Stuck With The Four Hotties

After the Halloween party, and the orchestra auditions, I’m left with two weeks of jibes, elbows, and crappy notes taped to my door, but that’s pretty much it. I swear, I can feel the three Idol guys watching me, but mostly, I’m ignored. Becky and Harper are the worst, carving the words Working Girl into my locker. When I walk up and catch them doing it, they don’t even look sorry.

Zack’s been messaging me on and off, just random things, but I’m so puzzled over why he’s bothering to text me that I don’t respond much. About a week after the auditions, Miranda is hanging out in my room and happens to see a series of texts come in. She digs her claws into me and refuses to let go until I tell her everything, about Zack being the ringleader of the bullying I suffered in sixth, seventh, and eighth grade. How he was the one that found me after I took the pills. How we briefly dated.

She leaves the subject alone for about … three days before she brings it up again. I’m able to avoid her questioning for the most part by pretending I’m embroiled in schoolwork. It’s mostly true, too. With the workload pushed on us before our first official break of the year, I’m worked to the bone. It’s a relief when I turn in the final assignment of November.

The first day of fall break is a blur of activity, students saying their goodbyes, packing trunks up and leaving in the shiny black academy cars. I watch them go from the cozy penthouse where Miranda lives with Creed. The first time she invited me up here, I refused because I didn’t want to end

up running into that jerk. She promised he was barely here, and so far, she’s been right. I haven’t had a single run-in with Creed in or around the apartment.

“So you’re leaving Monday?” I ask, and Miranda nods, stuffing her volleyball uniform into a duffel bag. The Cabots are out of the country for the rest of the month, so Miranda’s going on an academy-sponsored athletics giveaway. I’m not exactly the sporty type, and Dad is out of town on a job, so … I’m stuck here. “I feel like Harry in book one,” I groan, putting my face in one of the decorative pillows lining the window seat. “Left alone at Hogwarts for break.”

Miranda grins, putting her shiny blonde hair up in a high pony.

“Creed will be here,” she jokes, and I shudder. I don’t even have to fake it; my disgust for him is involuntary. “But I already warned him to stay away from you. He’ll probably be busy with … you know, whatever it is that he does.” Miranda chucks her bag next to the front door just before we both hear the click of a lock. We exchange a look as it swings open and Creed enters, freezing when he spots me in his living room.

“Hey.” There’s a dark note in that syllable, those blue eyes of his sliding over to me. He takes in my rose gold hair and flat facial expression, and then looks back at Miranda, closing the door behind him and then reaching up to unbutton his shirt. Unbidden, my gaze falls to his long fingers, watching as the fabric of his shirt parts and reveals smooth, hard muscles underneath. “I’ll be in and out. Don’t worry about excusing the help.”

“You can go to hell,” Miranda snaps, putting her hands on her hips as her brother breezes by, slamming his bedroom door behind him. Just before it closes, I catch a glimpse of his back, all sinuous muscle over a lean frame. Shit. When I look back at Miranda, she’s gaping at me. “Are you checking him out?” she chokes, and I’m such a terrible liar that my mouth just opens and closes a couple of times. “You were checking him out! And after he’s been so mean to you.”

“I … he’s … I’m not blind,” I grumble, crossing my arms over my chest. My cheeks are flaming as I glance back out the window and see Tristan walking Harper and Becky out to a car. He doesn’t get in though, just helps them in and closes the door before stepping back. Huh. Is he not leaving for the week either? If I end up getting stuck here with more than one Idol, this could be a worse Thanksgiving than the time Dad passed out from one tooProperty © of NôvelDrama.Org.

many beers, and the raw turkey rotted on the counter. I was only five at the time or I would’ve tried to cook it myself.

“Gross,” Miranda mutters, shivering and shaking her head, ponytail flying. “I still think you should message Zack back.” My mouth purses, but my phone is burning a hole in my pocket. From Zack: I’m sorry about what happened with your dad. I’ll be in town for Thanksgiving if you want me to piFk you up. I mean, what the hell is that invite about? My brain scrambles for an explanation, but comes up blank. Zack’s words to Tristan echo around in my head: save it for fall break, diFkhead. Save what? This whole situation is weird. “Why not?”

“Because he treated me like total crap for years, and then dated me behind the scenes for six months. Like, he never told a single person we were together.” Looking down at my hands, I pick at the edges of my nails. I could really use a new paint job. The red I lacquered on for Halloween is coming off in ragged pieces.

“And what exactly did you do when you were together?” Miranda asks, plopping down next to me on the window seat. She leans in conspiratorially, eyes shining. I’m sorry to disappoint her, but there’s not much to tell. Besides that, Creed’s just one door away, and I’m not about to spill any secrets.

“Went to the movies. Walked in the park. Kissed.” I shrug, and run my fingers through my hair. I’m still getting used to the length, but I like the new color. The rose gold looks good on me, and the lightener that Miranda put on my brows actually turned out okay. “What else?”

“So you’re just going to ghost him then?” she prods, sighing and leaning back against the window. Her eyes scan the apartment, its simple but elegant white couches, the chandelier above the dining table, the kitchenette. Even in Grenadine Heights, an apartment like this would cost ten times my dad’s usual monthly salary. As a student dorm, it’s just … excessive. Everything at Burberry Prep is excessive. I like my classes, but I’m not sure how I feel about everything else.

The door to Creed’s bedroom opens before I get a chance to respond, and I gape as he walks out in a pair of gray sweats, slung low on his hips, those gorgeous V lines of his glaringly obvious in the low light. They’re so prominent they cast shadows. He’s tugging on a wifebeater as he walks in, and I catch sight of a broad, flat chest and stomach before he finally pulls it down. Pretty sure I see a tattoo, too, but it’

s hard to be sure.