Bad, Bad Bluebloods (Rich Boys of Burberry Prep #2)(49)

“Is this how you got me?” he asks, reaching up to rake his fingers through his pale blue hair. He looks around the room like he's never seen it before. But I know he's in here all the time. That look of sweet, mussy confusion is bullshit, just like all his other expressions. Zayd plays charming very, very well. “Eavesdropped outside this door and fucked me?”

“All I did was upload your own words to one website.” I hold up a single finger. “One.” His green eyes meet my brown ones, and I can't deny that there's chemistry between us. There’s always chemistry between us, whether I want to admit it or not. His being a jerk doesn't change that. “If you hadn't said those things, then they wouldn’t be around to haunt you.”

I lift my hands back to the strings of the harp, and get ready to play again, dismissing him. He doesn't go anywhere though, just sits down to watch and listen. I play through three songs before I realize he's not going away, dropping my hands to my lap and glaring.

“What do you want?” I ask, and Zayd smiles tightly. He uses his tongue and plays with his lip rings for a moment before responding.

“I have to admit,” he says, tapping inked fingers on the arm of the chair, “you’ve got bigger balls than I thought.”

I frown at him.

“Bigger ovaries, maybe?” I almost smile, but Zayd just shrugs and stands up. He's like a dream in the white second-year uniform. It's as if the total lack of color on his outfit emphasizes how much color he's got all over his skin. He moves over to stand beside me, and my breath catches in my throat. I know I'm not the only one that notices. Zayd reaches out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, and I let him, even though I know I shouldn't.

“Whatever you want to call it, you’ve got it. Big balls, ironclad uterus, deep dark mojo … Anyway,” he points two fingers at me, like he's miming a gun, “you shot me right in the crotch with that one. Bull's-eye, bingo, win for you. The record label’s just pulled my new album.” He frowns down at me, and there's a well of sadness in his emerald green eyes that surprises me. It mirrors the face of the girl whose expression I saw in my reflection that day last year. So good. He's hurting. It's what I wanted, isn't it?

“There will be a new album,” I say with a sigh, putting my hands in my lap. I have special permission to wear white academy slacks when playing the harp. It's a pedal harp, so I need to use my foot, and if I wore the standard second-year skirt there would be more on display than just my music. “That's the problem with all of you; you’ll never know what it's truly like to hurt. There's always more money, new opportunities, underhanded favors …”

Zayd shakes his head, and reaches into his pocket to pull out a small packet of papers. He hands them over to me, and I hesitate a moment before taking them.

“Nah, not this time. My dad is so pissed, he thinks this might affect his career too, so he’s asked the label to drop me completely.” Zayd waits a moment as I unfold the papers, frowning as I find a copy of the test I took on Friday. Well, the test is the same, but the answers are not the ones I gave. My name might be on top of the paper, but this is not my test. “You are now looking at an unsigned, penniless musician.” Zayd laughs and reaches up to twist his gelled hair into little spikes.

I'm so distracted by the test, and the essay underneath it which also has my name but not my words, that it takes me a moment to register what he’s just said. I look up.

“They don't want you to, like, give a statement or something?” I ask. Zayd gives me this wry little smirk, like he could care less. It's quite obvious he cares a whole hell of a lot.

He ignores my question, brushing it aside with a wave of his hand.

“Look, you’re not going to catch Tristan with his hands in the cookie jar.” Zayd reaches out to tap the papers in my hand, and our fingers brush together. Heat leaps from his skin to mine, and we both shiver. It's not fair. It's not fair that I have chemistry with an asshole like Zayd Kaiser. “That's a test with a score of about …” Zayd pauses to think for a minute. “Sixty-five percent? In the essay, that's a copy of Gena Whitley's essay from last year. Plagiarism and all that.”

“Why do these things have my name on them?” I ask, feeling my heart thunder wrapped rapidly in my chest. It should've occurred to me that the idols would try to strike me where it would hurt most (other than my dad, of course): academics. I look up at Zayd. “And why are you showing me these?”

“Becky left her jacket with me the other day,” Zayd starts, rolling his eyes like he just can't with her. The funny thing is, they are two peas in a pod; they deserve each other. “These fell out of it. I have to take them to her now, and I figure when she does her third period office work tomorrow, organizing Miss Peregrine’s papers, she'll swap these out for your real test and essay.”

Zayd reaches out to take the papers, and I let him, thoroughly confused.

“Why are you telling me this?” I repeat, as Zayd tucks the papers away into his bookbag. “I don't understand.”

The guys have been much easier on me this year than last year, but that doesn't make any sense. They must be gearing up for something big.

“For what it's worth,” Zayd says, turning away and glancing over his shoulder at me, “as soon as I found out that Becky had hit you, I haven't touched her. I just couldn't.” Zayd wrinkles his nose, and shakes his head. “I don't want you to get hurt, so please, for the love of all that's holy, Charity, just go.”