The Envy of Idols (Rich Boys of Burberry Prep #3)(56)
“So, how does this group dating thing work?” Myron asks, his voice dark, his hand buried in a bowl of popcorn. Zayd is fiddling with the remote, and I can smell the faintest hint of butter and salt in the air. A timer goes off somewhere, and Zack makes a sound of pleasure, rising to his feet to go tend to it. I’m praying it’s fresh popcorn.
“Why don’t you mind your own fucking business, and let us worry about that?” Tristan says, leaning back in his chair, and pressing the button for his footrest. It lifts up nice and slow, raising his shiny loafers up to knee-height. He keeps pressing it until his ankles are even higher and he’s lounging back just a bit.
“I’m just trying to understand how the sex works,” Myron continues, and Tristan leans forward, dropping his feet to either side of the leg rest so he can poke his friend in the back of the head.
“Mind your damn business, Talbot. We aren’t sleeping with Marnye—not just yet.” Tristan and I meet eyes across Lizzie’s lap, and a shiver goes through me. I try really hard not to think about the two of them having sex, but … they must have, right? I mean, there’s no way for me to ask, so what’s the point in getting nervous about it?
“Do we have rules about that?” Zack asks, reappearing with the popcorn and handing it over to me. Our fingers brush, and I get that glittery, shiny, sparkly feeling all over again. “I mean, are we trying to take it slow or …”
“We’re all just … dating,” I whisper, feeling my cheeks flush with heat. I reach my right hand up to tousle my hair. Before she left, Miranda gave it a sexy little curl on the top that I wish I knew how to recreate on my own. I even let her do my makeup with that steady hand of hers. No matter how many YouTube videos I watch, I’m just no good at it. “Whatever happens, happens.” I pause as Lizzie looks over at me with her pretty amber eyes. “Or doesn’t happen. Whatever doesn’t happen is fine, too.”
“Soda?” Wind asks on the end of a laugh, a cooler situated in the chair next to him. He hands me an ice-cold Coke, and then gives out beer to everyone else. Sometimes I wonder what it’d be like to get drunk, just once. But then I can’t decide if that’s the addiction in my DNA talking, or natural curiosity.
“Alright,” Zayd says as he finally gets the movie started up and cranks the volume. “Let’s see what sort of scaredy-cat Marnye really is.” He turns around, and I catch a glimpse of that Never Again tattoo on his neck. I want to ask what it means, if it’s in reference to me or not. Or perhaps I’m just being narcissistic? “And Charity,” he sits up in his seat so that he’s kneeling, leans forward, and presses a kiss to one of my knees. Heat rockets through me, and I feel a bead of sweat run down the side of my face. “If you get scared, just come sit on my lap, okay?”
I chuck a piece of popcorn at him, and he catches it in his mouth.
We both laugh, but only until the movie gets started. And then, you know, I do end up in a lap. Zack is closest, so he gets the honor, and I spend the rest of my movie with the steel band of his arm around my waist, and my face buried in the warm, sweet-smelling crook between his neck and shoulder.
I wish I could spend every evening just like that.
The boys and I get to spend most of the break together, eating breakfast in The Mess, or downing those tiny snack-sized boxes of cereal in my dorm. But then Wednesday hits, and they disappear to their parties. I’m not sure what sort of bets they’re making, but I have a feeling it all goes back to my list.
Something big is coming.
The Company or the Harpies, or whatever you want to call them, are going to pay dearly. I can feel it.
I try not to worry about it and enjoy some time off from studying, relaxing in my room and reading, playing the harp—but only when Mr. Carter is around for protection—or texting Miranda, Andrew, and Dad.
On Saturday, the boys surprise me by showing up at my door.
“Come on, Marnye,” Zack says, reaching out his hand for mine. Lizzie and Myron aren’t with them, and I raise an eyebrow as I glance down at my tank top and sweats.
“I’m not really dressed to go out—” I start, but Zack just grins and grabs my wrist anyway, tugging me out of the room and pulling me into his arms.
“It’s a pajama party,” Zayd says, and I notice then that he’s barefoot and wearing shorts, and a loose tank that shows off all of his tattoos. He’s also smoking a clove cigarette that I deftly pluck from his lips, tap out against the stone floor, and chuck into the nearest trash can.
“You all really are wearing pajamas,” I say as I study Tristan’s crisp black satin pajama set with the subtle white pinstripe, and the stuffy slippers that look like suede loafers. Creed’s got on white linen pj pants, and nothing else—no shirt, no shoes. Zack’s in loose-fitting boxers and an old football jersey, and Windsor’s seriously dressed up in flannel pj’s with penguins on them.
Penguins.
Cartoon freaking penguins.
“Are you sure you’re a prince?” I ask him, and he pauses, reaching into the bag on his shoulder and pulling out two plastic gold crowns. He puts one on my head, and then places the other atop his flaming red hair.
“I wasn’t until just now,” he says, hazel eyes glittering with mischief. “But with my princess by my side, and the royal jewels safely ensconced”—he grabs his crotch and I roll my eyes while the other boys scowl—“in these gorgeous robes of state, I’m now positive: I am absolutely not king material. Prince, I can do. Princes get to frolic and fuck and crash yachts into harbors.” I almost stop walking at the frank way he’s just blurted his truth. But then I look a little closer, and I see darkness and shadows dancing behind his mask of cheerful, carefree wonder. Windsor York is hurting on the inside. What’s wrong, exactly, I don’t know, but I want to find out. “Anyway,” he continues, blowing past the emotions, “I’m perfectly suited to be a prince, but never a king. Perhaps that’s why I enjoy scandals so much? All the attention makes me giddy.”