Stuck With The Four Hotties

My locker is in the same place as last year, the keys to my dorm tucked in my bag. I head straight for the chapel hall for morning announcements, wishing Miranda were here. I texted her back a simple but critical: see me at lunFh in The Mess, but now I’m phone-less with no way to contact her. Patching things up with Andrew felt good. I want … I need the same thing with my best friend, the only one I’ve ever really had.

Instead, I turn the corner and run straight into an ambush. Tristan Vanderbilt is even more terrifying than I remember.

He stands at the point of the Blueblood crowd behind him, arms crossed over his second-year uniform: white pants, white shirt, white jacket, and red tie. He looks good in it, too, which I hate him for. Those blade gray eyes of his narrow on me, and my throat tightens.

I Fan’t do this, my brain shrieks, wanting to panic, to run. But my heart was forged in fire. I stay put.

“Well, well, well, the Working Girl showed back up for a second round.” His voice is dark, shadowed with wicked intent, and his smile is terrifying. It’s obvious he’s enjoying this moment, reveling in it really. I expected that. What I didn’t expect is the pain, the fury. The two emotions fill me to the brim, until I feel like I’m spilling over. My hands shake.

“I told you I’d be here,” I say, reaching up to pull the necklace from inside my shirt. Triumph flares in Tristan’s silver gaze, but I can’t quite figure out why. Does he think I’m still pining for him? Does he want me to grovel and beg? Whatever the reason, even he can’t hide the surprise on his face when I tear the necklace off and chuck it at him.

He catches it in his palm as Harper slices through the crowd, making a beeline for us.

“I don’t want or need your money. You keep that. You need it more than I do.” I stride forward and past them, heading down the hall, when I feel something hit the back of my head. Spinning around, the white pleats of my skirt fluttering, I see Harper. She’s picked her way through the crowd and now stands triumphant at Tristan’s side, eyes glittering.

That night on the way to winter formal, in the limo, I think she was legitimately upset. And Tristan treated her like garbage. That was not a part of the act. No matter how many times I go over it, I just don’t think so.

That’s how I figured out the first part of my plan: use Tristan against his own people. I don’t have to destroy Harper du Pont: he’s going to do it for me.

“Physical violence might be fun for you, but it’s not how I’m going to win this game.” I stay where I am, locking eyes with Harper. She hasn’t changed much over the summer, save a few lighter streaks in her brunette hair. She’s still rich, popular, pretty. But she’s desperate for approval from her peers. She’ll be an easy target. “Enjoy your first day back. Today, I’m focused on settling in. Tomorrow, I’m focused on you.”

“I’m not afraid of some working class loser,” Harper snaps, but I’m already turning away and ignoring her. It’s not worth my time to get into verbal scuffles. Besides, if the verbal scuffles escalate to physical ones, I’m screwed. They’ll all gang up on me.

I head down the hall and turn another corner, slamming into something firm and hard and sweet smelling, like geranium and sage.

“Whoa, cool your jets.” Zayd Kaiser puts his hands on my shoulders and steadies me, a grin working its way across his handsome face until he sees who it is that he’s touching. He rears back from me like he’s been burned, and I get at least some small satisfaction out of that. “You.”

“Where’s your trophy?” I ask, my voice like ice as his green eyes lock on mine. “Did you put it on a shelf in your dorm, so you can look at it and praise yourself for actually making me like you? What an incredible award to have won, being yourself around someone until they become vulnerable to you, and then breaking them.”

“You had your warnings,” Zayd scoffs, but I think I’ve caught him off- guard a little. There is no way that all of those moments we spent together were bullshit. No way. None. Months of being on the road have left Zayd with a fresh tan, some new tattoos, and a headful of silver-ash colored hair. The red he dyed it for the graduation gala is gone. Good. I didn’t want to see it like that anyway.

Before that day, Zayd had easily been the nicest to me, the one with a lot less to answer for. Creed had stolen my essay and read it aloud; Tristan facilitated the purchase and burning of that book. But Zayd? He’d just been an all-around, general sort of asshole. That was easy enough to forgive.

But now? I’d chosen him, and he’d destroyed me. All for the sake of winning a stupid bet.

“What are you even doing here?” he asks, like he’s exasperated with me. “Do you ever get enough?”

My eyes burn, but crying in front of these monsters is not an option. They’d probably film it, and make a new video. As it is, the one they already worked on, with me and the guys in compromising positions, had ended up on YouTube. Within two days it was gone, but that didn’t stop it from racking up over ten thousand views first.

“Get out of my way,” I snap, pushing past him. He moves, but only because he wants to, and I can feel his eyes on me as I head toward the chapel. Everyone moves out of my way, Plebs scattering as the Working Girl stomps up the center of the aisle and takes a seat in the frontmost pew. There’s a visible bubble around me, an emptiness that I know isn’t going to be filled.

It’s fine. I expected it. I’m okay with it.Copyright by Nôv/elDrama.Org.