Bad, Bad Bluebloods (Rich Boys of Burberry Prep #2)(28)



“That’s all you’re going to tell me, isn’t it?”

He smiles, and it’s a much prettier smile, so much so that I feel a bead of sweat run down my spine. Yikes. I’m not entirely sure he’s ever smiled at me like that before.

“Are you excited for your first game?” he asks me, and I narrow my eyes. Coach Hannah has been working us hard for the last week, and I expect that even though this is Parents’ Week, she’s going to be working us just as hard, if not harder. Newbies weren’t allowed to cheer at Friday’s game, but Parents’ Week culminates with the final game of the season for Burberry Prep’s new all-star football team. Just adding Zack to varsity has shaken up the entire school; it’s like we actually have some pride in sports now. Of course, the cheerleading team is so green there is no JV/varsity distinction at this point, but that’s not why I joined. I don’t actually care for sports at all.

“Mm.” I make a non-committal noise and Zack chuckles, picking up his fork to poke at his tiramisu. What spoiled brats this school breeds. The only time I've ever had tiramisu was when Dad worked two weekend jobs to save up to take me out to a fancy Italian dinner to celebrate making the honor roll in middle school. So yeah, it's been years. I decide the next time the waiter pops over, I'll order some, too.

Because not only am I going to make honor roll again, I'm going to steamroll right over Tristan to do it.

“I'll be playing extra hard, knowing you're there to cheer me on,” Zack purrs—yeah, really, purrs—and I frown. If I didn't hold myself to higher standards, I'd break his knee cap so he'd be forced to sit out the game, and miss out on the scouts that are supposed to be showing up. Zack Brooks doesn't need scouts though, nobody at this school does. If any one of them actually decides to play for a university, it’ll just be for fun. None of these guys is actually interested in a career in the NFL. NFL players are poor compared to the net worth of the average Burberry Prep players' family.

“Oh, trust me,” I tell him as I pick up my fork and stab it dramatically into my slab of steak. I'm smiling when I cut into it. “I won't be cheering you on. I'm just there for intel. I hear the Idols have gone to every game this year.” Lifting my eyes from my plate, I see Zack clenching his jaw. He's moved pieces of his tiramisu around his plate, but has yet to actually eat any of it. A chill travels down my spine. “They hate sports. Last year, they didn't go to a single sporting event, except once or twice to see Gena swim.” I cock my head to one side. “And they really hate you, so … I'm guessing this has something to do with the Infinity Club?”

“Haven't you learned your lesson with the Infinity Club?” Zack whispers, and then he's standing up and pushing away from the table. He grabs his letterman jacket off the back of his chair and storms out of the room.

Bingo.

Looks like I hit a nerve.

Zack needs to win this game on Friday, I'll bet.

And I really need to have a conversation with Charlie.



The next morning, I'm up bright and early, using the iron in my room to smooth out the pleats in my white skirt and jacket. The second-year uniform is one of my favorites, all of that crisp white linen with just a touch of color in the red of the tie, the shiny black of the shoes, and the little stripes of black and red on the elbows of the jacket and the tops of the socks.

Just for fun, I put on the necklace Tristan gave me. I imagine it'll mess with his head, making him wonder how exactly I ended up getting it back. Knowing that Dad's likely to be late, I hold back and wait to head for the courtyard until I'm sure most of the other students will have cleared out. I'm out for blue blood this year, and I’m willing to take punches to get it, but I won't accept any attacks from those assholes that are directed at my father.

On my way down the hall, I notice that one of the office doors is open. It's of note to me because I come down this way all the time and never once have I seen it open. In fact, it's usually locked. The school staff has officially moved into the new outbuildings, and nobody uses the old chapel offices anymore.

“You've disappointed me, son.” I hear a patronizing tone that sets me on edge. It's so frustratingly condescending that it makes my teeth hurt. Even though I know I shouldn't, I end up creeping forward to peep in the glass window on the door.

What I see in there makes me raise my brows.

Tristan's standing with his back straight, his face frozen into an expression of bored disinterest. Unlike Creed, however, he doesn't quite manage to pull it off. Actually, for the first time ever, he looks truly terrified beneath the mask. Even when he saw his dad's car floating in the pool, it wasn't this bad.

Tristan Vanderbilt is scared of something, huh?

Apparently, he's scared of … his dad?

The man sitting on the edge of the old desk looks like a mature—and if possible crueler—version of his son. He's got that same raven-dark hair, those gray eyes, and a smile like a snake. The moment I lay eyes on him, I know he's bad news. Guess the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

Tristan doesn't say anything, just stands there and stares his father down. There's the slightest quiver in his shoulders that doesn't seem right. Is he actually trembling? That's when I notice the slight glisten of red at the corner of his mouth. Is that … blood?

C.M. Stunich's Books