“You’re a jerk,” I spit out, feeling that hot anger surge up in me. “What on earth makes you think I’d ever get into your car?”
“Because you’re curious about what we’re doing,” Zayd says, his voice husky, his green eyes shimmering with mischief. He’s wearing a leather jacket, but it’s much edgier than mine, with a dozen random zippers, patches, and pins. He finishes his cigarette, tosses it aside, and crushes it with his boot before climbing onto the trunk and putting his boots in between the two front seats. “It’s why you followed me, right?”
“I …”
“You can sit on my lap,” Creed says, completely deadpan. He stares at me, searching my expression as I look between the three of them and weigh my choices. I can turn around and go back inside which is probably the smart decision. Or I can risk going with three guys that hate me just to satisfy my curiosity. My tongue runs over my lower lip in thought.
“Get in,” Tristan repeats, stepping close to me. He smells like cinnamon and peppermint, and I feel those little butterflies in my stomach take flight. They’re idiots, those insects of emotions, reacting to the beauty in Tristan’s face instead of the anger in his soul.
After a moment, I give in and head over to the passenger side door, opening it and looking at Creed’s lap with a wary eye. This is weird, Marnye, I think, but I shove the feeling aside and take a seat before I can think too hard about it.
Creed’s arm curls around my waist, and that familiar knot in my chest tightens up. My heart is pounding, pulse racing, as he closes the door, and I sit perched on his lap, facing toward Tristan as he climbs into the driver’s seat. When I shift slightly on his lap, Creed’s fingers dig into my side.
“Don’t wiggle like that; you’ll give me a hard-on,” he drawls, like his words are no big deal. Me, I gape and I wonder if I’ve just lived a sheltered life, or if these guys are just hedonistic as fuck.
“Seriously? I thought I was just a useless charity case?” Creed shrugs and leans in close, putting his lips near that sensitive spot between my neck and shoulder. His breath is warm, but I shiver when it feathers across my skin.
“Even whores have their purpose.” I raise my hand to slap him, but he grabs my wrist, squeezing just hard enough to make me cry out. As soon as he releases me, I finish what I started and crack my palm against his cheek. Tristan laughs, this low, cruel sound, as he starts up the sweet purr of the engine and takes off at such a rapid speed I’m worried Zayd’s going to tumble off the back into the gravel.
He just hollers in excitement and lifts his arms in the air like he’s on a rollercoaster.
Tristan does a few wild donuts on the gravel, making my stomach lurch and causing Creed’s arm to tighten even further around me as we’re thrown around inside the little sports car.
“I’m not a whore,” I grind out finally, when we stop spinning and take off down one of the dirt roads that lead deeper into the campus. Most of the third and fourth year classes are held in outbuildings spread throughout the vast acreage of Burberry Prep, but as a first year, there’s hardly any reason to come back here, so it’s all new to me.
“That’s right: you’re a virgin,” Creed amends, but he doesn’t sound any less disdainful. “My mistake.”
“How …” I start, and then realize I should’ve denied the accusation. My mouth flattens into a tight line as Tristan smirks from the driver’s seat.
“How fucking cliché. You really are pathetic, aren’t you.”
“Pathetic? Because I don’t screw everything that walks? If you ask me, you’re the one who’s pathetic. Have you ever cared about a single girl you’ve slept with?” Tristan’s hands tighten on the wheel, but he doesn’t respond, acting like I’m invisible again. I can’t decide what’s worse, being mocked or being ignored.
“Some guys have a thing for popping cherries,” Zayd remarks absently, like we’re discussing the weather. “Never been my thing. Sorry, but it’s so not attractive. I like a girl who knows what she’s doing.”
“Guess I’m not your type then,” I snap back, and he howls with laugher. Pig. Turning away, I try to focus on the changing leaves of the trees, the gorgeous yellow, orange, and red that dots the landscape, broken up by green lawns, and small brick buildings with gold-letter signage.
“Guess not,” Zayd murmurs, leaning forward and putting his elbows on his knees.
We rumble down the road, past the classrooms, taking a sharp left just before we hit the athletic fields, courts, and stadiums. There’s one for every sport: baseball, lacrosse, golf, track and field, tennis, football, soccer, cross country, hockey, basketball, squash, wrestling, swimming, and riflery. It’d be impressive, if I cared at all about sports.
