Stuck With The Four Hotties

“Don’t you dare call my mother a whore again,” I say, and there’s ice in my voice, shards of it that seem to cut.

“A spade’s a spade,” Harper says, shrugging her thin shoulders and smirking. “You’re lucky your fancy prince trotted in on his white horse to

save you and your soon-to-be-dead dad, or I would’ve bought that house and knocked it down in front of you.” She smirks, and keeps talking, like she’s completely unaware of the anger burning inside of me. Tristan watches us carefully, almost like he’s holding back, curious to see what I might do. “Did I mention I already own the trailer park where that stupid Train Car of yours is? That’s right.” She steps toward me when my eyes widen and reaches out to pick some imaginary lint from my uniform. “Didn’t your new boyfriends tell you? My father knew the man who owned it, so he bought it without it ever touching the market. Your boy toys tried to win it for you at the Club meeting, but they lost. Just like they lost so many other things that week. Have they talked about it? Any of it?”

“I don’t care what happened at the Infinity Club meeting,” I say, reaching down with a shaking hand to pull the giant bandage off my hip. The infinity symbol with the slash through it shows, and several of the girls gasp. That’s when it hits me.

Maybe Isabella … is trying to get into the Infinity Club? I look past Harper again, but my little sister won’t look at me. The little sister I always wanted, that I dreamed about, that I asked after for years … and she won’t even look at me.

“Fuck the Infinity Club,” I tell Harper, raising my voice, so every student in that hall can hear me. Not that it matters anymore: there’s not a single person at the academy who doesn’t know about the Club-staff included. I know that now. “My friends tell me all I need to know.”

“Sure they do,” Harper says, flicking a look back at Tristan. “I’m sure Mr.

Vanderbilt over here’s been a wealth of information.”

“You’d best keep that silicone plumped trap of yours shut, before I close it permanently,” Tristan growls, and there’s a darkness in his voice that makes me shiver. He sounds awful, a veritable well of hostility and neatly suppressed rage. It’s like all of that wild anger and hate inside of him as been honed down to a fine diamond’s point. Sharp, unbreakable.

“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.

“Fight for one’s love … huh?” His voice trails off, and he scowls, turning away and cursing under his breath. I take a step forward, my hand reaching out and then dropping by my side. I want to tell him … that I’m jealous as all get-out, that I don’t like knowing Lizzie fought so hard to get past her parents’ objections because that means that now, she’s got a clear shot to him.

“The lifestyle he’s accustomed to …” I start, watching as Tristan pauses next to one of the waiting limos and turns around to look at me. He crosses

his arms over his chest and raises both dark brows in question. I start to move forward, but slowly, as the thought dawns on me.

Even if Tristan and I both got into Bornstead (we will, considering one of us is going to be valedictorian and the other salutatorian-I better be the former) and worked our asses off, got good degrees and even better jobs, it’s likely he’d never live the Vanderbilt lifestyle again. The best he could really hope for is upper middle-class.

What if that’s a deal breaker? What if I’m holding him back?NôvelDrama.Org: owner of this content.

Aaaaand, there it is. You’re letting Harper win, letting her get to you. This is exactly the sort of poison dart she meant to throw.

Exhaling and squaring my shoulders, I take off toward the limo and climb in.

When Tristan gets in behind me, I scoot right onto his lap, grab his face in my hands and kiss him.

The sensation of our mouths touching is sharp, almost painful, like he’s cutting me with a knife and making me bleed, but then healing me right after. Pain, pleasure. Sharpness, soothing. A dichotomy. Tristan Vanderbilt’s mouth, much like Zayd Kaiser’s tattoos, is a warning.

I’m hot and wild, and desperate for your touch … but stay away from me or you’ll taste my venom.

With a groan, I pull away from him, and he looks at me like I might be the most confusing thing he’s ever encountered in his entire life.

“I hate football games,” he tells me, but he lets me pull him out of the car anyway, leaving me only when I’m

safely deposited next to Coach Hannah.