Stuck With The Four Hotties

I thought you were hurting enough. But if I’d wanted to, I could’ve gone a lot further. Look, I’m giving you a fair shot at him because I want him to be the one to make the decision, but what you did to me was wrong. I hope you truly realize that.”

I take off, and then pause when I hear the clattering sound of broken glass, glancing back over my shoulder to see that Lizzie’s knocked her coffee cup and saucer to the floor. She’s quite literally panting with frustration, but I don’t have the time to deal with it.

Something else is going on with her, and it has nothing to do with me.

Later that same day, when I’m walking out of The Mess with Miranda by my side, Harper comes storming down the hallway in a violent rage. She pauses next to me, teeth gritted, and jabs me in the chest with a finger.

“I’m biding my time, but when I finally do deal with you, Reed, you are fucking dead. Do you hear me?” She shoves me back, and Miranda goes for her, but I hold her back, waiting until Harper’s around the corner before I let go. I’m about to head off in search of Wind when he finds me, like he always does.

He chucks something at me, and I catch it, realizing quite quickly that it’s not something I want to be holding onto at all. It’s a wet, soggy bra. Not mine, most definitely. Somebody else’s.

“Eww.” I drop it and Wind catches it in quick fingers, tossing it into the nearby trash can before Ms. Felton and Mrs. Collins come around the corner with a sobbing Ileana between them. She’s holding her hand over her chest and weeping.

“I promised you I’d deal with her.”

“Windsor,” I start, a warning note in my voice. He looks back at me with a dark expression that quickly morphs into a hunger that my body responds to, even if my brain rebels against it. “What did you do?”

“I posted Ileana’s private messages to Harper on Becky’s Facebook page. Becky …” He pauses again as Becky Platter rages past us, barely glancing in our direction. “As I was saying, Becky shoved her down the stairs and poor Ileana landed chest first. I think … you wouldn’t say pop …” Wind snaps his fingers and smiles at me while Miranda gapes at him. “I think you’d call it rupturing. Her breast implant ruptured. I know you abhor violence, but to be fair, even I couldn’t have predicted the outcome.”

“Her boob … ruptured?” I ask, and then I wipe my hands desperately on the front of my uniform. “What was I just touching then?!”

“Oh, that? When they got in a fight at the bottom of the steps, Becky snapped Ileana’s bra and tore it off. I simply picked it up. The wetness is just bottled water that Becky threw on her first. Like you said, let them hang themselves, right?” He shrugs. “I couldn’t have done a better job myself.”

I almost feel sorry for Ileana. That is, until I remember she tried to drown me, then brand me. That, and whatever she said about Becky must’ve been bad for things to go down that way. Still, that’s sort of a horrible way to go.

“Why do the mean girls in books and movies always have breast implants?” Miranda murmurs under her breath, reaching up two fingers to touch the side of her head. “It’s like, somehow demonizing women for daring to follow the patriarchal ideals of beauty and femininity is somehow satisfying to the masses?”

“Or … she fell down the stairs and landed on her chest after Becky read that Ileana purposely snooped in the Platters’ home office and leaked confidential papers regarding the family business. There’s that, too.” Windsor pauses, exhales, and then lifts his palms up toward the stone ceiling. “I’m not one to pass judgement on good fortune, but I also feel like I still owe you, Marnye. Wait for it. I’ve got other ideas in store for you.” He gives me a quick kiss on the cheek, then a slow, languorous one on my lips, and then stands up to straighten out his black tie and blazer.

When he takes off that time, I know he’s up to no good. And that his no-good … actually looks really good on him.

The week before winter break, I’m desperately trying to juggle schoolwork, worry for Charlie, and the last of my revenge plots before school lets out. Also, I’m trying really hard not to have a heart attack because I have a half- dozen emails in my inbox, just waiting to be opened.

One is from Bornstead University, located in northern Colorado, the school of my dreams.

Everything I’ve suffered, everything I’ve worked for … it all comes down to this moment, doesn’t it? This one, final moment.

“I can’t do it.” I push the tablet aside and put my hands over my face. I’m shaking all over. “I can’t look at it. Somebody else open it.”

“Nah, babe,” Zayd says, pulling me into his lap and nuzzling his face in the spot between my neck and shoulder. “You’ve worked your ass off for this. We can’t take that glory away from you.”Exclusive © material by Nô(/v)elDrama.Org.

“You can’t, but I can,” Creed says, taking the tablet and giving the first of the emails a tap with his finger.

“You say glory, but …” My heart sinks as I imagine reading rejection letter after rejection letter. I stuck at Burberry Prep, despite all the horror, because I wanted the best high school education possible. Good high school means good college means good job means … I can take care of Charlie for the rest of his life, give him a good retirement. I always promised I’d buy him a speedboat as a gift when he turned sixty. “It might be all heartache.”

I’m only half-serious really because even though I’m worried about Bornstead-it is the most prestigious school on this half of the United States

-I know I’ll get in somewhere. If my plans work out, I’ll be valedictorian

(sorry, Tristan, but you can be salutatorian with my congrats) and I’m basically guaranteed a spot at most four-year schools.

“This first one, from Brown …” Creed trails off, his voice tight. “It’s a rejection.”

Zayd stiffens with his arms around me, and I feel my lunch threatening to come up in my throat.

No.

No fucking way.

Brown should … that should’ve been a sure thing. I spin around, and find Creed shaking as he stares at the screen, his eyes half-lidded and heavy, but his face so tense that he looks like he could bite and it would hurt.

“This can’t be,” he whispers, selecting the next email. “Fuck.” I don’t need to be an expert in the language of lazy bad boys to know that the word fuck roughly translates to rejection. “No. How …”

“Early admissions letters are in,” Harper purrs as she saunters up to us and tickles Creed’s blond hair with her finger. He slaps her hand away so hard, there’s an audible crack that causes the entire student lounge to fall silent. The only noise in that room is the click of the toy train on its tracks around

the Christmas tree. “I hope you like your results, Working Girl. I pulled some favors, same as your little friend over here. But the difference between a Cabot and a du Pont is that money doesn’t always have as much pull as a good game of golf with old friends.”

“You fucking snake,” Creed snaps, standing up so quickly that the iPad falls to the floor. He grabs Harper by her tie and yanks her close. The move doesn’t wipe the smirk off her face, but the murmuring in the lounge starts up anew. “I should’ve fucking known.”

Harper pushes Creed’s hand off her and steps back, letting her eyes swing over to mine.

“I hear they have a great community college in Cruz Bay. I’m sure you’ll fit right in with the rest of the peasant trash.” Creed goes to shove Harper, but I move forward and wrap my fingers around his arm to hold him back, Zayd backing us both up from behind. I know these boys. They will beat the shit out of Harper du Pont if given the chance, regardless of her gender.

“She’s not worth it,” I say, trying to hold back this wash of devastation. I stayed at this school, and I suffered and for what? Of course, I know I’ve gained more over my three and a half years here than just a good schooling. Miranda and Andrew, they

‘re the type of friends you keep for life.