I hate cancer.
I fucking hate it.
I stand up suddenly, and everyone goes quiet around me.
When I walk off by myself, nobody bothers me.Our Thanksgiving meal is … cooked by Zack and Windsor. It’s a little weird to see them working together, especially at something other than bullying rich girls. Two filthy rich boys doing domestic chores. It’s kind … of cute.
Zayd’s also put on an apron, but mostly he just sits on the edge of the countertop and takes bites of things that are either half-cooked or too hot.
A beautiful rough-hewn wood table sits outside, decorated with gourds and pumpkins and clusters of freshly harvested grapes. We all sit together and eat, and the boys manage to keep their usual barbs and jibes at one another to a minimum. Charlie is laughing, the baseball cap he’s wearing casting strange shadows over his face.
I wear the charm bracelet he gave me during second year, and hold his hand through most of the meal.
Afterward, Windsor challenges the other boys to a polo match.
“I will watch, but that’s the best I can do,” I say, wanting to stay by Charlie’s side. Wind nods, and crosses one arm over his chest, tapping at his chin with a single finger.
“We need two teams of four.” He points at Tristan, the edge of his mouth curving up in a smirk. “What do you say, play opposite me as a team captain?”
“Fine by me,” Tristan says, and the two of them exchange a long dark look. “You want to make a wager out of it?”
“No, no, just a little friendly competition.” Windsor smirks as Tristan narrows his gray eyes.
“Right. Well, then, take your pick, Captain.”
“Zack,” Wind says, because really, he’s the obvious pick for anything even remotely sport related. “You do know how to play, don’t you?”
“Tell me the rules, and I’ll figure it out,” Zack says, giving Tristan a challenging sort of stare.
“Zayd,” Tristan retorts, and the rocker boy makes a little fist pump.
“Fuck yeah, let’s kill this shit.” The two of them exchange high-fives as Windsor turns to Andrew.
“You’re experienced with polo, aren’t you?” Andrew nods and Windsor waves him over to his side.
“Well, screw you, too,” Creed says, taking up Tristan and Zayd’s side. He doesn’t even need a verbal invitation. The Idol boys might not like each other, but they stand together. They were even united in their cruelty. There’s a perverse sort of loyalty there, don’t you think?
“Miranda, my dear, if you would,” Wind says, and she squeals, throwing her arms around his neck. Tristan’s team is rounded out with one of the security guards, and everyone disperses to get ready.
Me, I end up being dragged to my room by Miranda and shown all sorts of articles on How to Dress for Polo. Like, really?
“You remember that scene in Pretty Woman, right? When Julia Roberts goes to the polo match?” I blink at her a few times, but I can’t remember if I’ve ever actually seen that movie. She waves her hand dismissively, parks my phone in my hand and points at the onscreen article. “Wear shoes you can walk on grass in, and something nice, but not too nice. You know what I mean?”
“Not real—” I start, but Miranda’s already sweeping out of the room to change out of her pretty fall-themed gold dress. I watch her go, sigh, and then sit down on the bed to go over the article.An hour later, when we meet at the field, I think that maybe for once, I’ve dressed myself properly for the occasion. The boys’ eyes catch on me as I walk over to them in a short, white-lace dress with a cream sheath underneath. It only hits me at about mid-thigh, but I’ve got shorts on, too, just in case of a breeze. The top is long-sleeved to make up for the risqué length, and I feel like it has a seventies vibe—but in a good way. Paired with a big straw hat, and low-heeled flats, I think I look pretty cute.
“Fuckable, as usual,” Zayd purrs, and my cheeks flush as I give him a look and then flip him off. He just laughs at me and scoops me off my feet, spinning me around in a circle and then growling in my ear, so low that I know only I can hear it. “I’m looking for a repeat performance of the concert. Don’t leave me hanging, Charity.”
I smack him in the chest, and he sets me on my feet, almost triumphantly.
“Are you guys really gonna play a game without a bet?” I ask Zack, as Windsor comes trotting over on the back of his beautiful black horse. Apparently its name is Bergamot. You know, like bergamot oil in earl grey tea. Not surprising, right?
“Pretty sure this whole game is about showing off whose cock is the biggest,” Zack says, eyes narrowed as he glances over at the prince.
