In the Arms of the Elite

by Stunich, C. M.

  “Windsor,” I start, reaching out to take his hand. I almost expect him to pull away, but he doesn’t. Surprisingly, he lets me take it and give him a little squeeze.

  “I haven’t been able to drive since. I just feel sick when my hands touch a wheel. Doesn’t matter if it’s a car, a boat, or a fucking bumper car.” He pulls his hand from mine. “So when I told you I was a bit of a wanker, I wasn’t lying. I’ve been awful, Marnye. I’ve done terrible, terrible things. If you were to look at me with a magnifying glass, you’d probably find Mr. Vanderbilt squeaky clean by comparison.” Windsor pulls his hand from mine, and steps out of the car before I get a chance to respond.

  The haunted look in his eyes though, that sticks with me for the rest of the night.

  We must look pretty fucking cool when we walk into that party together, dressed up like a royal procession with crowns and ballgowns, cravats and colorful coats with long, trailing tails for the boys. The crowd parts easily, leaving us a clear path past the slot machines, dry ice fog curling around our ankles.

  Harper and her new friends are already there, Isabella still clinging faithfully by their side. They’re all in various types of animal costumes. Again, I don’t mean to use the word slutty, but …

  They watch us we pass, heading for the drink station in a room that looks like it was probably once a diner or something. Now, vines curl through cracks in the walls, and the scattered pillar candles make it look extra spooky.

  Miranda drifts off to find Jessie, Andrew does the same for Gary, and I’m left with the guys … and Lizzie.

  Fucking Lizzie.

  Is it terrible that I just want her to go away?

  The boys get themselves drinks, either cans, bottles, or Solo cups with fancy cocktails like Windsor enjoys. I let them have fun with that, and even though I really liked the pot I tried at Zayd’s party, I decline the joint when he passes it to me.

  I have other things to do here tonight.

  There are students from every year, almost exclusively from Burberry Prep. The first and second years don’t remember what it was like when Harper and the boys ruled over the school with iron fists of cruelty, but they look at me like a member of the elite, all the same. I bet most of them went to the Burberry elementary and middle school campuses which aren’t far from ours; they probably know all the goings on at the high school from older siblings and online gossip.

  The guys don’t ask where I’m going, but they do sort of trail behind me in a procession. I don’t admit to them how much I like that.

  Instead, I wait for the Harpies and their Company thugs (Jalen was the last original male Blueblood left, and now he’s gone, too, so it’s all new guys) to settle into one corner of the lounge with their drinks, some cards, and those awful, awful knuckle bones.

  “Deal a hand, du Pont,” I tell her, sweeping my dress under my thighs and taking a seat at the table. Harper narrows her eyes on me, sitting on some fourth year’s lap in her pink tights and furry kitty paws. “Because I’m going to wipe the floor with you.”

  She laughs at me and sits up, still perched on the company asshole’s lap.

  “Really, Working Girl? You want to make a bet with me?”

  “If I win, you’re to stop associating with Isabella Carmichael, and you’re not to tell a soul about her father.”

  “Which one: the real or the fake?” Harper quips, and Becky giggles, that horrible hyena laugh I hated from moment one. I ignore her. I started with a big list. It’s much, much smaller now. It’s just a matter of time before every name is crossed off of it.

  “You think you’re helping me?” Isabella scoffs, dressed up like a … sorry, here it goes again: slutty mouse. Even Miranda uses the word slutty on Halloween, and she’s the biggest anti slut-shaming advocate I know. I don’t even mean it as an insult, just a descriptor. “Leave me alone, Marnye. I don’t want anything to do with you.”

  Her words hurt, but I brush them aside.

  “What do I get if I win?” Harper asks me, smiling prettily. She has a nice mouth. If she used it for something other than smirking, sneering, or scowling then maybe more people would notice? “There’s nothing you have, Working Girl, that I can’t get for myself.”

  “You mean besides real friends, a dad that love me unconditionally, and your ex-fiancé?” I quip, and Harper stands up, slamming her palms flat on the table. Becky stops laughing, and Ileana pauses to fix her boobs in her too-tight corset.

