Virals(26)

"Marine biologist," I corrected, face red with embarrassment. "He works for CU."

Ignoring their scornful looks, I spoke directly to Jason. "Thanks, but I really need to finish up here."

"If you say so." Jason leaned toward me and spoke behind one hand. "I don't want go either."

"Come along, Jason." Madison smiled sweetly. Mannequin fake. "The freshman has a project. We should give her space."

"Thanks," I responded dumbly. "I like your shoes."

"Of course you do. They're Ferragamo."

Ouch.

Another unwelcome voice piped in.

"It seems we're all in the library." Chance Claybourne's amused Southern drawl was unmistakable. "Can someone please explain? I thought Maddy had a new auto to parade?"

My heart pole-vaulted. With Chance present, I stood in the eye of Bolton's social hurricane. With no storm doors.

Chance wore the same uniform as the others. Most looked like little boys wearing daddy's lame tie and jacket. Not Chance. Not even close.

Darkly handsome, Chance Claybourne was night to Jason's day. Black hair, expertly tussled. Deep brown eyes under curving brows. Captain of the lacrosse team, young Mr. Claybourne was built like a racehorse.

In a word, Chance smoldered.

The son of state senator and pharmaceutical magnate Hollis Claybourne, Chance was Bolton's most connected student. Old-money Charleston aristocracy, the Claybournes had owned a Meeting Street mansion for over two centuries. Their ancestors numbered among the region's mayors, governors, even a vice presidential candidate. Oh, yeah. The Claybournes were blue bloods squared.

Chance's own story was legendary. His mother, Sally Claybourne, died in childbirth, leaving her husband to raise their son alone. The term stern was too soft for Hollis. Rumor had it the old man rode Chance mercilessly.

Most girls at Bolton heard only two words: sole heir. At his next birthday Chance would inherit the Claybourne family fortune. Almost eighteen, Chance was a rocket ship set to blast off.

"Jason's talking to the brainiac girl from the boats." Courtney sounded way too eager to please. "Something about werewolves."

Sweet Lord.

I was grateful for the arrival of Chance's girlfriend, Hannah Wythe. Long auburn hair. Bright green eyes. A real stunner. Oddly, Hannah seemed unaware of her beauty. I liked that about her.

Chance arm-wrapped Hannah's waist, pulled her close, and kissed her cheek. All the while he eyed me, like a jogger sizing up a stray.

Hannah was the most popular girl at Bolton. And, for once, the award was deserved. Southern sweet, she never bad-mouthed anyone. In class Hannah tended to stay on task, so we didn't chat much, but she was always friendly.

Hannah and Chance had been together for three years and were unmistakably Bolton's royal couple. Their future was the subject of much gossip, with people laying bets on engagement dates.

"My fault, Chance." Jason, always the diplomat. "I was just saying hello. Tory has bio with Hannah and me. We're in the same study group."

"Not to worry. I recall you invited Miss Tory last weekend, yes?"

Jason nodded.

Chance dipped into a bow, typical of his mock-formal style. "A pleasure, Tory. Sorry you couldn't attend. Will you be joining us this afternoon?"

The Tripod went rigidly silent. Nobody argued with Chance Claybourne. But their unfriendly eyes drilled lasers at me.

"Thanks," I replied. "But I'm swamped. Maybe next time?"

"Next time?" Ashley sniped. "How late do the barges run?" Madison and Courtney snarked viciously.

"That's enough," snapped Jason. "Quit being rude."

The spiteful smiles vanished. I knew later they'd cut me to pieces amongst themselves. Bitches.

Chance frowned, but otherwise seemed indifferent. He glanced at his watch, clearly ready to leave. Hannah looked sympathetic, but remained silent.

"Sorry about that, Tory." Jason sounded sincere; I think he felt responsible. "See you in class tomorrow."

"Sure thing." I flicked a wave. Lame. "Bye guys! Have fun."

Madison and her sidekicks moved off, not deigning to acknowledge an inferior. Chance and Hannah smiled as they left. In seconds I was alone.

I put my head on the desk.

The final bell couldn't ring quickly enough.





CHAPTER 18


Three o'clock found me sitting on Bolton's front steps, impatiently waiting for Hi and Shelton. As usual, they were late. Two granite lions kept me company, guarding the gothic stone building with hulking menace.

I hummed, aimless. And tuneless. I'm tone deaf.

The weather was pleasant, with clear skies and temperatures in the low eighties. The courtyard was abuzz with the song of sparrows and cardinals.

Bolton's landscapers toil year-round seeding, pruning, and sculpting the grounds into postcard-pretty settings. Paths meander through tree-speckled commons, rock gardens set with stone benches, and around a small pond. The place is visually stunning. Tuition-paying parents expect nothing less.

The campus occupies a full block of Charleston's southwestern waterfront, near the peninsula's tip. Pricey turf. A ten-foot brick wall surrounds the school, complete with ornate cast-iron gates adorned with copper griffins.