Stuck With The Four Hotties

I give him a look.

“Remember our little conversation?” Windsor asks, spinning the wooden sword in a circle as the Company boys look on suspiciously. I think the prince might actually be able to kick their asses with it if he wanted to. That is, until he gets a scolding and a mark from Ms. Highland for messing with props he’s not supposed to be touching.

“Our turn to play dirty,” Zayd whispers, pushing me toward the stairs. I do as he asks, taking the seat between Miranda and Lizzie.

The stage lights darken, and the song starts up. Slowly, the spotlight fades to life and Harper turns around, grabbing the microphone and singing Mariah’s notes in a fairly impressive imitation of the famous song. I guess there’s a reason she’s head of the choir.

Once she starts dancing however, I can’t keep the giggles back.

“She looks like a deranged snow bunny,” I whisper, and both Miranda and Lizzie join in. The other girls-Becky, Ileana, Abigail, Valentina, Kiara, Mayleen, Anna, and Ebony-join in with a choreographed dance, taking up mics of their own.

The whole thing is just … it’s hilarious. I’m sorry, I try not to belittle others, but the girls tried to kill me, so I figure they’re fair game for an honest critique.

About halfway through the song, when I’m pretty sure I just can’t take it anymore … nine Pleb boys that I barely recognize appear from behind the curtain, moving up behind the girls while they’re busy singing and focusing on the audience.

Wigs get snatched, and there’s chaos, the song playing in the background with the faintest hint of Mariah’s vocals crooning through the speakers. Harper’s pterodactyl screech echoes in her mic just before the boys retreat back like they’re expecting something more.

That’s when viscous red pours down from above, coating the Harpies from head-to-toe as they scream.

This time though, I don’t think it’s paint. Creed wasn’t lying. No, my boys have gone full-out: this is blood.

The whole room is silent as the song nears the end, and Tristan and Creed appear from the opposite side of the auditorium, sliding surreptitiously into two empty seats. Zack, Windsor, and Zayd come out just after, sitting on the end of the front row about ten seats down from me.

Harper is standing there panting and shaking, her girls on either side of her, most of them crying.

The curtain tumbles down in front of them, and there are panties pinned all over it.

Holy … freaking crap.

The music fades out, and the auditorium bursts into laughter.

It’s a good thing I go out of town for the cheer competition: blood is being shed at Burberry Prep. Now, when I took revenge, I let them hang themselves with their own rope. My boys … are definitely stretching the rules a bit with their creativity. They chisel cruelty into flawless perfection much the same way as a sculptor chips at marble or stone.

It’s impressive, and a little scary, too.

During the short trip to L. A., I volunteer to share a room with Coach Hannah (there’s an odd number of us so someone has to do it), and I make very certain that I don’t drink or eat anything that hasn’t just come from a sealed container or wrapper. You’d best believe I’m hyper-aware of my hair, too. No way am I letting them surprise me with a buzzer.

We manage to take home a silver medal which is impressive, considering the disharmonious atmosphere in the team.

When I get back, I find the boys bruised from a fight. Not a single one of them managed to escape unscathed.

“What happened?” I ask, reaching up to gingerly brush my thumb against the shiner on Windsor’s left eye. He grins and captures my wrist with such a quicksilver motion that my heart skips a beat. He kisses the inside of my wrist and makes me gasp when he flicks his tongue against my pulse.

“Pretty much what you’d think, love. Got into a nasty row in the courtyard.”

“They fight dirty, too,” Creed drawls, touching the scratches down his cheek. That’s the mark of a lady fight right there.

“The girls were in on it, too?” I ask, and Zack nods.

“We didn’t hit them, if that’s what you’re worried about. We’ve got some integrity, but that made the seventeen-on-eight odds a little worse for wear. If we hadn’t had Lizzie there, it would’ve been a lot worse. She took on Harper for you.”

“I tried to anyway,” she says, sporting a split lip. At least she’s still got all her hair.ConTEent bel0ngs to Nôv(e)lD/rama(.)Org .

“Seventeen-on-eight …” I start, thinking about the lineup. Okay, so all nine Harpies, eight Company boys, and a partridge in a pear tree, right? Versus my boys, Lizzie, Andrew, and Myron. Or at least that’s my guess. Miranda doesn’t have a mark on her. “God.”

“It was so worth it,” Creed continues, slapping at his twin when she tries to put a warm washcloth to his face. “They ambushed us in the dark with

buzzers and scissors. Idiots. We were all wearing fucking hats. We’re not stupid.”

“Did you go looking for trouble?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest. “Trouble finds us,” Tristan purrs from his seat in the corner. He’s sitting in

a huge black leather armchair that looks like the perfect reading chair. We’re in his dorm in Tower Three. I’ve actually never been here before. Did you know that it has a freaking fireplace? I’m so jealous. “We don’t have to look for it.”

“Are any of them going on the San Francisco trip?” I ask, but Tristan just shakes his head. He doesn’t know. Great.

“Things are going to get worse before they get better, huh?” I ask, feeling this awful choppy churning sensation in my stomach. It’s guilt, is what it is. All of this is because of me. True, the boys said they wanted to take this on, but … this isn’t just their fight.

I need to step it up.

“Don’t,” Zack whispers, putting his big hands on my shoulders and squeezing, kneading my tight flesh with strong fingers. Oh my god. I’d love to get a naked, oily massage from him … Ahem. “I can see it written all over your face: trust us to take care of this. Focus on kicking Tristan’s ass in academics, okay?”

Tristan narrows that blade gray gaze of his, and I know that even though we’re dating, that doesn’t mean he won’t try his hardest to take my spot at the top of the class.

“Let us worry about the Infinity Club,” he says, and there’s something in his voice that tells me he doesn’t just mean the junior version. A shiver slides down my spine, but I nod, and I make damn sure from that point on that I keep the baseball bat I borrowed

from the gym next to my bed when sleep.