  “If I win, you stop all this Blueblood nonsense.” She chucks a crumpled orange flyer at me, and I unfold it to find our Halloween party information printed on the front. Denounce the false royals, dance with the Bluebloods it says. Miranda and I designed them in Photoshop, and Zack made copies for us in the staff copy room by picking the lock. “You publicly denounce your role as Idol, splash it on social media, and crawl back into your hole where you belong.”

  “Done.”

  “Marnye,” Zack warns, but it’s too late. I’m reaching out and grabbing Harper’s hand.

  Isabella scoffs, but she doesn’t go anywhere as we set up a game.

  We recruit six random students from the crowd, and set up a regular round of Texas Hold ‘Em. First person to a hundred thousand dollars wins. I’m not sure if it’s real or fake money we’re playing with, but knowing the Club … it’s gotta be real, right?

  “We’ve got your buy-in,” Creed whispers, leaning down to speak against my ear. I shiver and glance up at him, dressed in a royal blue jacket with gold buttons, a frilly white cravat, and tight, tight white pants with black boots. He’s got a crown perched on his white-blond hair, and the lazy air of a nineteenth century aristocrat. “Take her to the cleaners, Marnye.” He nods, and chips are passed out. It’s a twenty-grand buy-in. No surprise since the Infinity Club doesn’t like to do anything in small measures.

  Harper’s a lot harder to read than I thought, mostly because she spends the entire game smirking and scowling. We play several hands, and very quickly, the other students realize they’re outmatched, folding and then collecting what’s left of their money before they bail.

  There’s always someone else to take their place.

  “Even if you win,” Isabella says, standing up after a few rounds. The boys are all fanned behind me like a protective unit, Lizzie hovering nearby. They tense when Isabella moves up to stand beside me. I glance up and find her eyes like flint, her smile as sharp as a knife. She really does look like a mini-Harper, all privilege and spoilt ruin. “It doesn’t matter. Separating me from my friends won’t make you my sister. You’re nothing. You’re so unimportant that Mom dumped you and left you at a public bathroom.” Well, a rest stop technically, but … I exhale and stare her down, pretending her words don’t hurt even when they do. “She told me that, years ago. She even asked me if I wanted to meet you, and you know what I said?” Isabella’s smile sours even further. “I told her no. Why would I want to meet some girl that Mom dumped so long ago? If she’d cared about you, or thought you were worthwhile, why wouldn’t she have kept you?” Isabella shrugs, tosses her hair, and then turns to grab a mask from one of the bins near the door to the massive dance hall.

  Ghosts and ghouls spin with sparkling masquerade masks to a classical music playlist I set up last week. It’s all dark, spooky stuff. My favorite song is the Masquerade Suite: Waltz. I’d like to dance to it tonight, if I could.

  “Fuck,” I whisper, but Creed puts his hand on one of my shoulders while Zack squeezes the other. I look back to see Tristan, Windsor, and Zayd all there in support, too. They’re all looking at me like maybe I am worthwhile. After all, if I weren’t … then why are they all still here? All five of them. It’d be much easier to dump me and date another girl, right? And based on who they are, they could have any really.

  I turn back to Harper, and find her watching me like a lioness watches a gazelle.

  She licks her lips.

  Let’s play.

  We go several more rounds, but when the last cards are sh
own and I rake in the chips, it’s me who comes out victorious.

  “What the fuck?” she snarls, slamming her hand into her own pile of winnings and sending them flying. “You rigged that!”

  “We all saw that she didn’t,” Tristan snaps at her as I stand up and glare down at Harper’s scowling face.

  “I’m from Lower Banks. Don’t you know poor kids always play poker better than rich ones? Now leave my sister alone.”

  I turn and start off toward the dance hall. I’ve brought a special treat with me tonight.

