Stuck With The Four Hotties

“I’m saving all the pomp and circumstance for the former queen of the Idols,” I say, exhaling and running my fingers through my hair. It’s grown out so much. I’m trying to decide if I want to cut it all off again, or if it’s truly time to grow it out. I glance over at Creed, and notice that his eyes are sparkling. “That, and I’m just hoping I survive long enough to graduate.”

Creed and I both pause, looking over to find Harper holding her dark court in one of the gazebos. She glances over at us, sitting in the lap of some big guy I don’t recognize. I think he’s a second year. She flips me off, and we continue walking together, curving back around to head toward the chapel doors.

“We’re so close, Marnye,” Creed whispers, but even as I’m excited to finally get out of here, to escape the mean girls, to start a new life at Bornstead U, I’m dreading it, too. Because each day that passes, Charlie gets

sicker. Each day that passes, I get closer to making a decision I don’t want to make.

Choose between the filthy rich boys.

I’d rather fight the Harpies for the rest of eternity.

“If you insist on teaching me math, I’ll accept-provided, of course, you sit in my lap while I learn. I study best that way, with a giant boner tucked into my slacks.”

I facepalm and shake my head, but his crudeness is refreshing somehow.

It’s better than a bouquet of lies, now isn’t it?

“Come on, perv, and I’ll teach you some formulas.” I take his hand and pull him back into the building before the first few flakes of winter snow start to fall.

It feels good to be at school, studying like crazy and working to keep my grades up, so I can qualify for as many scholarships as possible. That, you know, and also kick Tristan’s ass and take top of the class.

Speaking of Tristan, we’re supposed to be working on an economics project together, but he’s been so damn cranky these past few weeks, I can barely get a word in before he stomps off. It’s frustrating as hell, trying to work with someone who won’t talk to me.

Even more frustrating when I’m trying to date that same, said person.

I’m sitting in The Mess with Zayd, watching surreptitiously as he pens lyrics on a napkin with a bright, red pen, when Isabella Carmichael walks in, dressed in the red skirt and black blazer of a first year. She comes right over to the high table and pauses beside me.

“Do you think we could have a moment?” she asks Zayd, batting her lashes prettily and tucking a few errant strands of brown hair behind one ear. Zayd looks at me for confirmation, raising his pierced brow in question.

“Yeah, of course,” I say, thinking about Dad’s whispered words. “I didn’t know she was mine, or I would’ve … I wouldn’t have let Jennifer keep us

apart.” Thinking about what he said, and about that bet Harper threw in my face, I feel sick to my stomach. “Maybe just sit at a different table for a minute?”

“Ah, I see how it is,” Zayd says, standing up and then pausing to turn back and grab my face, leveling me with a punishing kiss that makes me see stars. Isabella scowls at us as she tucks her skirt under her thighs and sits down, waiting until Zayd’s moved several tables away before she turns to me and smiles.

It’s not a very pretty smile, I’ll tell you that for sure.

“How’s your boyfriend doing by the way? Or should I say … boyfriends? I mean I’d heard from the Royals that you were called Working Girl for a reason, but I guess I didn’t want to admit I’d shared the same womb as a whore.”

“First off, your ‘Royals’ are nothing more than displaced despots. Second, slut-shaming doesn’t look good on anyone. Don’t do it. It makes you look like a hypocritical asshole.” I lean in, putting my elbow on the edge of the table. “Third … forget the Infinity Club, Isabella. There’s nothing but trouble for you there.”

“Like you’d know. It’s not as if you are or ever could be a member.” “Windsor York has asked me to marry him. On more than one occasion.

Don’t you think if I were to become a prince’s bride and find myself suddenly swimming in billions that I’d be welcomed with open arms?”

“So why don’t you?” Isabella asks, slamming her palm on the table and making the water glasses quiver. She glares at me with very familiar brown eyes, her mouth twisted into a pout. “Why, when you could be so much more than this, do you insist on slogging through?”

“Marrying a prince will elevate my status in your eyes, but working my ass off to get into my first-choice university means nothing?” I ask, and Isabella scowls at me.

“We might share blood, but you’re not my sister and never will be. Don’t try that kill them with kindness crap with me. It doesn’t work.” She lifts her chin and tosses her hair. “I am nothing like you. I … am a Carmichael.”

“A simple DNA test would prove otherwise,” I tell her, and she stands up, nostrils flaring.

“You know, I only came in here because I felt sorry for you.” She tosses her hair in a shiny wave. “My friends and I were getting together for a study

thing yesterday, and on our way past the girls’ chapel bathroom, Sharon announced she had to pee. We all took a detour, and well. It’s not looking good for you.”

“Just spit it out,” I murmur, leaning back in my chair and rubbing at my temple. Talking to Isabella makes me feel sick, like looking at a shattered illusion that’s now become distorted in a funhouse mirror.

“Tristan was in there, you know. Him and that Lizzie girl.” My mind flashes back to that moment when I found Tristan and Kiara in that same bathroom, and a wave of nausea sweeps over me. “We walked in and found him fucking your friend. Doesn’t that bother you?”

“Get out.” I rise to my feet and look her dead in the eye. “This is my school, my dining hall. Leave.”

“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but-” “Out. Now.”

Isabella smirks, and even though I know she’s doing this to bait me … it’s working. She rises to her feet, turns, and sashays her way out of The Mess, leaving bullshit and lies in her wake. Little sister, what the hell am I going to do with you?

Her words stab through me like a knife, and I feel myself bleeding emotions all over the floor.

“Are you okay?” Zayd asks, hopping back up on the dais and leaning down to look into my face.

It takes me several breaths to get control of myself, but I manage it. Just barely, but I do, looking up and into Zayd’s beautiful eyes. Even if Tristan’s chosen Lizzie, I’ll be okay, won’t I? I have Zack and Creed, Windsor and Zayd. It’ll just make my choice twenty-percent easier, right?

So why the fuck does it hurt so much?Content bel0ngs to Nôvel(D)r/a/ma.Org.

“I’m okay,” I tell him, taking his inked fingers and giving them a squeeze. It’s just rumors and gossip, that’s all that it is. Secrets like this are what caused so much damage with the former Bluebloods. Lies and bullshit.

I can’t take it seriously, not unless I talk to Tristan about it.

“You sure?” Zayd asks, kneeling down to look into my face. “Because if I have to kick that little girl’s ass to keep you happy, I’ll do it.”

“I know you would,” I say with a laugh, kicking out the chair Isabella was using and gesturing to it. “N

ow sit down, and let’s talk Becky Platter.”