Stuck With The Four Hotties

By the end of the first day, I’m exhausted, and my mind is spinning with possibilities, desperate for some way to right the wrong that was committed against me. I’ve already got a head start, my summer plans unfolding into glorious action. But not yet. Not quite yet.

I head for The Mess, taking a seat by the window at the table I used to share with Miranda. We have pretty different schedules this year it seems, so if she wants to find me, this is her chance. I’m not going to chase her, not if she isn’t ready.

So I sit down, ignoring the stares and the whispers, the way the Idols’ table goes silent as I pull out a journal (not my revenge one, a different one), lay it on the table, and leave it there while I check the menu. After I’ve placed my order, I hunch over and begin to write.

It takes all of two minutes for Tristan Vanderbilt to make his way over to me.

“You’re not allowed in here this year,” he tells me, voice as smooth as silk. I can practically feel it trailing across my body, awakening every nerve ending in my skin. Goose bumps prickle my arms, but I ignore them. Lust is an emotion I can ignore if I have to. Screw Tristan Vanderbilt. “Did you hear me, Charity?” He leans over and puts his elbows on the table. I wonder at his lack of back-up, but take advantage of it by looking up and meeting his gray gaze. “I know you’ve been given permission to take your meals in your room. Get your ass up and go stuff your fat face in there.”

His words sting me, like running through a field of nettles, little barbs embedding themselves into my skin. I brush the pain aside by slamming my notebook closed and flicking the lock on the side. Tristan takes note of the action, and then refocuses on me.

“Did you know they broke my ribs?” I ask, and he stares at me with an impassivity that’s frightening. There’s no sign of any normal, human emotion in there, just cold steel and ice.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I don’t care. Get up and go back to your room before I make you do it.” I smile at him, but I’m not afraid, not at all.

“Harper, Becky, the other girls …” I trail off, gesturing in their direction with my hand. “Did you know they were going to take it that far?” Tristan narrows his eyes and scowls at me, but at least there’s some humanity in the gesture; I’ll take it.

“What are you even babbling about?” he snaps, but clearly I’ve touched a nerve because Tristan’s already getting angry with me, and I’ve just started.

“When the girls cornered me backstage before my harp solo, did you know they were going to beat me so badly that I’d break my ribs and crack a tooth?” My eyes are locked on him, so when his widen imperceptibly, I catch it. He quickly schools himself, standing up straight and running his palm down the length of his red tie. But it was there, that little tell that gives me all the information I need: he didn’t know. Tristan, the self-proclaimed King of the Academy, didn’t know about the girls’ plan.

The first seed of doubt has been sowed.

“This is your last warning: take your meal and go back to your room.”

“Or what, Vanderbilt?” a disturbingly dark voice asks from behind him. Tristan and I turn to find Zack Brooks leaning against the wall with his eyes slitted, his mouth turned up in a crooked scowl. “You gonna beat her like your girlfriend did? Leave her covered in bruises and blood?”

Tristan’s entire body is so stiff that I have to wonder if his muscles hurt, being held like that for so long. He just stares Zack down, and then finally, moves several steps closer. The two boys are toe-to-toe, and honestly, I’m content to watch. Maybe they’ll beat each other up right here in front of everyone, and then start the year with a suspension on their records?

“You think you’re so different,” Tristan purrs, reaching up to run his long fingers through his raven-black hair. “You think because you’re sorry that you’re somehow better than us?” Zack’s hands curl into fists by his sides.

“I never said I was better; I said I was on Marnye’s side. That’s it.” He flicks his gaze past Tristan’s shoulder to meet mine. “I’m already an asshole. I’m already tainted. I won’t let her sully herself to try to combat you. I’ll take you down first.”

Tristan turns, smirking and raising his brows at me.

“You? Take us down?” The laugh that spills from his throat tears my heart in half, but I let it happen, let myself bleed. He never cared about me, not when he was kissing me on the steamboat, not when he was giving me the necklace, not when he defended me in the vice principal’s office. Every single second was fake … wasn’t it? “Please. With what resources? That change I tossed in your piggy bank?”

“I’m going to make you sorry,” I whisper, but not because I’m scared, but because my voice is husky with determination and menace both. Tristan simply laughs at me.

“You and what army?”This material belongs to NôvelDrama.Org.

“This one,” Miranda blurts, and I jump in my seat. I turn to look at her, my mouth dropping open as I realize she snuck in while I was preoccupied with the boys. Her bookbag is held over one shoulder, her blue eyes hard, mouth set in a thin line.

Creed is standing behind her, frozen in the doorway with his eyes jumping from me to Tristan to Zack, and finally over to Miranda. His mouth curls down in a frown.

“My family has more money than yours, Tristan,” Miranda snaps, dropping her bag to her side as she waltzes into the room, just as much a Blueblood as the rest of them. Her eyes glitter with frustration. “And if I have to give Marnye every Fent to bring you down, I will.”

“Creed, put a leash on your bitch of a sister,” Tristan drawls, waving his hand absently. Creed’s face tightens up, and I can see a muscle in his neck working as he tries to push back the rage. “If you don’t, then she’s out of the Inner Circle. I’m done with this crap.”

“Leave it, Tristan,” Creed hisses, taking a few steps forward. “Miranda is off-limits, period. I won’t fight about this again.” Mm. Creed versus Tristan. That’s going to be a useful tool.

“Then kick me out,” Miranda says, reaching under her shirt and pulling out a set of keys. I wonder what those are for and then remember the Gallery and the locked door. A special set of keys, just for the elite members of the school. She chucks them at Tristan’s chest, and just like with the necklace,

he manages to catch these, too. “Good riddance.” She moves over to my table, stares Tristan dead in the face, and then hip bumps him out of the way while the Idol girls gasp and squeal like stuck pigs. Miranda grabs her menu, tosses her hair (or tries to anyway), and then looks across the table with a smile. “I have soooo much gossip to tell you,” she begins, and then I know for certain that things are

going to be okay between us.