  “I can’t really leave her alone, you know,” Harper calls out, and I pause just long enough to grab a shimmering white masquerade mask. There are white pumpkins carved and set all around the ballroom, flickering and adding to the ambiance. “I’m her sponsor! And you know what bet she made to get into the Club: she’s refused to acknowledge her real father even once before he dies. What a happy parting gift that’ll be for him, won’t it, Marnye? To know he had a second daughter out there who, once she finally realized the truth, shunned him in spite of it.”

  My heart stumbles past a few beats, and I feel my eyes get hot and wet.

  “Marnye …” Creed reaches out to take my shoulder, but I breeze past him, cutting across the dance floor to the pedal harp on the other side. I asked some of the other orchestra members to help me load it up, and they did, without a bribe or anything else for that matter. Sometimes it feels good to be queen.

  Other times, it sucks serious ass.

  That can’t be true, I tell myself as I sit down at the harp, and nod at the boys to pause the music. The dance floor comes to a swaying stop. Well, about half the students pause to wait for the music to restart. The other half are too drunk or high to care, so they keep dancing and giggling. Isabella … she really is my full sister?

  This is something I’m going to have to talk to Dad about, whether I like it or not.

  Forcing back the tears, I put my fingers to the strings and start plucking the spooky but whimsical notes of Carnival of the Animals: VII. ‘Aquarium’. At first, the other students don’t seem to know what to do with it, but then they realize they’re not really supposed to be dancing.

  There’s supposed to watch.

  During first year, they ruined my harp solo.

  Now, they’re going to sit here and listen to me play. Closing my eyes, I work through my emotions with the music, teasing the strings with my fingertips and letting the sound echo around the old casino. When I open them again, I see Isabella watching me from the corner. Even with her masquerade mask on, I know who she is.

  I won’t give up on her.

  Even if she made that bet … she can talk to Charlie. It’s not breaking a bet: it’s losing one. I want her to want to lose. She doesn’t need to be a part of the Infinity Club.

  When I finish my song, I stand up and look out to see a glittering array of masks watching me with interest.

  “Welcome to Burberry Prep,” I tell the other students, breathing hard. “My name is Marnye Reed, and I’m a fucking Idol. There’ll be no bullying at school—period. If I hear word of it, don’t think I won’t see you punished.” I snap my dress out and move over to the row of boys waiting beside my makeshift stage.

  Even with their masks on, I can tell them apart. And it’s not just because of their very obvious costumes. No, it’s because of their eyes.

  “Now we waltz,” I say, and Miranda starts up the music again. I’ve been practicing all week with her after school, just for this. Because, well, even though I’m a pretty crappy dancer and probably always will be, with all the cheerleading practices, I’ve gotten better. I can manage a song or two.

  “Milady,” Windsor starts, grabbing me by the hand and spinning me out onto the dance floor, pumpkins glowing all around, dim strands of twinkle lights overhead. He turns us around the floor like, well, a prince would. Even in the floofy pink dress, he knows what he’s doing, and when I close my eyes, he leads as effortless as he breathes.

  After a single pass around the room, he hands me over to Zack. He’s not nearly as good of a dancer, but his arms are strong and thick, and when he holds me close, I feel safe. His mask is black, with a hooked beak, lending a very severe expression to that handsome face.

  We don’t talk.

  I don’t talk with any of the boys.

  Instead, I keep switching partners.

  Creed is next, and it’s obvious he knows what he’s doing, too. He dances the way he moves, like he’s simply lounging with me in his arms, spinning and twirling us under the broken chandelier with the fake spiderwebs on it.

  By the time I get to Zayd, everyone’s watching us.

  Even though this is a waltz, he makes it as sensual as that dirty grinding we did at Becky Platter’s party three years ago.

  Once I’m all hot and bothered, I trade him out for Tristan. The waltz hits a crescendo as he takes me into the center of the room, holding me close and saying nothing. Our eyes meet, our fingers curl together, and our feet swish across the old worn floors, my white dress billowing around the tight black pants and boots he’s wearing. He has a crown, too, a king’s crown.

