In the Arms of the Elite

by Stunich, C. M.

“She bought you a rainbow jock strap?!” Zayd howls, rolling on his side with laughter as Andrew narrows his eyes in the lead singer’s direction. “That’s so cute, but so fucking misguided. I’m dying, I’m dying. No, I’m dead. I am hashtag-freaking-dead.”

  “She’s at least trying,” Andrew says, his feet dangling in the pool. “My dad asked me not to hit on any of his business partners. Like, really? I almost snarkily asked him if he hits on every woman he sees, just because he’s straight, but … he kind of does. He’s such a piece of work.” Andrew sips his drink, and I realize he’s come a long, long way from the boy who denied his sexuality to everyone, including himself. The boy who took a forced engagement he didn’t want … and now is the proud owner of a rainbow jock strap.

  “You know what my mom said when I told her I was a lesbian?” Miranda asks, and Creed rolls his eyes like he’s heard this story a thousand times. “She said thank god for that. Boys are so gross.”

  “Isn’t that a sexist thing to say?” Creed retorts, and Miranda spins on him, standing wet and dripping behind her as she tries to sunbathe.

  “First off, get the fuck out of my sun. Second, no. Don’t you understand that when women say all men are trash, it’s not hate speech, it’s just an anti-patriarchal movement that has more to do with the bullshit system rather than each individual dude on a personal level?”

  “Uh, what?” Creed asks, but then Miranda just grabs him by the ankle and slides into the pool, dragging her twin with her. They splash me, and I laugh as water cools my overheated skin.

  “I’m really glad you came out,” I tell Andrew, curling my fingers around the edge of the pool as I glance his way. He smiles back at me, and shrugs, like it’s no big deal.

  “If it weren’t for you, I might not have ever done it.” He turns away and looks out toward the hills behind the house. These are covered in vineyards, too, but the grass is a dry brown-yellow color rather than the bright green that borders the front of the property.

  “I can’t take any credit for that,” I tell him, but he just shakes his head.

  “You stand up for what you want, regardless of how the odds are stacked against you. That’s something.”

  I look away, but I don’t feel comfortable with the praise. I find my attention on Zack, sitting nearby in swim shorts and nothing else. He’s got a copy of that book, Groupie, and I’m pretty sure he stole it off my dorm room shelf. I’m okay with that, too. I’m glad somebody else is reading it, too. The main character’s dad … he gets cancer and dies.

  I hate cancer.

  I fucking hate it.

  I stand up suddenly, and everyone goes quiet around me.

  When I walk off by myself, nobody bothers me.

  Our Thanksgiving meal is … cooked by Zack and Windsor. It’s a little weird to see them working together, especially at something other than bullying rich girls. Two filthy rich boys doing domestic chores. It’s kind … of cute.

  Zayd’s also put on an apron, but mostly he just sits on the edge of the countertop and takes bites of things that are either half-cooked or too hot.

  A beautiful rough-hewn wood table sits outside, decorated with gourds and pumpkins and clusters of freshly harvested grapes. We all sit together and eat, and the boys manage to keep their usual barbs and jibes at one another to a minimum. Charlie is laughing, the baseball cap he’s wearing casting strange shadows over his face.

  I wear the charm bracelet he gave me during second year, and hold his hand through most of the meal.

  Afterward, Windsor challenges the other boys to a polo match.

  “I will watch, but that’s the best I can do,” I say, wanting to stay by Charlie’s side. Wind nods, and crosses one arm over his chest, tapping at his chin with a single finger.

  “We need two teams of four.” He points at Tristan, the edge of his mouth curving up in a smirk. “What do you say, play opposite me as a team captain?”

  “Fine by me,” Tristan says, and the two of them exchange a long dark look. “You want to make a wager out of it?”

  “No, no, just a little friendly competition.” Windsor smirks as Tristan narrows his gray eyes.

  “Right. Well, then, take your pick, Captain.”

  “Zack,” Wind says, because really, he’s the obvious pick for anything even remotely sport related. “You do know how to play, don’t you?”

