Bad, Bad Bluebloods (Rich Boys of Burberry Prep #2)(3)

“No choice but to fight your way into my house?” I ask, realizing as we stand there that the Train Car is far too small for his large body. He takes over the space with his presence, filling it so completely that I find it hard to breathe. “Maybe you could’ve taken the hint? I don’t want to talk to you.”

I look away, and my heart stutters a little. That’s a lie. I do want to talk to him; I’m just not going to.

“Too bad. I want to talk to you. I have a right to explain without … them stirring up drama.” He takes a step toward me, but I keep my face turned away. I’m not going to look at him, not right now. The last few months have been okay, filled with sunshine, day trips to the beach, and my tenth and eleventh rereads of the Harry Potter books. This is the last thing I need, a bump in the road to destroy my last peaceful week of summer. “Don’t think I didn’t hear about what happened on the last day of—”

“Please don’t,” I choke out. That’s the last thing I want to think about right now, about the paint dripping down the sides of my face, my split lip, and the look on Zayd’s face … “The only prize … was that trophy. We did it for fun.” Tristan’s words slice through me, and I push away from the counter, heading down the hall toward my room.

Zack follows me, and I end up trapped on my bed with his huge body filling my doorway.

My hands curl into fists. I added his name to my revenge list. Why shouldn’t I? He tried to break me in middle school, and for what? A bet. A bet to get into that stupid fucking Club.

The Infinity Club is going down, I think, and I drop my hand to my right hip. There’s a tattoo artist that some of my classmates bribed during my time at Lower Banks in order to get illegal ink. I’m taking a thousand dollars out of the money I won and heading down there tomorrow to get a tattoo of my own.

What I don’t need is Zack Brooks, standing in my room and staring at me with those umber depths.

“You have to at least hear me out,” he says as I sit down on the edge of my bed.

I’ve spent all summer writing horrible things about him in my notebook, but it was all venting. I don’t know how to make him hurt the way he made me hurt. Looking up, all I see is apology and sorrow in his eyes. Not like Creed. Or Zayd. Or Tristan. They definitely were not sorry.

My fingers dig into the bedspread; it’s the only way to keep them from reaching for the necklace that hangs over my chest. I tried to sell it—twice—but I couldn’t do it. Selling it felt like I was letting him win. I don’t need or want Tristan Vanderbilt’s money. I’m giving it back the first day of school.

“Haven’t you done enough damage?” I whisper, and we both freeze at the sound of the front door opening.

“Honey, it’s just me.” Dad’s voice echoes in the small space just before I hear his footsteps. He pauses in the hall that connects the second passenger car, which holds our bedrooms, to the first train car which has the living room, kitchen, and bathroom. “Zack, long time no see. Would you like to stay for dinner?”

“Can’t. Plans with my mom.” Zack leans his shoulder against the wall, his relentless gaze pinning me to the bed. I feel like I couldn’t stand up if I tried.

“Well, if you have time on Friday, it’s Marnye’s birthday,” Dad starts, and I cringe. “Since it’s just me and her, it might be nice to have a friend to tag along?” He sounds earnest enough, but I wonder if Dad knows his words cut me to the core. I had friends. For a while, I had a lot. I had Miranda and Andrew, Zack and Lizzie, and … the Idols.

For a while there, I really and truly believed I had them.

Of course, those friendships slipped through my fingers like sand, and Dad had to see … well, more than a dad should ever see. He saw me kissing Creed in a towel, making out with Zayd on my bed, and letting Tristan grope me in the library. And my panties …

Humiliation washes over me in wave, but I’ve had an entire summer to learn how to channel it into anger. My eyes flick over to my leather bookbag, resting on the edge of my desk. I’ve taped my revenge list into a notebook and filled it with ideas. Ideas, and rules. Because if you can’t trust yourself, then you’re doomed to fail.

“Friday …” Zack starts, and then sighs as he tucks his hands into his pockets. “I’ll be here.”

“Great! We leave at eight sharp, no later. It’s tradition to have pancakes at the Railroad Station on Marnye’s birthday.” Dad slips back outside, letting the door slam behind him. I can hear him wheeling the grill into place.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I wanted to at least come and tell you that I’d planned on having a conversation with you that night.”

“Sure you did,” I say, debating the chances of me getting up and down the hall before Zack cuts me off. “Look, you’re a little bit off my radar right now, so why don’t you just leave and we can pretend we’ve never met each other?”

“At least unblock Lizzie and talk to her,” he says, but there’s no way. Even if I were inclined to speak to Lizzie again, she’s too tangled up with Tristan. “Give her a chance to apologize. She’s been sick over the whole thing, and not just about our bet. She’s furious with the Burberry Bluebloods. Hell, she basically pit Coventry Prep Elite against them this summer. The Hamptons … turned into a social bloodbath.”