Bad, Bad Bluebloods (Rich Boys of Burberry Prep #2)(24)

“Did you really think Tristan was into you?” Kiara asks, scowling in my direction. Her dark hair is slicked back into a tight bun, making her face seem even more severe. It takes every ounce of effort I have not to imagine her bent over that counter in the bathroom. “He never liked you. He’s on his way to being one of the most powerful men in the world. Did you really think some commoner trash like you would satisfy him?”

I ignore her as the coach speaks quietly with her assistant for a moment. My eyes meet Zack’s from across the room. His gaze is so dark, so unreadable. It makes me want to pry it open and see what’s going on inside. My original plan had been to destroy his football career. But I’m still not sure how to go about doing that without injuring him, and I refuse to hurt anyone physically. I nibble on my bottom lip as Kiara leans in close to me, frustrated with my lack of response to her taunts.

Once upon a time, the Marnye Reed I used to be would’ve felt those barbs deep down in her soul. She would’ve bled on the inside, cried on the out, and gone home to curl into a ball on her bed. Not anymore. Not ever again.

“How many times did you spread your whore legs for him before he dumped you like the useless slut you are?” Anger flares sharp and hot inside of me, but I ignore it. Kiara elbows me as hard as she can in the side, and I grunt, but before I can retaliate, Coach is turning back to face us.

Damn it!

Exhaling against the pain in my ribs, I listen to her instructions and toss my bag aside. I’m already dressed in my PE sweats and tank top, a sports bra, and sneakers. I can do this. I spent all summer working out, swimming, running. I’m in the best shape of my life.

We start with a warm up that I’m totally self-conscious about thanks to Zack. I can feel his eyes watching my every movement, tracing the beads of sweat on my forehead, the moisture sticking my shirt to my body. He leans forward, eyes heavy lidded but nowhere near as lazy as Creed. Instead, he looks … interested. My heart thunders as I struggle to keep up with the assistant coach and her quick, strong movements.

By the time it’s over, I feel like I might pass out. The pain in my ribs is killing me, and I’m pretty sure if I had a knife, I’d stab both Kiara and Ileana. One is dark-haired, fair-skinned, and slender while the other is pale-haired, tan-skinned, and curvy. I hate them both equally. They flank me as I drink from my water bottle, and I make sure to stay out of their reach. Their eyes, however, follow me around the room, and when I step away from my water, I’m pretty sure they mess with it.

Sigh.

Since it’s Friday, they both have their phones and they make no attempts to hide the fact that they’re using them.

I’m assuming it’s to text the Idols, because we’re just getting ready to line up to learn the dance when the gym doors open, and Tristan walks in with Harper at his side. She’s spitting mad, but nowhere near the level that Becky’s at. The way she glares at me … looks might not be able to kill, but I can feel the hatred on my skin like the searing heat of a scorching sun. My flesh feels like it’s liable to peel off under her gaze.

She’s got her long, blond hair tucked up in a bun, but it’s impossible to miss the naked patch on the left side of her scalp. Harper might not know it, but she’s next. I don’t know how or when, but it’s totally happening.

Zayd follows in behind Becky, his jaw so tight it looks like he might crack his teeth. His tattoos are bright and colorful, tracing their way up his muscular arms and disappearing briefly under the thin sleeve of his black wife beater. He’s got on baggy jeans with zippers stitched across them, and Doc Martens. Basically, he’s the opposite of Tristan with his freshly pressed white academy slacks, flawless jacket, and super straight tie.

Creed is somewhere in the middle, the top two buttons of his shirt undone, a pair of jeans and Barker Blacks paired with it. They might not technically be doing in-school suspension anymore, but they’re also not allowed off-campus until after Halloween. If they’re caught breaking that rule, it’s an automatic expulsion.

I smile.

I’ve really fucked their party schedule up.

The Idols take a seat on the bleachers, a cadre of Bluebloods behind them. I recognize the usual suspects: Myron Talbot, Ebony Peterson, Gregory Van Horn, John Hannibal, Valentina Pitt, Sai Patel, and Jalen Donner.

The remaining girls: Anna, Abigail, and Mayleen are all here trying out for the team.

Looks like they have yet to find a replacement for Andrew, and I already know Ileana is Miranda’s replacement. Great. So … the party’s all here then?

It’s impossible not to feel their eyes on me as I take my place in the center of the group. There’s a visible amount of extra space around me, like I’m some sort of leper. I ignore it and focus on the dance moves instead. Well … the dance moves … and Zack’s eyes.

There’s something about his dark gaze that draws me in, focuses me. At first, it bothers me so much that I stumble and mess up the steps. Laughter bubbles up from the bleachers, but I ignore it. My attention becomes laser focused on the way Zack’s watching me, his lips parting slightly, his lids getting heavier and heavier. At one point, he even runs his tongue across his lower lip, catches himself doing it, and curses. Amy Plumber, a fourth year seated next to him, jumps a whole foot in her seat, and I feel a grin split my lips.

We go over the dance several times before coach calls for another break. After this, we’ll come out in groups of three and perform it in a row. Scores will be passed out, and after, members will be chosen for the team. I have to get on it. I have to invade their spaces. By lifting myself up, I put them down. And that’s their own problem. My success should have nothing to do with them, but it pisses the Bluebloods off. Infuriates them. When I succeed, they feel like they’ve failed. If that’s how they want to live their lives, I’m okay with that.