  “Tell me the rules, and I’ll figure it out,” Zack says, giving Tristan a challenging sort of stare.

  “Zayd,” Tristan retorts, and the rocker boy makes a little fist pump.

  “Fuck yeah, let’s kill this shit.” The two of them exchange high-fives as Windsor turns to Andrew.

  “You’re experienced with polo, aren’t you?” Andrew nods and Windsor waves him over to his side.

  “Well, screw you, too,” Creed says, taking up Tristan and Zayd’s side. He doesn’t even need a verbal invitation. The Idol boys might not like each other, but they stand together. They were even united in their cruelty. There’s a perverse sort of loyalty there, don’t you think?

  “Miranda, my dear, if you would,” Wind says, and she squeals, throwing her arms around his neck. Tristan’s team is rounded out with one of the security guards, and everyone disperses to get ready.

  Me, I end up being dragged to my room by Miranda and shown all sorts of articles on How to Dress for Polo. Like, really?

  “You remember that scene in Pretty Woman, right? When Julia Roberts goes to the polo match?” I blink at her a few times, but I can’t remember if I’ve ever actually seen that movie. She waves her hand dismissively, parks my phone in my hand and points at the onscreen article. “Wear shoes you can walk on grass in, and something nice, but not too nice. You know what I mean?”

  “Not real—” I start, but Miranda’s already sweeping out of the room to change out of her pretty fall-themed gold dress. I watch her go, sigh, and then sit down on the bed to go over the article.

  An hour later, when we meet at the field, I think that maybe for once, I’ve dressed myself properly for the occasion. The boys’ eyes catch on me as I walk over to them in a short, white-lace dress with a cream sheath underneath. It only hits me at about mid-thigh, but I’ve got shorts on, too, just in case of a breeze. The top is long-sleeved to make up for the risqué length, and I feel like it has a seventies vibe—but in a good way. Paired with a big straw hat, and low-heeled flats, I think I look pretty cute.

  “Fuckable, as usual,” Zayd purrs, and my cheeks flush as I give him a look and then flip him off. He just laughs at me and scoops me off my feet, spinning me around in a circle and then growling in my ear, so low that I know only I can hear it. “I’m looking for a repeat performance of the concert. Don’t leave me hanging, Charity.”

  I smack him in the chest, and he sets me on my feet, almost triumphantly.

  “Are you guys really gonna play a game without a bet?” I ask Zack, as Windsor comes trotting over on the back of his beautiful black horse. Apparently its name is Bergamot. You know, like bergamot oil in earl grey tea. Not surprising, right?

  “Pretty sure this whole game is about showing off whose cock is the biggest,” Zack says, eyes narrowed as he glances over at the prince.

  “Well, she hasn’t seen mine, but how about the rest of them?” Wind asks, swinging his, erm, polo stick up over his shoulder. I have no idea what the damn thing is called. It looks like a long, skinny croquet mallet. I’m having a hard time worrying about polo terminology however, because I can’t stop staring at the boys in their outfits.

  They’ve all got on tight pants, riding boots, and button-up jackets with polo shirts underneath. At least this time, they’re wearing helmets I think, trying to decide who looks hottest in their uniform. It’s impossible to tell.

  “Um, this girl doesn’t kiss and tell,” I say, and then pause, frowning. “Well, okay, so I tell you guys once that I’m sexually active with the new boy, but …” Windsor laughs and taps my hat gently on the brim with his polo stick. Sounded dirty, huh?
I thought so, too.

  “I love the hat, Milady. You’re a vision.” He grins, and I find my eyes drawn up to him, perched atop the rippling ebony muscles of his horse. His pants are white, and beyond tight, with a leather strip on the side of each leg and under the crotch. The boots he’s wearing remind me of the ones he wears most every day at Burberry, black and shiny, knee-high. The only difference between the two teams seems to be that Windsor’s group has on black jackets with gold buttons, while the others are sporting red.

