“I don’t answer to Harper,” Tristan says, narrowing his eyes.
“Working Girl came with me,” Zayd adds, not bothering to stand up. He’s leaning back in his chair, ankles crossed and feet resting on the table. He’s balancing on two chair legs, and I’m starting to wonder if he’s going to topple over. “And I also don’t answer to Harper. I don’t answer to Tristan either. Don’t talk to him like he’s the fucking king of the academy.”
“Harper and Becky are coming back early, thanks to you,” Abigail continues, lifting her chin. She doesn’t acknowledge me whatsoever. Valentina stands by her side, eyes narrowed, attention focused on my face. She wrinkles her nose like I’m the scum of the earth. “They’ll be here on Friday instead of Sunday.”
“Tell them not to bother,” Creed drawls, waving a hand around. “Charity here has earned herself a get out of jail free card. Until January first, she’s off-limits.” He also doesn’t bother to stand up, leaning back and lounging like he’s on a chaise instead of a hard, wooden chair.
Abigail’s mouth opens, but Ebony’s already grabbed Jalen’s hand and pulled him away before it gets ugly. Abigail’s boyfriend, Gregory Van Horn (yes, the same asswad who called me out on my first day) steps up to take his place beside her.
“We all agreed on this: she’s trash. She doesn’t belong at Burberry Prep. The other students are already talking about it, how the academy’s losing its prestige. With every peasant we let in the door, there are a dozen more clambering to get in.” Gregory ruffles up his shoulder-length brown hair and puts his arm around Abigail’s waist. “We all worked hard to be here. Our families worked hard for their money to send us here. And just because we have resources and she doesn’t, we’re automatically required to share? That’s fucking communist-fascist shit right there.”
I’m pretty sure Gregory Van Horn doesn’t know the meaning of all the words he’s just used.
“I worked hard to be here, too,” I blurt, and everyone turns to look at me, including the senator’s son, John Hannibal, who’s just waltzed up with a second-year girl on his arm. She’s in uniform … sort of. Her top’s unbuttoned, a lacy bra showing underneath. And her white skirt is rolled up so short that I’m surprised I can’t see her panties.
“Did we give you permission to talk, Working Girl?” Abigail snaps, and Tristan holds up a hand.
“I said, she’s off-limits,” he repeats, voice growing even colder and darker. There’s an unspoken threat there, too. Keep talking, and I will end you. I can practically hear him say it.
“So she gets to cheat her way to the top of the class, fuck Mr. Carter for first chair in harp, and suck up to Kathleen Cabot’s daughter looking for more free lunches? I know you enjoy having pets, Tristan, but you’re taking this one a little too far, don’t you think?” Abigail turns to me, her eyes flaring with heat. I remember her at the Halloween party, glaring at me while Zayd held me in his arms. “You might be fucking the Idols, but it won’t last. You’re called the Working Girl for a reason, right?”
“Abigail,” Tristan says, his voice softening. He’s a good actor, this one, and if I hadn’t seen him talking to Lizzie before then I might’ve believed his tone was genuine. “Come here.” She blinks at him, and Zayd chuckles. He knows something I don’t. Creed, too, based on the almost-smirk resting on his lips. “I said come here.”
She hesitates again, glancing at her boyfriend for comfort. He crinkles his brows, but doesn’t say anything.
“What’s wrong?” Tristan continues, smiling. It’s such an awful expression on him. I thought before that maybe it was because there was no joy in it. Now that I’m really looking, now that he’s focusing it on someone else so I actually have a moment to think, I realize that it’s scary because he does find joy in tormenting others. “You didn’t have any problem coming for me before.”
Abigail’s mouth drops open, and Gregory lifts himself to his full height.
“More Burberry Prep bullshit,” Zack mutters under his breath. He reaches down and takes my hand, burning a trail of fire up my arm. Creed notices and narrows his eyes, same with Andrew. Well, he doesn’t narrow his eyes but he does raise his brows. I pull my hand from Zack’s grip and cradle it against my chest.
“What’s he talking about?” Greg asks as Abigail’s eyes lock on Tristan’s face. She looks scared … but hopeful, too. Greg’s brown gaze darts between the two of them. “Abi?”
“Aren’t you going to tell him?” Tristan asks, raising an eyebrow. “I can’t exactly ask you to the winter formal if he doesn’t know.”
“Know what?” Greg asks, and Abigail’s eyes go dark.
