The Envy of Idols (Rich Boys of Burberry Prep #3)(53)
“Play dirty, but play by my rules.” Tristan takes it, but he doesn’t look nearly as excited by it. “I’ll never forgive you if you don’t.”
Now that I have a crew to call my own, a boyfriend (or two or three or five), and a better idea of what colleges I’m interested in, and what I want to do with my life, the year starts to feel like it’s going by at warp-speed. One minute, I’m lecturing the boys in the library, and the next, I’m gearing up for fall break.
“I want to go to Bornstead U,” I blurt, sitting next to Zayd behind the auditorium curtain. I have no idea how he talked me into this, but I’m signing up for the talent show, I guess. Auditions are today because at a place like Burberry Prep, even something as silly as a talent show has to be monitored, graded, and appraised.
“Bornstead, huh?” Zayd says, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms behind his head. He’s changed his hair color to an ashy-lavender that just begs to be touched. Without thinking, I reach up and run my fingers through it. This horribly embarrassing moan escapes Zayd’s beautiful mouth, and every single person sitting backstage with us turns to look in our direction. My cheeks flush, but I don’t stop touching him. “That’s a ritzy school. You have the grades for it, definitely, but I’m guessing you’d need another scholarship in order to afford it, huh?”
“Pretty much,” I say, but I’ve already started on that. I’ve been forcing myself to spend at least three hours a week in the library’s computer lab so I can submit applications and essays for any scholarship program I can find. “But that’s what I want.”
“Best high school in the country, best university in the country. The sky’s the limit for you, huh, Marnye Reed?” Zayd’s name is called, and he stands up, grabbing his guitar, and leaning down to put his arm on one side of me, our faces so close together I can smell the mint he’s sucking on. “If anyone could do it, it’d be you.” He leans down and puts his cheek against mine. All I want is for him to kiss me, but the asshole pulls back and turns to head onstage.
I sneak up to the break in the curtain to watch as he gets situated at the mic.
Zayd’s emerald eyes glance my way, and he winks.
“Introduce yourself and give a brief explanation of your performance, please,” Mr. Carter says, situated at the same table he sat at when I won first chair for the harp. Zayd sat right near him, and surprised the hell out of me by clapping for my performance. That, I think, was also a very genuine response. It feels good to know that not every moment I enjoyed with the boys was bullshit.
“Zayd Kaiser,” he says, that husky rockstar purr of his melting the panties of every girl in that room—including mine. “And I’ll, uh, be performing a song that I wrote.”
“What’s the name of the song?” Mr. Carter asks, sounding incredibly bored. He has his hand poised above his iPad to type it into some field on a form. Zayd and his music, he’s so much more than that. I fist my hand into the fabric of the black slacks I wore to perform. They’re so unbelievably comfy. If I had time for anything besides school, extracurricular activities, and time with my friends, I’d probably add creating a petition to abolish gender-specific uniform requirements to the list.
“I haven’t named it yet,” Zayd starts, slinging the strap of his guitar over his head and then reaching up to twist some of his gelled hair into spikes.
“Pick something, please.” Mr. Carter looks up and raises an eyebrow as Zayd glances over at me again.
“How about …” He turns back to our music teacher and grins. “Charity?”
Mr. Carter nods, and Zayd sighs, clearing his throat, closing his eyes, and exhaling. When he opens them again, he’s got his performer vibe going strong. His inked fingers strum the guitar, and he starts this beautiful, sweet-sad little melody that makes my heart thump.
Watching his tattooed fingers tease the instrument to life gives me chills.
“That first look in the morning, such a honeyed sweetness, the only thing I’m living for.” Zayd continues to strum, getting into the song and biting his lower lip as he plays. “Nothing could never take away the first blush of morning, the glossed gold of her hair; the way she hates me makes me want her.”
“This is fucking stupid,” I hear Harper snort behind me, but there are too many teachers back here for her to do a damn thing. I’m not concerned.
“There’s no girl that burns so bright as Charity, no sunray that gives off so much light. Summer storms could never sway me, that sweet-hot rain, the taste of her warm mouth.” He closes his eyes and strokes his guitar like I wish he’d stroke me … Eek. Did I just think that?! I did. I did, and I’m not ashamed. “So complex, so un-confusing. Just the way she likes it, the whole world as her oyster, the everything I need.” He draws this last word out, and I swear, I’m swooning. Sucking my bottom lip under my teeth, I wait in tense anticipation for him to finish the song. I want to kiss him so damn bad right now.
Someday soon I’m going to an Afterglow concert, I think, trying to imagine Zayd with an electric guitar, dressed to the nines, putting on a full-blown performance for an adoring crowd. I’ve looked up some of his previous shows on YouTube, but as impressive as they are, I bet it’s nothing compared to seeing him live. There’s this charismatic energy he brings to a room that’s impossible to convey over media. Impossible.