content owner.

“Besides the bet he made with Lizzie?” Zayd asks, shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t know. He’s just always been an asshole. He never liked the status quo.” His grin gets a little lopsided, and he reaches out to ruffle my rose-gold hair. “Little bit like you, I guess.”

“Yeah, sure,” I say, but my heart is still racing, and I can’t believe I just saw that. Zack, masturbating, right in front of me. And I liked it, too. It feels so wrong, sitting in a place we’re not supposed to be, with a stolen set of keys, hard liquor, and a game with no real prize.

Just because.

We’re doing this for the fun of it.

Zack comes back fairly quickly, face flushed, and sits with one knee up, his elbow propped against it, and his face in his hand. He looks right at me, too, and shrugs those broad shoulders of his.

“I hope you’re not like, scarred for life,” he says, and I get one of those rare, warm smiles of his.

“If I were going to blame anyone for the trauma, it’d be fucking Creed,” I say, giving him a look and taking a sip of my juice. He just stares at me with those bedroom eyes of his, and then smirks.

“Alright,” Zack says, sitting up straight and glancing over at Windsor. “Your Majesty, truth or dare?”

Windsor reaches up and fixes his plastic crown.

“Truth. Because any idiot can jump through hoops, but it’s much more difficult to lay your soul bare. Have at me, you fuckin’ wanker.” Zack flips Wind off, but the gesture does nothing to clear the haughty expression of superiority on the prince’s face.

“Fine. Have it your way.” Zack lifts the bottle of beer to his full lips and studies the prince through narrowed eyes. “Why the fuck did you crash that yacht into the harbor? There’s a girl still in the hospital, isn’t there?”

Windsor’s face … God, if I could only describe the way he shuts down. There’s a hardness that comes over his features that’s ten times worse than the stony mask that Tristan wears.

“Technically,” he says, his voice ice-cold, “that’s two questions. Pick one.”

“How did you end up crashing?” Zack repeats, and Windsor reaches up to take off his crown, spinning it around in his fingers, his hazel eyes so dark they look more like Tristan’s charcoal gray than their usual bright multi- faceted brilliance.

“I’d had too much coke, too much booze, and I was angry; I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

He stops talking and just stares at me.

“Why?” I ask, but Windsor simply turns to Zayd and ignores my question. “You. Rocker boy. Truth or dare?”

“Uh,” Zayd starts, rolling onto his back, so he can stare up at the tin ceiling tiles. Even with the weird atmosphere, and Windsor’s dodgy answer to Zack’s question, it’s pretty cozy in here. How could it not be, with all these books? “Dare.”

“I dare you,” Windsor says, chucking his crown into the center of the circle, “to text your dad and tell him how much you hate being ignored.” He glances up and meets Zayd’s eyes. “Right now. Text him and tell him.”

“I’m not going to tell him that,” Zayd says, rearing back like he’s been struck. “Are you stupid or insane or both? If I send him a message like that, he’ll go off on me. He doesn’t like when I say shit like that.”

“Then I double dare you to tell Marnye how you feel about her.”

“That’s basically a truth,” Zayd murmurs, sweeping his fingers through his lavender-ash hair. “You really do like to stir the pot, huh?”

Windsor just smiles.

“I just love honesty from others-even when it hurts.”

“Even if you’re not being transparent yourself?” Zayd quips back, and the two men stare at each other. “Fuckin’ fine then.” He glances over at me, and our eyes meet. “I told you I liked you from day one, didn’t I?”

“You did.”

Zayd just keeps staring at me.

“Well, I like you better than any girl I’ve ever met.”

“It’s called truth or dare, not bullshit or dare,” Wind says, and Zayd growls. It’s purely a musical sound, too, like it belongs in the middle of one of his raunchier songs.

“Says the guy who gave a non-answer himself.” Zayd turns back to me and sighs, putting his forehead in his hand and resting it there for a minute as he looks at me. “I think … maybe I’ve been in love with you since that Halloween party. Not first year’s, but … second year. When you came dressed as a cookie, and you danced like crazy, and you fucked Creed over with that fake journal.”

“In love with me?” I ask, and Zayd sighs, closing his green eyes. “Yep. Pretty much.”

Okay, that’s it. Between the kissing boys, and the masturbation, and love Fonfessions … this is not like any pajama party I’ve ever been to. And then it occurs to me that I never really had friends before, so the only pajama parties I’ve actually attended are between me and Miranda.

“Yep, pretty much?” I squeak, and Zayd blinks at me.

“Truth or dare, Charity,” he whispers, and his voice is raw and open, like he’s just cracked a stone and shown me the most beautiful geode on the inside.

“Truth.”

Because I don’t think I can move from this spot, much less do something embarrassing like touch myself in front of everyone.

“Which one of us do you like best?” Zayd asks, and my heart stutters a few times before it picks back up at a galloping pace.

“I don’t kn

ow.”

And there’s no answer truer than that.