My gaze lifts to his cold, cruel face, his porcelain skin and angelic hair. And those eyes of his, like chips of ice, blue but cold as winter. His heavy lidded expression makes him look bored and tired, like at any moment he might just lie down and take a nap like a cat.
“Tristan wanted me to talk to you about something,” he says, his voice cocksure and drawling, like it’d be too much to speak up or enunciate. For a split-second, I think he’s talking to me which is just stupid because, like, why would he be? He’s staring at his sister, but he hasn’t bothered to take a step back from me. We’re so close that if I were to breathe in deep, my breasts would brush up against the slightly rumpled fabric of his white shirt. “Do you have a second? Or are you too busy giving charity to the working class?”
“I don’t have anything to talk about with you,” Miranda says, flicking a glance in Andrew’s direction. He pretends not to notice, but I swear, there’s something going on here that I’m not getting. It’s bugging the crap out of me, but I’m afraid to ask. These two are the only ones in the whole school that I feel comfortable with, and I refuse to mess that up. “Not when you’re treating Marnye like she doesn’t exist.”
“Oh, I’m aware she exists,” he says, still looking at his sister, and lifting long fingers up to tousle his white-blonde hair. “Trust me: we’re all very aware she’s here.” He turns his attention over to me, and I’m forced to take a step back. Just the weight of his stare is enough, like a physical push to the chest. “What I don’t understand is why she’s still here.”
“She is standing right in front of you,” I grind out, remembering Creed’s face on the yacht, his bored, almost put-out expression as Tristan torched the book. “You can throw whatever you want at me. I might bend, but I won’t break.”
In a flash, Creed’s long fingers are on my chin, lifting my face to look at him. My skin, where his fingertips touch it, tingles and burns. Swallowing down a lump, I force myself to look him straight in the face.
“Made of stronger stuff, hmm?” he asks, tilting my head from side to side like he’s studying me. I slap his hand away, and take another step back. The way his mouth twists to the side in an arrogant smile is disturbing, so self-assured and cocky. I’d love to see it wiped right off of his face.
“You should’ve read her scholarship essay,” Miranda interjects, rising to her feet. I’m aware that the entire room is focused on our confrontation. “Marnye is a class-act, unlike you. I know Mom and Dad have given up on you, but I expected better.” She moves around the table and grabs my arm, dragging me away as her brother tucks his fingers into his slacks pockets, watching us with narrowed eyes.
But if I cowered every time one of the Idols looked at me like a bug to be crushed under their expensive loafers, I’d already be enrolled in Lower Banks High and long-gone from Burberry Prep Academy.My dad’s been purposely avoiding my calls. I haven’t been able to talk to him once since I got here. Instead, I get missed calls and vague voicemails. Pretty sure he’s been drinking again, but there’s nothing I can do from here, a day’s drive away and trapped in a hell of my own.
Parents’ Week is supposed to start off with a special breakfast, and a speech from both the dean and the infamous Kathleen Cabot. My dad—and by proxy, me—has already missed that. I’m the last student sitting in the front courtyard, waiting for her parents to show up.
Well, second to last, really.
Zayd Kaiser leans against the stone wall of Tower Two, arms crossed over his chest, green eyes focused on the horizon. They’re devoid of expectation as he watches the winding road and taps his inked fingers against the leg of his slacks.
When he sees me looking at him, he scowls and turns away.
“My dad’s on tour right now. What the fuck is your parents’ excuse? Too busy working at the factory?”
“There’s nothing wrong with working at a factory,” I grind out, my jaw clenched tight, “but no, my dad will be here.” I’m not about to explain to Zayd that I’m worried he’s too drunk, that he passed out somewhere, that he forgot. That’d just give him more ammo to throw at me, and even without a whole lot, the Idols are doing a damn good job gunning for me. “He’ll be here,” I repeat, crossing my arms over my chest and shivering at the cool breeze. I’ve always disliked October and the cold chill of fall. While everybody else was going to the pumpkin patch with their families, trick-or-treating, having big Thanksgiving get-togethers, it was just me and Dad struggling to get by.
