Bad, Bad Bluebloods (Rich Boys of Burberry Prep #2)(47)
Zayd drops his head and narrows his green eyes. I sense vitriol in the air.
“Low-class? Marnye might be trailer trash”—ouch, Zayd—“but she’s a hundred times classier than you. I’m so done with your shit, Becky. You want me to be your boyfriend or something? Newsflash: I’m not interested anymore. Fuck, I was never interested. It was a game to see if I could get you, and guess what? You were a hundred times easier to dupe than Charity ever was.”
Becky reaches out and slaps Zayd as hard as she can before turning and storming up the steps toward me. I scramble out of the way and duck into The Mess before she gets out the door. There’s no one inside, fortunately, and once I think she’s had enough time to leave, I creep back out.
Zayd’s just started another song, so I wait there and record the entire thing.
“Pretty sure I’m as fucked-up as they come, the only one who knows the loneliness of my throne. Through the darkest nights there’s only one bright star, but when I reach up, it’s just way up there, off in the void, the black too far.”
Mm.
I’m not sure I believe the ghostwriter bit.
Those lyrics scream Zayd Kaiser to me.
After it’s over, there’s a bit of silence before Sai Patel’s laughter snaps out like a whip. He has a pretty strong New York accent, so it’s easy to tell who’s speaking. Other than the usual bits and barbs, he hasn’t stood out to me much.
“That’s the dumbest shit. Holy crap, man, that’s garbage.” The other boys laugh, Mayleen’s feminine giggles interspersed throughout. When I peep around the corner, I wonder if I’m the only person who sees how tight Zayd’s jaw is.
On Monday, I head out into the hall and a storm of chaos ensues.
“Marnye, oh my god,” Miranda gushes, grabbing my hands, her face flushed pink. Her eyes are sparkling as she yanks me down the hall, our white skirts billowing, as we head to the courtyard and push through the throng of people to the front. There’s a fancy black sports car down there, no driver in sight.
“Um, what?” I ask, as Miranda spins to me, smacking me in the face with her shiny blond hair. She almost smells like Creed, too. Is it weird that I notice that?
“That’s Zayd’s agent’s car,” she chokes out, pointing at it. “Before Ms. Felton collects our phones, look it up.” I pull my phone from my bookbag and do as she’s asking. Not that I need to, since I know exactly what’s going on. “This has your signature all over it,” she whispers, leaning in toward me as several staff members try to herd the students away from the courtyard. I glance up and our eyes meet. Miranda squeals, and I smile sheepishly.
All I did was upload Zayd’s conversation, and part of his song. That’s it.
His own words, however, are like a hole in the side of a ship, slowly filling with water. Zayd Kaiser is going to sink.
Son of Famous Rocker Billy Kaiser Rips on his Fans
That’s the first article that pops up. They didn’t even identify him by name in the headline, just by his dad’s accomplishments. Good. My brows go up as I keep scrolling.
Easy-to-Love Zayd Kaiser is Actually Full of Shit
Oh, I like that headline.
“Marnye,” Zack says, coming to stand beside us. His hair is still wet from his morning shower—he always makes time to shower after his morning run—but his uniform is in order, even if his tie is slightly crooked. “This is brilliant.”
The crowd parts and a hush falls over the gathered students as a man in a suit storms forward, a shaggy-haired guy in jeans close on his heels. Zayd is right there, trailing along behind him, his face crestfallen, his eyes wet with angry tears.
He follows the other two men down the steps to stand by the car, and they speak in hushed tones for several minutes before Zayd steps back and the others climb in and speed off.
“That was Billy Kaiser,” Miranda whispers in my ear. It’s pretty easy to tell, even without her confirming it. The way Zayd watches him, with this mix of hatred and yearning, he couldn’t be anyone else. After a moment, Zayd turns and heads back up the steps. At first, I think he’s going to walk on by, but then he stops and turns.
Our gazes met, and the crowd takes in a collective inhale as Zayd makes his way over to stand in front of me. His chest is heaving, and he’s soaked in sweat, his pale blue hair stuck to his forehead. There’s no gel in it this morning, no liner around his eyes. He looks like he wants to kill me.
“What have you done?” he snaps, but all I do is stand there and stare. I make myself remember my panties in his hand, that video of us kissing on the screen. The trophy, his face, the way he just stood there with his arm around freaking Becky Platter instead of me.
“Challenge accepted, met, and executed,” I say, and Zayd lets out this scream that’s strangely melodic. He was born to sing. Also born to be a dick, apparently. He reaches up and grabs his hair in two fists like he might be this close to having a nervous breakdown.
Zack steps up next to me, crossing his arms over his massive chest, like he’s a bodyguard or something.
“You do not fucking intimidate me,” Zayd hisses, sneering. “You’re no angel, Zack Brooks. Eventually, Marnye will see it, and she’ll dump you for someone like me.” This last part snaps off his tongue like an insult before he spins away and storms through the crowd, elbowing people out of the way as he goes.