The Envy of Idols (Rich Boys of Burberry Prep #3)(60)

“I’d had too much coke, too much booze, and I was angry; I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

He stops talking and just stares at me.

“Why?” I ask, but Windsor simply turns to Zayd and ignores my question.

“You. Rocker boy. Truth or dare?”

“Uh,” Zayd starts, rolling onto his back, so he can stare up at the tin ceiling tiles. Even with the weird atmosphere, and Windsor’s dodgy answer to Zack’s question, it’s pretty cozy in here. How could it not be, with all these books? “Dare.”

“I dare you,” Windsor says, chucking his crown into the center of the circle, “to text your dad and tell him how much you hate being ignored.” He glances up and meets Zayd’s eyes. “Right now. Text him and tell him.”

“I’m not going to tell him that,” Zayd says, rearing back like he’s been struck. “Are you stupid or insane or both? If I send him a message like that, he’ll go off on me. He doesn’t like when I say shit like that.”

“Then I double dare you to tell Marnye how you feel about her.”

“That’s basically a truth,” Zayd murmurs, sweeping his fingers through his lavender-ash hair. “You really do like to stir the pot, huh?”

Windsor just smiles.

“I just love honesty from others—even when it hurts.”

“Even if you’re not being transparent yourself?” Zayd quips back, and the two men stare at each other. “Fuckin’ fine then.” He glances over at me, and our eyes meet. “I told you I liked you from day one, didn’t I?”

“You did.”

Zayd just keeps staring at me.

“Well, I like you better than any girl I’ve ever met.”

“It’s called truth or dare, not bullshit or dare,” Wind says, and Zayd growls. It’s purely a musical sound, too, like it belongs in the middle of one of his raunchier songs.

“Says the guy who gave a non-answer himself.” Zayd turns back to me and sighs, putting his forehead in his hand and resting it there for a minute as he looks at me. “I think … maybe I’ve been in love with you since that Halloween party. Not first year’s, but … second year. When you came dressed as a cookie, and you danced like crazy, and you fucked Creed over with that fake journal.”

“In love with me?” I ask, and Zayd sighs, closing his green eyes.

“Yep. Pretty much.”

Okay, that’s it. Between the kissing boys, and the masturbation, and love confessions … this is not like any pajama party I’ve ever been to. And then it occurs to me that I never really had friends before, so the only pajama parties I’ve actually attended are between me and Miranda.

“Yep, pretty much?” I squeak, and Zayd blinks at me.

“Truth or dare, Charity,” he whispers, and his voice is raw and open, like he’s just cracked a stone and shown me the most beautiful geode on the inside.

“Truth.”

Because I don’t think I can move from this spot, much less do something embarrassing like touch myself in front of everyone.

“Which one of us do you like best?” Zayd asks, and my heart stutters a few times before it picks back up at a galloping pace.

“I don’t know.”

And there’s no answer truer than that.





It actually snows at Burberry Prep this year which is weird as hell. We’re in central California, for heaven’s sake.

“Global warming,” Miranda says, as she stands there with her palms lifted toward the sky, tiny flakes melting on her palms. Tonight’s the talent show, but nobody really cares anymore, since all anyone wants to do is play in the snow or—depending on their year in school—talk about the winter formal, the ski trip, or, for us third years, the option of a weekend trip to San Francisco to see the ballet and the symphony.

It’s not hard to figure out what I want to do. Even though Dad and I have used those tickets Zack bought us a couple of times already, I can never get enough. We even used the third pass to take our old neighbor, Mrs. Fleming. She might be deaf, but she said she could feel the vibrations and enjoyed the show anyway.

“You know what John said to me today?” Andrew says, tucking his hands into his pockets and shivering as white fluff settles across the gardens. It’s not thick or heavy enough of a snowfall to be much fun as of yet, but it’s getting there. Every student at Burberry Prep is praying it gets deep enough to go sledding.

“If global warming is real, why is it so cold out?” Miranda mimics as she rolls her eyes dramatically. “We all heard him today. At least he got in-school suspension from Ms. Felton for snapping that poor first-year girl’s bra. He’s such an asshole.”

“Did you all decide on what you’re doing for winter activities?” I ask, interrupting the conversation. The last person in the world I want to talk about is John Hannibal. He’s a piece of shit human, and his dad’s politics suck, so there. “Because you know I’m going to the orchestra, right?”

“Wherever you go, the boys will follow,” Andrew says, almost longingly. He leans back on the picnic table and stares up at the swirling flakes, a white beanie pulled down over his ears. “I’m beyond jealous. I wish boys followed me around like lost puppies.”