Stuck With The Four Hotties

“She bought you a rainbow jock strap?!” Zayd howls, rolling on his side with laughter as Andrew narrows his eyes in the lead singer’s direction. “That’s so cute, but so fucking misguided. I’m dying, I’m dying. No, I’m dead. I am hashtag-freaking-dead.”Exclusive content © by Nô(v)el/Dr/ama.Org.

“She’s at least trying,” Andrew says, his feet dangling in the pool. “My dad asked me not to hit on any of his business partners. Like, really? I almost snarkily asked him if he hits on every woman he sees, just because he’s straight, but … he kind of does. He’s such a piece of work.” Andrew sips his drink, and I realize he’s come a long, long way from the boy who denied his sexuality to everyone, including himself. The boy who took a forced engagement he didn’t want … and now is the proud owner of a rainbow jock strap.

“You know what my mom said when I told her I was a lesbian?” Miranda asks, and Creed rolls his eyes like he’s heard this story a thousand times. “She said thank god for that. Boys are so gross.”

“Isn’t that a sexist thing to say?” Creed retorts, and Miranda spins on him, standing wet and dripping behind her as she tries to sunbathe.

“First off, get the fuck out of my sun. Second, no. Don’t you understand that when women say all men are trash, it’s not hate speech, it’s just an anti- patriarchal movement that has more to do with the bullshit system rather than each individual dude on a personal level?”

“Uh, what?” Creed asks, but then Miranda just grabs him by the ankle and slides into the pool, dragging her twin with her. They splash me, and I laugh as water cools my overheated skin.

“I’m really glad you came out,” I tell Andrew, curling my fingers around the edge of the pool as I glance his way. He smiles back at me, and shrugs, like it’s no big deal.

“If it weren’t for you, I might not have ever done it.” He turns away and looks out toward the hills behind the house. These are covered in vineyards, too, but the grass is a dry brown-yellow color rather than the bright green that borders the front of the property.

“I can’t take any credit for that,” I tell him, but he just shakes his head. “You stand up for what you want, regardless of how the odds are stacked

against you. That’s something.”

I look away, but I don’t feel comfortable with the praise. I find my attention on Zack, sitting nearby in swim shorts and nothing else. He’s got a copy of that book, Groupie, and I’m pretty sure he stole it off my dorm room shelf. I’m okay with that, too. I’m glad somebody else is reading it, too. The main character’s dad … he gets cancer and dies.

I hate cancer.

I fucking hate it.

I stand up suddenly, and everyone goes quiet around me. When I walk off by myself, nobody bothers me.

Our Thanksgiving meal is … cooked by Zack and Windsor. It’s a little weird to see them working together, especially at something other than bullying rich girls. Two filthy rich boys doing domestic chores. It’s kind … of cute.

Zayd’s also put on an apron, but mostly he just sits on the edge of the countertop and takes bites of things that are either half-cooked or too hot.

A beautiful rough-hewn wood table sits outside, decorated with gourds and pumpkins and clusters of freshly harvested grapes. We all sit together

and eat, and the boys manage to keep their usual barbs and jibes at one another to a minimum. Charlie is laughing, the baseball cap he’s wearing casting strange shadows over his face.

I wear the charm bracelet he gave me during second year, and hold his hand through most of the meal.

Afterward, Windsor challenges the other boys to a polo match.

“I will watch, but that’s the best I can do,” I say, wanting to stay by Charlie’s side. Wind nods, and crosses one arm over his chest, tapping at his chin with a single finger.

“We need two teams of four.” He points at Tristan, the edge of his mouth curving up in a smirk. “What do you say, play opposite me as a team captain?”

“Fine by me,” Tristan says, and the two of them exchange a long dark look. “You want to make a wager out of it?”

“No, no, just a little friendly competition.” Windsor smirks as Tristan narrows his gray eyes.

“Right. Well, then, take your pick, Captain.”

“Zack,” Wind says, because really, he’s the obvious pick for anything even remotely sport related. “You do know how to play, don’t you?”

“Tell me the rules, and I’ll figure it out,” Zack says, giving Tristan a challenging sort of stare.

“Zayd,” Tristan retorts, and the rocker boy makes a little fist pump.

“Fuck yeah, let’s kill this shit.” The two of them exchange high-fives as Windsor turns to Andrew.

“You’re experienced with polo, aren’t you?” Andrew nods and Windsor waves him over to his side.

“Well, screw you, too,” Creed says, taking up Tristan and Zayd’s side. He doesn’t even need a verbal invitation. The Idol boys might not like each other, but they stand together. They were even united in their cruelty. There’s a perverse sort of loyalty there, don’t you think?

“Miranda, my dear, if you would,” Wind says, and she squeals, throwing her arms around his neck. Tristan’s team is rounded out with one of the security guards, and everyone disperses to get ready.

Me, I end up being dragged to my room by Miranda and shown all sorts of articles on How to Dress for Polo. Like, really?

“You remember that scene in Pretty Woman, right? When Julia Roberts goes to the polo match?” I blink at her a few times, but I can’t remember if I’ve ever actually seen that movie. She waves her hand dismissively, parks my phone in my hand and points at the onscreen article. “Wear shoes you can walk on grass in, and something nice, but not too nice. You know what I mean?”

“Not real-” I start, but Miranda’s already sweeping out of the room to change out of her pretty fall-themed gold dress. I watch her go, sigh, and then sit down on the bed to go over the article.

An hour later, when we meet at the field, I think that maybe for once, I’ve dressed myself properly for the occasion. The boys’ eyes catch on me as I walk over to them in a short, white-lace dress with a cream sheath underneath. It only hits me at about mid-thigh, but I’ve got shorts on, too, just in case of a breeze. The top is long-sleeved to make up for the risque length, and I feel like it has a seventies vibe-but in a good way. Paired with a big straw hat, and low-heeled flats, I think I look pretty cute.

“Fuckable, as usual,” Zayd purrs, and my cheeks flush as I give him a

look and then flip him off. He just laughs at me and scoops me off my feet, spinning me around in a circle and then growling in my ear, so low that I know only I can hear it. “I’m looking for a repeat performance of the c

oncert. Don’t leave me hanging, Charity.”