The Envy of Idols (Rich Boys of Burberry Prep #3)(73)

“You should get back in your room before I do something worthy of those naughty panties in your pocket,” he says, and I flush from head to toe, tucking a loose strand of hair behind one ear. I can feel his hardness trapped between us, straining against the confines of his sweats.

“Like what?” I whisper, and the look he gives me … it’s oh so fucking naughty.

“Bend you over this couch,” he whispers back, kissing me one, last time on the lips. “And show you what a non-virgin is like in the bedroom.”

“You knew Creed was a virgin?” I choke out. “How?” Wind just shrugs his shoulders and gently pushes me off.

“I have my ways,” he says, watching as I stand up and then slowly, reluctantly, back away toward my bedroom.

He’s all I dream about for the rest of winter break.



Coming back to school in January is a bit of a shock to the system. I always forget how hectic things are, how quickly the real world comes crashing back in. I have cheerleading, and orchestra, scholarship applications, and course work that’s so heavy I wonder why I signed up for all these classes in the first place. Couldn’t I have just been normal and taken pottery or painting or something, anything to lighten the load?

Also, I feel like I’m walking around with this exciting little secret in my back pocket.

I’m not a virgin anymore. It’s weird to think that. Even weirder when Creed and I are in the same room. He taps his fingers on the surface of the library table while I attempt to tutor him.

“I’m not thinking about math—at all,” he tells me, and I level a glare on his arrogantly beautiful face.

“Start thinking about it if you truly want to get into Bornstead,” I quip, pushing the tablet his way. “Now check over that problem. You made a simple mistake, and I know you can fix it if you try.” He makes sure his fingers linger on the back of my hand, making me shiver, before he finally does what I’m asking and studies the screen.

Miranda rolls her eyes at us from across the table, and goes back to her own schoolwork.

After we’re finished, the twins walk me back to my room, see me safely inside, and wait until I’ve locked the doors behind me before they go.

This is our ritual: at least two of our crew—I should really start calling us the Bluebloods of Burberry Prep since that’s what most of the Plebs are starting to say now—follows me home, waits until I check and lock the room, and then heads back to the Towers.

It’s not until the end of January that I have any problems with that.

Tristan and Zayd drop me off, as usual, and say goodbye, making me wish I wasn’t all alone over here in the remodeled janitor’s quarters. I used to like it, having my own space like this. Now it just feels lonely and separate. Sometimes when I head over to the Towers, I find the others laughing and joking in the halls, darting in and out of each other’s rooms.

I want that, too.

Then again, I’m here on a scholarship, so I don’t complain. Instead, I wash my worries away in the shower, dress in some pjs, and sit down on my bed to start studying for tomorrow’s statistics test. Everything seems fine until I hear the doorknob jiggle with the sound of a lock.

There’s always been the worry that the Harpies would steal or replicate one of the master staff keys and get in, so we installed a bar lock, a chain, and I still have those cameras from last year. If someone does break in, tough on them. I’ll have video proof.

“Who is it?” I ask, heading over to the door to look through the peephole. There’s nothing but black. Someone must be holding their hand over it, or else it’s been covered with tape or something. Taking a few steps back, I head for the emergency landline phone to call one of the staff members.

I don’t like the way this is going, and even with the extra locks, I don’t feel safe.

Too bad it’s only Thursday, or else I’d have my cell with me.

I pick up the handset and glance at the list of numbers that are laminated and stuck to the wall. Just before I start dialing up Mrs. Amberton, I notice that there’s no ringtone. Frowning, I hit the button on the wall unit several times, trying to get it to start up.

There’s nothing.

And that is when I notice that the cord to the handset is no longer attached to the wall.

“Fuck,” I curse as I turn around and see that the door’s already been unlocked and pushed in as far as possible. Someone is using a thick envelope to pop the bar lock, while, presumably, another person uses a string that goes from the chain lock over the top of the door. It slides right off and the door falls open, even as I’m charging forward and slamming my body into it.

Several other people push from the outside, and I end up losing my footing, stumbling back as all nine girls slip into my room, and Mayleen shuts the door behind them, redoing all the locks.

“Hello Marnye,” Becky says, sneering at me. They’re all still dressed in their uniforms, all of them pretty, done up with makeup and fancy wigs to cover their bald heads.

“Hello Becky,” I reply, my heart racing. At least the boys aren’t here, right? This is … well, I might die, but at least I won’t get raped first.

Crap, my life has gotten dark fast.

I watch them all carefully as they surround me, and then I reach down and snatch the baseball bat that’s leaning next to my bed, bringing it up in a sharp swing that takes Becky Platter right in the side of her hip.