Stuck With The Four Hotties

Despite all the partying and the drama, Burberry Preparatory Academy is the best high school in the country, and even students like Zayd and Windsor are full-up on coursework and extracurricular activities. Students like me and Tristan are completely swamped.

It takes me almost an entire week to get a moment to talk to the boys as a group. Creed and I have a study session in the library, and I invite the others to join us.

The five of them fan out across the long table, and it occurs to me that the way they each sit is indicative of their unique personalities. Creed slouches, Tristan sits with his back ramrod straight, Zayd kicks his heels up on the table, Windsor rests his elbows on the table and leans in close, and Zack sits with his arms folded tight across his broad chest.

I smile.

It isn’t until I start writing in my notebook again that it really hits me: I have a boyfriend. No, not just a boyfriend, five of them. Anyway, I start jotting my feelings down (and don’t worry, I hide my notebook inside the cabinet of my vanity, taped to the top above a stack of towels), and it’s only then that I truly realize what I’ve gotten into.

I agreed to date these guys. Date them. I have five freaking boyfriends.

They all have a streak of cruelty in them, a velvety stripe of darkness that’s woven into their souls. The question now is: can I channel that cruelty, that

darkness, into something positive?

“It’s so quiet in here,” Zayd says, leaning back in his chair and looking up at the decorative copper tiles on the soaring ceiling of the library. “No wonder I never come in here. The quiet stresses me out. I like noise.”

“We’re well-aware,” Creed drawls, waving a hand lazily around. “You talk just to hear your own voice; it’s constant.”

“How about you eat a bag of dicks?” Zayd replies, grinning and flipping Creed off. I let them do their thing for a minute, and then switch off my academy-issued iPad, tucking it into my bookbag. “What are we doing here anyway?” he continues, raising his pierced brow. “We should be in The Mess having dinner at the high table. God knows, Harper and her bald buddies are probably already in there.”

I smile because come on, the term bald buddies is hilarious.

“You guys didn’t tell me what you were planning at the party,” I say, and Windsor and Zack exchange a look before the prince turns back to me.

“Do you know what bet I made to get into the Infinity Club?” he asks, tilting his head to one side, a small grin working its way across his lips. “I’d wager it’s bloody killing you that you don’t know.” I purse my lips and narrow my eyes on him.

“It may have crossed my mind a time or two.”

“Ah,” Windsor says, leaning across the table and grabbing my hand. He puts my knuckles to his lips, his hazel eyes flashing a green-gold color as his grin doubles in size. “You’re lying now, and that was one of the rules, wasn’t it? No lies?”

“Fine. I’m dying to know, so tell me, for crap’s sake.” I take my hand back, and pretend to rub his kiss off on my red blazer. In all actuality, it’s tingling, and I wish he’d never stopped kissing it.

“I bet I could keep you safe until the end of second year.”

My mouth drops open, and Windsor and Zack exchange another look. Zack’s eyes are narrowed, his shoulders taut. He sighs heavily, but I can tell he’s relieved when he starts to talk.

“That night, in the amphitheater, when you went to make a bet with the girls and I sat with the boys … I bet them the same thing.” My brows go up. He’d told me he was going to make up some ridiculous bet that they’d never go for, just to distract them. Guess that’s not how things turned out. “I bet that I could keep you safe. Or rather, I tried to make the bet-and I came up

with the idea before he did.” Zack gives Windsor a look that the prince pretends not to notice.

“Okay …” I start as Tristan sighs. My mind is whirling. So Windsor met me, sensed an opportunity, and leapt on it. He saved me from the pool. He watched my back. Of course a bet was involved. Of Fourse the stupid Club was involved.

“And we didn’t take Zack’s bet because we didn’t have an interest in winning that wager,” Tristan says, turning to look at me for a moment.

“How the fuck was I supposed to know that?” Zack growls, and the two boys stare each other down.

“Who did you bet against?” I ask, redirecting my attention back to Wind.

He gives a tight smile, and shakes his head.

“Other members of the Club. Idiots. It doesn’t matter. Winning got me into the Club where I needed to be. I joined for you.” I shake my head, and then put my fingers up to my temples. Do I believe Windsor is trustworthy? Sure. But sometimes I think his motivations are questionable. He joined the Club for me, huh? I give him a look. “It’s true, whether you believe it or not.” He gives me this slow, confident, cocksure little smile that I don’t want to like but do anyway.

I lift my head and put my palms flat on the table.

“That doesn’t explain why you guys didn’t tell me your plan. I mean, it was a bit more heavy-handed than I would’ve gone for, but also sort of brilliant.” I grin as I think about the Company, and all the girls’ fancy new wigs. The boys are just dealing with their shiny bald heads. “Why not tell me? I mean, there is such a thing as lying by omission.”

“We want to protect you,” Zack says, his red and black letterman jacket pulled taut over his broad shoulders. Just looking at him reminds me of the weight of his body, the heat of his mouth. Ugh. Pretty sure I’ve spent the last few months just ogling the guys. I figure as long as I keep my grades up (I outranked Tristan during Parents’ Week again, so score for me) then I deserve a little indulgence. “And not just physically, but emotionally, too.”Belongs to NôvelDrama.Org - All rights reserved.

“What he’s trying to say is … let us be the assholes.” Zayd gives me a devilish little grin. “It’s what we’re good at, after all.”

“You have a sort of …” Creed trails off, waving his hand around lazily. I swear, when I close my eyes, I can just imagine him dressed in a blue velvet jacket with lace trailing from the sleeves, an arist

ocrat in a crumbling old castle.