“Did he tell you,” Harper starts, backing up into the sea of girls as Tristan takes a step forward. He very much looks like he’d enjoy hitting her. Instead, he adjusts the silver Burberry Prep crest cufflinks at his wrists. “Did he tell you,” Harper repeats, clearly enjoying herself as she glances my way, “that Lizzie actually made a bet with her parents? She’s free and clear of her engagement obligations now. Tristan … Lizzie, a match made in heaven. She can afford him the type of lifestyle he’s so used to living. Can you do that, Working Girl?” she asks, looking me dead in the face, her lips curved into a devil’s smile. No wonder Miranda used to call the Idols devils and the Inner Circle demons; it fits. “If you and Tristan ride off into the sunset together, can you give him the standard of living he’s accustomed to?”
“Harper,” Tristan says, reaching out. Becky and Ileana act like they think he’s going to hit her, and the other girls crowd forward like they’re willing to beat the shit out of both of us, here and now. I don’t doubt their ability; I was victim to it once before. “Stop being so jealous.” He curls strands of her red hair around his fingers, and she watches him with narrowed eyes. Clearly, she expects scissors. And rightfully so. “Here’s the thing: you’ve thoroughly pissed me off now. I mean, I thought you’d done it before, but kudos.” He yanks on her hair and jerks her forward, and she slaps him away with a scowl. “You’ve really and truly incited me.” He narrows his blade-gray gaze on her. “I’d rather be a charity case … I’d rather be a homeless fucking drunk than married to a speed-addicted whore with too much plastic surgery.”
“Takes one to know one,” Harper snaps back, acting like she’s not bothered at all by Tristan’s words. Watching them exchange blows is painful, like two sets of knives being thrown across the hall. I can’t take it. “How many girls did you sleep with during first year? Two dozen? Three dozen? More?”
Tristan grits his teeth and opens his mouth, but I’m already stepping between the two of them.
“No bullying,” I tell him, looking into his eyes, “not even toward her.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snaps, but I mean it. I intend to be queen here, even over the king. I’ve made up my mind. The boys might be the muscle behind my rise to social power at Burberry Prep, but they’re too cruel to rule on their own.
“Not even toward her. Let’s go.” I take off down the hall, pausing just once to glance back and look at Isabella. “And if you have to do this Infinity Club thing, there are other sponsors, you know.” I turn back around and take off, and surprisingly enough … Tristan follows.
“You’re going to wish you’d never met me—either of you,” Harper calls out from behind us, but I’m done with her. “You’re going to fucking bleed for this!”
Tristan and I take off down the hall, but when I reach for his hand, he pulls away. His face is tight and dark, like thunderclouds have rolled over his expression. He won’t look at me.
“Are you angry because I stopped you from retaliating?” I ask, but he just briefly glances my way. Dressed in his fourth year uniform, he’s intimidating as fuck, I’ll admit that. Doubly so when we step outside and he pens me against the wall.
“What do you think about what she said, about Lizzie?” I blink back at him, breathing in his cinnamon and peppermint smell, my heart bouncing around inside my chest like a kid in a blow-up castle.
I look to the side, toward the waiting cars that’ll take us out to the football field.
“I think … what Lizzie did to free herself of an unwanted engagement and take control of her own destiny is admirable.”
“Right.” Tristan clacks his teeth together and pushes up off the wall, crossing his arms over his chest and lording over me in a way that makes me want to squirm. Well, it’s true, I think, but I know I’m pretty much bullshitting myself. My current urge is to excuse myself to my dorm, so I can punch something soft and fluffy—preferably that new pink feather pillow with the fur on it that says Princess that Windsor got me for my birthday (I hate it by the way, and I’m pretty sure he knew I would). “You think it’s admirable how hard Lizzie Walton is fighting to be with me?”
“It takes courage to fight for one’s love, particularly in the face of adversary,” I continue, and Tristan makes this choking sound in his throat which somehow still manages to sound aristocratic and elegant. What do I know? Maybe being born of such a long and distinguished line really does make his blood blue? If I were to make a noise like that, I’d sound like a coughing donkey.
