Bad, Bad Bluebloods (Rich Boys of Burberry Prep #2)(19)

Glancing back out the driver’s side window, I see Creed sitting in his Bentley with the window rolled down, watching the pair of them. His hands are tight on the wheel, and I know he’s as aware of Gregory Van Horn and John Hannibal watching her as I am. He turns away sharply and starts up the SUV, peeling out of there almost as fast as Zayd did.

“Is it okay if Jessie rides with us?” Miranda asks, cheeks pink, panting heavily as she peers into the car.

“It’s fine with me,” I say, and neither girl waits for Andrew before they push his seat forward and scramble into the back.

“Hey Marnye, I’ve heard a lot about you,” Jessie says, her dark brown hair hanging shiny and straight around her thin shoulders. She has a genuinely nice smile, sparkling chestnut eyes, and a white dress that leaves little to the imagination.

“All good,” Miranda assures me as I smile and shake hands with the new girl, starting up the Lambo’s engine with a delicious purr. Like I said, not a car person but holy crap, the rumble of the engine through the black leather of the seat is almost enough to make me a convert.

Much more cautiously than the others, I back out of the space and take the same gravel road up and out of the lot, heading towards the location for the first party of the year: Ileana Taittinger’s countryside mansion. It’s about two hours north of Burberry Prep, up a winding coastal road that deviates around Santa Cruz, and ends in a gloriously long driveway topped with a fancy metal gate.

There are students—first years, based on their uniforms, and one third year—policing the gate, and opening it only after checking to see who’s inside each car.

We are most definitely not invited.

“You still haven’t told us how you plan on getting in there,” Andrew says as we creep up the driveway, and I exhale sharply, glancing over at him with a sympathetic expression. He sees it and gets immediately suspicious. As he should.

“A favor is a favor,” I tell him, and his face pales. We come to a stop just feet from the gate as one of the first year girls saunters over to us with her skirt billowing in the breeze, flashing a whole lot of lacy pink panty in the process. Hmm. I roll the window down and she leans her forearms on the door, her cloying perfume filling up the car and making me gag.

“Excuse you,” she spits, and the vitriol in her voice makes me grit my teeth. This girl has never met me, and yet here she is, looking at me like I’m lower than pond scum. “No whores, hookers, or prostitutes allowed. Go turn your tricks in the city, Working Girl.”

“Nice to meet you,” I say, keeping my voice neutral, my face pleasant. I can feel the tension from Andrew, Miranda, and Jessie behind me. “My name is Marnye Reed, and I’ll be attending this party, thank you very much.” I continue to smile as the girl scowls at me, and a boy in a third year uniform approaches from the other side.

“No faggots,” he says, shaking his head and sneering at Andrew through his partially rolled down window. “I don’t care what Creed says. He’s not coming into my little sister’s party. Wouldn’t want to get raped by a homo.” The boy laughs, and the sound is rather like a donkey with a sore throat, grainy and snotty and ugly. I resist the urge to scream, my hands tightening around the wheel.

“Let’s just go, Marnye,” Andrew whispers, his voice and face dark. “We’re not getting in here.”

“Please open the gate,” I repeat, and the girl laughs at me, moving away to stand next to the brick pillar on the left, tossing her hair perfectly, and then giggling at something one of the guys says. The other asshole, Ileana’s older brother apparently, snorts and flips us off before sauntering back to the group. With a sigh, I put the Lambo in reverse and pretend like I’m leaving.

I’m not.

“Marnye …” Andrew begins, just before I put the car back in drive, and slam my foot on the gas. With the squeal of tires and the stink of burnt rubber, we shoot forward and smash through the gate. It’s not locked, so it opens easily, the metal flying back and smashing into the bricks. The kids gape at us as we roll across the lawn and park next to the dozens of other fancy cars already there.

I take note of Zayd’s, Creed’s, and Tristan’s cars before I climb out and lock the doors, tucking the keys in my bra. Andrew’s still gaping at me, and Miranda’s grinning, just barely resisting the urge to hop up and down. Okay, so, maybe she jumps up and down a little. Jessie just raises her eyebrows and whistles in surprise.

“Okay, who are you, and what have you done with the Marnye Reed I know?” Miranda asks as the group from the gate storms across the yard towards me. I ignore them, toss my hair (poorly, I might add), and head for the front porch and the crowd of gawping students.

Zayd’s right there in the thick of it, a beer in one hand, his mouth open, his green eyes tracking me as I make my way toward the front door.

“Hey!” the Taittinger guy shouts, pounding up the steps to cut me off. His ugly face is twisted in a sneer, and I’m pretty sure he’s about ten seconds from putting his hands on me. The bitchy first year girl is right behind him, taking up on his left like a sentinel.

“You fucking bitch!” she snarls, and it’s pretty disturbing to see such a hateful expression on her baby face. I look at them both with a so what? expression before glancing over at Andrew and smiling softly.

“I’m sorry about the car, but there doesn’t even seem to be a scratch. Your family makes quality vehicles, I have to say.” He stares at me for a second, blinking past the shock, and then grins.