Stuck With The Four Hotties

“She’s the devil,” I whisper, sitting down hard on the edge of my bed. I’m wearing white footie pajamas with ducks on them, but don’t judge: they were a gift from Charlie, and I didn’t have the heart to tell him I was ten years too old for them.

“Who?” Miranda asks, pausing and turning to look at me, her luxurious white-blonde hair hanging over her shoulder. She strokes it gently with the brush, watching me with eyes the color of ice chips in a stormy sea. “Oh, you mean your sister? Don’t worry too much about her. My brother’s a dickhead, and I still manage to put up with him.”

I sigh and run my fingers through my hair, trying not to stress too much about the boys and their whereabouts. It’s been almost a week since we left them at the Vanderbilt Manor and in the hands of the Infinity Club. If Windsor hadn’t texted to let me know everyone was okay, I’d think they were all like, dead or something.

“Your brother’s a kitten in a tiger suit,” I tell her, sitting up and dropping my hands to my lap. “That girl, Isabella Carmichael, she reminds me of Harper.”

Miranda shivers and sets the brush down, turning fully in the chair to face me, a slight smile working its way onto her full lips. She really is the female version of Creed, his feminine other half. Ugh, I miss Creed. I miss all the boys actually. And that scares me.

They’re all dating me together because they feel bad, because they know they messed up, but I can’t ask that of them forever. Eventually, I’ll have to choose. It’s not fair to them if I don’t, right?

“She wasn’t the warmest character, I’ll give you that,” Miranda hedges, chewing on her lower lip. While I’m dressed in ridiculous flannel pj’s, the Cabot twin is decked out in a short, pink satin nightie. I’ll admit it: I’m a little jealous. “But I wouldn’t worry about her. Her or Harper. I’ve got your back; we’ll kick both their asses next year.”

She stands up and moves over to sit on the edge of the bed next to me, reaching out to put my face between her hands. I swear, she smells like strawberries and vanilla. It’s comforting somehow.

“One year left, and we’ll leave all these fuckers in the dust. Just one more year.”

“And then what?” I ask, feeling this strange pang inside my chest. When I first arrived at Burberry Preparatory Academy, I was excited for the years to come. Soon after, that excitement turned to dread. Then it became a mission of survival, a matter of principle.

Now … I can’t imagine it all being over. I’m not ready for it to end. Not

yet.

“Then Creed and I will follow you to Bornstead and bug the shit out of you for four more years! Maybe six or more if we go for a master’s or a doctorate.” Miranda pauses as I raise both brows. I think my mouth’s hanging slightly open.

“You’re going to Bornstead?” I ask, trying not to get too excited. Nothing’s final until, you know, it’s final. But still. How could Miranda or Creed be denied? Their mother, Kathleen, went to Bornstead.Exclusive content © by Nô(v)el/Dr/ama.Org.

“Of course I am,” she replies, letting go of my face and standing up. “Not only is Bornstead my mother’s alma mater, but my best friend is going there. That, and my twin is attached to my best friend’s hip. Really, is there any other choice?” She stands up and opens my bedroom door, letting in the raucous rumble of my dad’s snoring. “Let’s go make midnight margaritas.”

“There’s no alcohol in this house,” I murmur, but I follow after her anyway, the tight, angsty feeling in my chest twisting painfully. Miranda’s going to Bornstead. So is Creed. And as far as I know, Zayd is, too. What if I end up picking someone else? What if I don’t pick at all? What if breaks my

heart in half and spills all my blood to the parched earth if I have to make that choice?

“We should get dressed and go out,” Miranda whispers as she systematically goes through the fridge and all the cabinets. “Go to a bar or something. I have fake IDs for us both in my bag.”

I cross my arms over my chest as she turns around and notices my raised brow and hard stare.

“Fake IDs, seriously?” Miranda shrugs and grins.

“Briana Chow was selling them cheap at the end of the year, and I grabbed some for the whole crew, just in case we wanted to go out.”

“Briana was selling fake IDs?” I ask, crinkling up my brow and trying to understand why a person as rich as her would even bother going through the trouble. Miranda waves my question away.

“Yep. And they’re good quality, too. Her mom owns a publishing house and a printing shop, and they have all sorts of fun machines in the factory.” Miranda grabs a cluster of grapes from the bowl on the table and pops one juicy purple orb into her mouth. “Did you know her dad’s into organized crime? I mean, that’s the rumor anyway. I bet they use the printing press to forge all sorts of documents.”

“You’re totally getting sidetracked,” I say, padding over to the table to get some grapes for myself. “And you know I don’t drink. Although I guess it might be fun to go out and dance …”

“The boys should be back soon, and we can start our college partying early. Well, you, me, Andrew and your many boyfriends. Lizzie is not invited.”

I cringe slightly, my mind going right back to Tristan’s room, and Lizzie’s bright amber eyes, the determined set of her face. “All I care about is you, Tristan. I love you.” My stomach feels sour all of a sudden, and I have to clamp a hand over it to calm the rumbling.

Maybe I shouldn’t have told Miranda about Lizzie’s confession? Then again, I hate secrets. They’re like splinters. If you just pull them out right away, the pain is minimal. Leave them buried and they get infected. Leave them long enough and you have to cut the skin to stop the pain. No thank you.

“Is there really nothing else going on between you and Lizzie that I should know about?” I ask, but Miranda’s already breezing past me, grabbing my hand and dragging me back into the bedroom. She bends over to dig around in her bag and flashes me the lacy panties she’s got on. I look away and wait for her to stand up and spin, fanning out several fake driver’s licenses.

Reaching out, I take them into my hand and go through them quickly.

There’s mine, Miranda’s, Andrew’s, and one for each of my boyfriends.

My boyfriends. Plural.

My heart flutters, and I tuck the cluster of plastic cards to my chest.

Even though it’s been a week since we left Vanderbilt Manor, my mind is still roiling with all of the craziness that happened there. The least of which is that you and Tristan almost had unprotected sex … My cheeks flush red as Miranda moves over to the closet and pulls out a pair of expensive designer d

resses, tossing them onto the bed.