“By hitting my sister?” Creed Cabot says, his voice sending a chill down my spine. I remember the way he tore Derrick Barr up with words last year, and then proceeded to flip him off the deck into the weeds. Scary. “And what did I say about homophobic garbage? I won’t stand for it.” He pushes his feet even harder into Craig’s throat, and I feel this little twinge inside of me. I’m not a proponent of violence, but … Creed’s message is a good one. Still, I keep recording. “Leave them alone.”
“But the Working Girl—” the first year chick sputters, and Creed’s eyes, normally half-lidded and lazy, snap up to her, sharp with rage. She retreats back a few steps and pinches her glossy red lips closed. A moment later, Tristan appears in the doorway with Ileana on his arm. She’s giggling and flirting until she sees her brother on the ground.
“Craig!” She pushes away from Tristan and stumbles forward, knocking Creed out of the way in her frenzy. As he bumps into me, my hand sneaks into his pocket and fishes out his keys. They’re in my own pocket before he realizes who he’s just bumped into, turning to look at me. He’s panting with rage, but he quickly closes his eyes, takes several deep breaths, and banishes the emotion. When he opens them back up, they’re the same lazy, insouciant eyes I’m used to.
As he stares at me, I lean down and switch out my flats for the heels he bought me last year, the ones with the gold moon and silver star designs.
“What do you think you’re doing here?” Tristan asks as Craig pushes up to his feet, choking and glaring at Creed. A good fourth of the crowd actually seems to be sympathetic towards him. Nice. This should have been my seventh rule: Create a divide between the Plebs and the Bluebloods. Craig Taittinger, as haughty and arrogant as he is, is still nothing but a Plebeian in the Burberry Prep social scene.
“Me?” I ask, sauntering up to Tristan and putting my hands on the front of his wool jacket. I trail them down, palms flat, as Tristan’s blade gray gaze narrows. I know what I look like, dripping diamonds, wearing a tight, gold dress and heels. A whole summer of working out and preparing myself for this moment, and it shows. I’m still curvy, but my body is much tighter. He can see it, I know he can. God, this is so weird, I think as I curl my fingers around the edges of his pockets. As far as I can tell, there are no keys inside.
I’ll have to look elsewhere.
“I’m here to party.” I push Tristan back, and he stumbles. But only because he’s not expecting the move. As Zayd watches us, still gaping, his eyes following me inside the door, I take off for the drink table and pour myself a beer. No way in hell I’m going to actually drink it, but when I see Harper du Pont glaring at me from across the crowd, I lift my cup in salute and pretend to take a chug. She sneers at me, but I just smile, waiting for Andrew, Miranda, and Jessie to catch up with me.
“What was that all about?” Miranda gasps, looking at me like she’s never seen me before. “Was that part of your revenge plot?”
“It just happened,” I say, which is true. It did. But there are certain ways to play this game, tips and tricks to set the Idols versus the Inner Circle, the Plebs versus the Bluebloods. When Harper’s gaze is safely averted, I dump my beer in the sink and fill the cup with water. Next time she looks, I really do chug the entire cup in one go, getting a few stray cheers from some first years who don’t quite know who I am yet.
“Well, that was scary,” Miranda says, exhaling and running her hands down the front of her dress. “Jessie, drink? I know I could use one.” Miranda starts mixing up two cocktails in red plastic cups while I peek out the back door and see, surprisingly, that the pool isn’t in use. It’s covered up with a tarp, but there’s water pooled on the top along with heaps of dead leaves, weighing it down so that it sags into the pool water. As surreptitiously as I can, I refill my cup.
I look back at Andrew.
“What are you planning?” he asks me, and I shrug. I’m sort of playing things by ear. I mean, I have a list, but … this is much better, this new idea I’m cooking up. “What do you need from me?”
“Can you help me find Tristan’s and Zayd’s keys?” I ask, and he raises both brows before Zayd pops into the kitchen and interrupts us. It’s awkward as hell when he pauses next to me and sighs, holding a beer bottle in his tattooed right hand. He clears his throat and tosses his chin in the direction of the living room.
