The house we pull up to is several stories tall, and as wide as the academy’s main building. There are floor-to-ceiling windows along the entire length of the ground floor, and all of them are open, people spilling out into the front courtyard.
Zayd pushes his way through them with the car, rolling down the window and hooting as he slams on the horn. Nobody seems to care that he parks half on the front step, leaving the vehicle at an awkward angle.
“Come on, Charity,” Zayd says, holding out his hand for me. I have no choice but to take it, scooting across the driver’s seat to get out. Because of the way we’re parked, I can’t open my door; it’s blocked by a giant square of cement with a statue perched on the top. Zayd pulls me out and I stumble, falling into him. My heart pounds so loud that it drowns out the crowd around us. When he leans down and puts his mouth a hairsbreadth from mine, I stop breathing. If I inhaled, our mouths would meet. “You’re mine for the night, ‘kay? And I can be a very possessive asshole.”
I move to take a step back, and end up pressed against the side of the Maserati. Zayd puts his palms on either side of my shoulders, his smile a smoldering ember that threatens to fall and burn me.
“Fine, whatever,” I snap, feeling sweat trickle down my spine. “For the bet. Just make sure nobody bothers me tonight.” Zayd chuckles, and puts his face up against mine, murmuring against my skin.
“You got it, Working Girl.” He pushes up from the car and turns to head up the stairs, slapping palms with some of the other guys. Several girls glare at me, but none of them are in the Inner Circle, so I don’t know their names. Nobody’s been nice to me, and the Idols and Inner Circle have been the cruelest. Know thy enemies, right?
“Slut,” one of the girls spits as I walk up the steps. I turn to look at her, but she’s got on a pale blue Beverly Hills Prep jacket. The girl next to her, who I vaguely recognize from gym, is grinning maniacally. Using a student from another school to attack me. It’s sort of a brilliant move. “We’ve all heard about your exploits.”
“I’m not sure what exploits those are,” I tell her, a light breeze teasing my rose gold hair around my face. “But regardless, what right does that give you to harass me? You should probably take a women’s studies class or something, and read up on internalized misogyny.”
“The hell are you even talking about, you bitch dyke?” the Beverly Hills girl snaps, taking a step toward me.
“She’s telling you to fuck off, and I’m strongly encouraging it,” Zayd snaps, appearing at the top of the steps. Beverly Hills girl looks taken aback, but apparently even she knows who the Burberry Prep Idols are. “And Clarissa, you think you can work through a puppet and not get caught? You’re off the swim team for the season.”
“Zayd!” she cries out, but he’s hooking his arm through mine and pulling me up the steps. He pauses, once, at the top to look back at her. His face is as dark as Creed’s, but white-hot instead of ice-cold.
“Bother Charity again before the first, and risk your own neck. If I hear you’ve been at swim practice, you can forget going to the winter formal with Sai.” Zayd turns back around, and the anger disappears from his face. He escorts me through the massive front doors, and I do my best not to gape at the beauty of the house. Because, I mean, it does belong to Becky Platter, and she’s a horrible person, but …
“This house,” I start, blinking in shock, “looks just like the Magnolia Plantation in Charleston. It was built in 1676, and burned during the—”
The look Zayd throws me is nine parts confusion and one part peaked interest.
“You actually give a crap about that stuff? A house is a house, right? Who cares?” I roll my eyes, but he’s already dragging me past a curving staircase, original wood moldings, and across floors that I suspect might actually be cypress. Damn. Cypress is protected now, but back in the day, it was commonly used for building in the south. To see it in California is really weird, and speaks of great wealth. Either Becky’s family has always been rich, or else they bought this house from someone else with an affluent family legacy. “Dance floor’s this way.”
We move down a long hallway, filled with pictures of a smiling Becky and her family. Every single one of them is blonde and blue-eyed, all of them tall and thin. They stare at us as we pass through the shadowy hall with couples making out, and emerge into a giant ballroom of sorts.
