Bad, Bad Bluebloods (Rich Boys of Burberry Prep #2)(11)

“It’s not …” she begins, and I nod. No way. Sure, I bet the bodyguard would keep the Bluebloods away from me. But that’s all he would do. I’d still have to see Tristan’s gray gaze from across the room, hear Zayd’s raucous laughter, listen to Creed entertaining his subjects in The Mess. “Well, if you change your mind, Kyle will be patrolling the campus. We’re taking this bullying thing very seriously.” I nod and start to move away when Ms. Felton puts a hand on my arm. “If you want to take your meals in your room, we’ve made those arrangements with the kitchen.”

I give her a tight smile and pull away.

I can feel their eyes on me as I head up the steps, my white second-year skirt billowing in a breeze.

My feet move just fine until I hit the stained glass doors at the end of the outdoor corridor.

You can do this, I tell myself, breathing hard, pulse racing. Your uniform is clean and pressed, you’ve got on a garter belt and the thigh-high socks you didn’t bother with last year. Your hair is done, your makeup … passable, extensions on your lashes, brows waxed. My breath exhales, and I pull out a tube of bright red lipstick, smearing it across my mouth and then checking my teeth in a small compact mirror. I start to head in and then pause, smiling as I roll the waistband of my skirt.

“Here goes nothing.”

I push inside the chapel building, and the hall goes silent. Dead silent. There are students everywhere, in every year of uniform, and they’re all staring at me. The only sound is that of my shiny black dress shoes clacking across the stone floors as I hold my bookbag over one shoulder and march down the hall with my shoulders straightened, my chin up, my back ramrod straight.

My locker is in the same place as last year, the keys to my dorm tucked in my bag. I head straight for the chapel hall for morning announcements, wishing Miranda were here. I texted her back a simple but critical: see me at lunch in The Mess, but now I’m phone-less with no way to contact her. Patching things up with Andrew felt good. I want … I need the same thing with my best friend, the only one I’ve ever really had.

Instead, I turn the corner and run straight into an ambush.

Tristan Vanderbilt is even more terrifying than I remember.

He stands at the point of the Blueblood crowd behind him, arms crossed over his second-year uniform: white pants, white shirt, white jacket, and red tie. He looks good in it, too, which I hate him for. Those blade gray eyes of his narrow on me, and my throat tightens.

I can’t do this, my brain shrieks, wanting to panic, to run. But my heart was forged in fire. I stay put.

“Well, well, well, the Working Girl showed back up for a second round.” His voice is dark, shadowed with wicked intent, and his smile is terrifying. It’s obvious he’s enjoying this moment, reveling in it really. I expected that. What I didn’t expect is the pain, the fury. The two emotions fill me to the brim, until I feel like I’m spilling over. My hands shake.

“I told you I’d be here,” I say, reaching up to pull the necklace from inside my shirt. Triumph flares in Tristan’s silver gaze, but I can’t quite figure out why. Does he think I’m still pining for him? Does he want me to grovel and beg? Whatever the reason, even he can’t hide the surprise on his face when I tear the necklace off and chuck it at him.

He catches it in his palm as Harper slices through the crowd, making a beeline for us.

“I don’t want or need your money. You keep that. You need it more than I do.” I stride forward and past them, heading down the hall, when I feel something hit the back of my head. Spinning around, the white pleats of my skirt fluttering, I see Harper. She’s picked her way through the crowd and now stands triumphant at Tristan’s side, eyes glittering.

That night on the way to winter formal, in the limo, I think she was legitimately upset. And Tristan treated her like garbage. That was not a part of the act. No matter how many times I go over it, I just don’t think so. That’s how I figured out the first part of my plan: use Tristan against his own people. I don’t have to destroy Harper du Pont: he’s going to do it for me.

“Physical violence might be fun for you, but it’s not how I’m going to win this game.” I stay where I am, locking eyes with Harper. She hasn’t changed much over the summer, save a few lighter streaks in her brunette hair. She’s still rich, popular, pretty. But she’s desperate for approval from her peers. She’ll be an easy target. “Enjoy your first day back. Today, I’m focused on settling in. Tomorrow, I’m focused on you.”

“I’m not afraid of some working class loser,” Harper snaps, but I’m already turning away and ignoring her. It’s not worth my time to get into verbal scuffles. Besides, if the verbal scuffles escalate to physical ones, I’m screwed. They’ll all gang up on me.

I head down the hall and turn another corner, slamming into something firm and hard and sweet smelling, like geranium and sage.

“Whoa, cool your jets.” Zayd Kaiser puts his hands on my shoulders and steadies me, a grin working its way across his handsome face until he sees who it is that he’s touching. He rears back from me like he’s been burned, and I get at least some small satisfaction out of that. “You.”

“Where’s your trophy?” I ask, my voice like ice as his green eyes lock on mine. “Did you put it on a shelf in your dorm, so you can look at it and praise yourself for actually making me like you? What an incredible award to have won, being yourself around someone until they become vulnerable to you, and then breaking them.”