Paper Princess (The Royals #1)(41)

Reed shoves the shirt at me. “Put this on.”

I don’t think twice. I yank the shirt over my head. When my head pops out of the neckhole, I see Jordan glaring bloody murder at me.

“Now get the hell out of here,” Reed snaps at me. “Get dressed and go home.”

A thirty-something man with balding hair marches forward. He’s wearing a coach’s uniform and a whistle around his neck, but I know he’s not the head coach, because I saw Easton in the hall once talking to Coach Lewis. This one must be the team trainer or something, and he looks livid.

“These girls aren’t going anywhere but the headmaster’s office,” he announces.

With a bored look, Reed turns to the man. “No, my sister is going home. Jordan can go wherever you tell her.”

“Reed,” the man warns. “You’re not in charge here.”

Reed sounds impatient. “It’s done. Over. They’re calm now.” He shoots us a pointed look. “Right?”

I nod curtly.

So does Jordan.

“So let’s not waste Beringer’s time.” Reed’s voice is commanding and forceful with a hint of amusement, as if he’s getting off on telling this older man what to do. “Because we both know he won’t take any action. My father will pay him off and Ella will get nothing but a slap on the wrist. Jordan’s father will do the same.”

The trainer’s jaw tightens, but he knows Reed is right, because he doesn’t argue. After a long beat, he spins around and blows his whistle, the piercing sound making all of us jump.

“I don’t see any lifting, ladies!” he booms.

The players who were egging on our catfight hurry back to their exercise stations like their asses are on fire.

Reed stays with me. “Go,” he orders. “We’ve got a game tonight, and now my guys are distracted because you’re dressed like a slut. Just get out of here.”

He stalks off, shirtless, his muscular back gleaming in the sun streaming in from the skylights. Someone tosses him another shirt and he slips into it on his way to his brother. Easton meets my eyes for a moment, his expression impossible to decipher, but then he turns to Reed, and the Royals talk in hushed tones to each other.

“Bitch,” a voice hisses.

I ignore Jordan and stalk away.





16





I don’t go to the football game. Wild horses couldn’t drag me to school tonight, not after everything that happened today. At least I was lively at the bakery. Still steaming from the fight, I tore around the little shop like a whirlwind. As Lucy was leaving, she made some comment about youth and energy and how she missed it.

I almost yelled after her that unless she liked assholes and bitches, she missed nothing, but I figured I shouldn’t be shouting at my boss.

I still can’t believe I physically assaulted Jordan Carrington.

I’d do it again, though. In a heartbeat. The bitch had it coming.

All I want to do tonight is hide in my room and pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist. That the Royals and their snobby friends don’t exist. But even in my self-imposed sentence of solitude, I can’t resist turning on the radio to the local station that’s covering the game.

Of course, the Royal brothers get plenty of coverage. Reed gets a sack against the opposing quarterback. Easton makes a play that causes the announcers to groan.

“Now that’s a hit.”

“Both of them are gonna be icing their ribs tonight,” the other announcer agrees.

Astor Park wins, and I sarcastically mutter, “Go team!” as I turn off the radio.

I do my homework as a distraction, but I’m interrupted by a text from Valerie. There’s a party tonight, she informs me, this time at someone named Wade’s house. She asks if I want to come over to her place instead and dance the night away. I decline. I’m not in the mood to pretend that everything is okay in my life.

I hate this school. I hate the people. Except Valerie, but I’m not sure even my quirky, energetic friend—my only friend—can make any of this torture worthwhile.

Eventually I wander downstairs to the kitchen, where I find Brooke sipping a glass of wine at the counter. She’s wearing a silky red dress, strappy heels, and an impatient expression.

“Hi,” I say tentatively.

She nods in greeting.

“Everything okay?” I grab a bag of corn chips from the pantry, then stand there awkwardly, wondering why I feel compelled to strike up a conversation with her.

“Callum’s late,” she answers, her voice tight. “We’re flying to Manhattan for dinner, but he’s not home yet.”

“Oh. Ah. I’m sorry.” They’re flying to Manhattan just to have dinner? Who does that? “I’m sure he’ll be back soon. He probably got held up at the office.”

She snorts. “Of course he got held up at the office. He fucking lives there, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Her harsh expletive makes me squirm.

Brooke’s expression softens when she notices my discomfort. “I’m sorry, sweetie. Ignore me. I’m a cranky bitch today.” She smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Why don’t you distract me while I wait? How was school?”

“Next question,” I say immediately.