  The music rises sharply, announcing its finale, and Tristan dips me hard, so low that my short hair nearly touches the floor. And then, he lowers his lips to mine and gives me a fairy-tale kiss with only a hint of darkness edging all that sweet.

  After that, Billie Eilish’s you should see me in a crown comes on. It’s so appropriate, I just pause, letting Tristan lift me back up to my feet. We stand there and let everyone in that room get a good, long look at us.

  We don’t have any problems from any of the Plebs, not after that.

  When I walk into the gym, I find Creed and Windsor fencing.

  They’re both soaked in sweat, dressed in that padded white gear, but lacking any helmets. My practical side wars briefly with my fascination, and I end up sitting quietly on a bench in the back, just admiring their forms as they square off.

  With the tips of their swords—rapiers? I don’t know, sorry, just not a fencing expert—crossed, the boys stare at each other across the mat. Creed’s blue eyes bore into Windsor’s hazel ones. The prince looks as prepared and on top of things as he always does, but Creed’s shed his sexy sloth persona, dropping into that fierce fighting style of his that I’ve only seen on a few occasions.

  “You’re bloody good,” Windsor tells him, a bead of sweat running down the side of his face. His eyes flick briefly over Creed’s shoulder and land on mine before bouncing right back to his opponent’s. “Honestly, your form is better than mine, but when you get mad, you get impulsive.”

  “Enough of your bullshit. I’m here to kick your ass, not take lessons from you.”

  Windsor shrugs his shoulders.

  “Fine by me. It’s your funeral.”

  The two boys take up crouched stances, bouncing slightly as they prepare for the round to start. When it does, there’s this flurry of motion from Creed as he throws himself at Windsor, his weapon moving so fast I can hardly see it. Windsor moves nimbly out of his way, and Creed stumbles, recovering just as fast and spinning on a dime.

  Their swords clash with the clang of metal, and I realize they’re not really fencing at all.

  Fencing is … well, first off, the swords they’re holding are far too big for a true fencing match. That, and they’re definitely both a bit more aggressive and wild with their approach. Steel flies and clatters together, the two boys pushing in with all their strength.

  Creed’s teeth are gritted in frustration, and he pushes back with a growl, swinging his weapon around and going in for Windsor’s midsection. The prince sidesteps the move with ease, and then whacks Creed right in the lower back with his sword.

  “My friend, you have just suffered a severed spine,” he announces, but Creed’s so worked up and frustrated that he spins around and goes for Windsor again. There’s this wild flurry of dancing blades before Windsor knocks Creed’s aside and puts the tip to his throat.
“And now you’ve lost your vocal chords. Are you done yet? I told you: your form is superior, but you’re too rash. Calm yourself a little, and you’d be a worthy opponent.”

  Creed Cabot makes a frustrated sound under his breath and then chucks his weapon to the ground in irritation before he notices me sitting there, his cheeks flushing with red.

  “Marnye,” he says cautiously, throwing on that lazy, drawling affectation of his. “I didn’t realize you were sitting there …”

  “Would you have fought any differently if you’d known?” I ask, standing up and finding my eyes drawn to Windsor’s fingers as he pulls down the zipper on the front of his uniform and shows off a little bare chest. My gaze snaps back to Creed, waiting for an answer.

  “Yeah, maybe,” he says, reaching up to push sweaty blond hair off of his forehead.

  “Why?” I ask, moving over to stand between them.

  “Because … I’d be fighting for someone other than myself?” Creed says, but almost like it’s a question he’s asking himself. Windsor smiles at us both.

  “Come back to my room. I’ll make you both a proper cup of English tea. It’s the cure for everything you know: depression, fatigue, anger, sadness, war.”

  “Keep calm and carry on, right?” I ask, and Wind grins.

  “Precisely.” He leads the way back to the locker room, and I wait outside as the boys change back into their uniforms. We head over to Tower Three, take the elevator up—or the lift as Wind calls it—and then Creed and I snuggle a bit while Windsor makes us all a cup of tea, and even sets up these three-tiered silver trays with tiny sandwiches and colorful macarons on them.