  I have to say, with Creed’s blue eyes and pale hair, the bold color really suits him. And Zayd? All those tattoos showing from underneath such a proper looking outfit, the dichotomy has me drooling. Mentally drooling that is. I manage to keep all my saliva properly tucked behind closed lips.

  “You really are beautiful, Marnye,” Zack says, his outfit so properly fitted to his massive frame that I have to wonder if this game wasn’t pre-planned in advance. Sneaking a sideways glance at Windsor, I figure that it probably was. Nothing the prince does is accidental.

  “Thank you,” I say, feeling my cheeks heat as Zack steps up close and puts his big hands on my shoulders, leaning down and giving me a proper kiss. It’s much more polite than the bloody one he gave me on the field, when his tongue stole through my mouth with a possessive, ardent fire. He was claiming me on that field, in front of all those people.

  If Charlie hadn’t been in the stairwell at that exact moment, he would’ve figured out my err, poly relationship much sooner. This is a polyamorous relationship, right? I mean, of sorts?

  “I’m going to kick their asses for you,” Zack says, rising up to his full height. He’s intimidating as fuck. I would not want to be playing against him.

  “We’ll see about that,” Creed drawls, walking across the field and pausing in his red coat. He glances up at Windsor and cocks one, perfectly smooth blond brow. “I’m surprised you’re not wearing a red coat, considering your lineage and all that.”

  “Please, you Americans and your British insults. They’re nothing but sad. Frankly, I find them quite pathetic. If you were to really come at me, you’d know I hadn’t been laid in years, and you’d call me a fuck-useless tosser, and be done with it. Now piss off, and let’s start the match.” He gallops his horse into the field as Creed looks me over and offers up a smile that’s nothing sort of lascivious.

  “You’re scary, when you smile like that,” I tell him, but he seems to take it as a compliment and moves over to stand above me, brushing aside an errant strand of hair from my face.

  “Good. I want the whole world to know I’m not afraid to fuck them up if they mess with my uke.” I narrow my eyes on him, but he’s so damn full of himself, he just turns away and straightens out his red coat.

  “I am not an uke,” I grumble, because uke is literally a word derived from the Japanese verb ukeru which means to receive. And if you were thinking dirty, you were right. The uke is the one who, um, receives the anal sex in a male/male relationship. “And how do you even know what that is if you hate my ‘gauche’ manga so damn much, huh?”

  Creed ignores me, pausing as Tristan finally makes his way out of the stable on the back of a gleaming white horse. I sort of feel like he and Windsor should switch; it would suit their personalities better. But then I see the way he rides, his back straight, head up, like a true aristocrat, and I shiver all over. In that red jacket no less, he looks like a king. A god.

  “Damn, if I were you, I’d want to fuck him, too,” Zayd murmurs, smacking on some gum and swiping his tattooed hands down the front of his coat while Miranda and Andrew make their way over, both also dressed in black.

  “It’s not right, to pair twins up to fight each other,” Creed mumbles, but Miranda ignores him.

  “Alright, your highness, where’s my horse? Let’s get this battle started and shed some blood!”

  “It’s disturbing,” Creed drawls at her, eyes heavy-lidded, “how excited you are by the thought of violence. And Mom thinks I’m the bully in the family.” She grabs him by the arm and drags him off toward the stables while I join Charlie and Alex in the shade of the stands, a few security guards sitting in a loose circle around them.

  There’s plenty of wine and fruit, what’s left of the pumpkin pie. Dad’s eating a slice and smoking a joint. I swear, I will never get over the sight of him smoking pot. The thing is, it helps him eat, and it keeps his pain levels manageable. Once, when Mrs. Fleming brought over some of her special hand-rolled joints, and Dad smoked one on the front porch, the neighbor across the street stormed over to scream how on a federal level, marijuana was still a schedule one narcotic.

  I went all the way off on him about how the plant is medicinal, far safer than opiates, and frankly none of his damn business. He hasn’t been over since. Nobody will take Charlie’s pain management away on my watch.

  “This should be fun,” he says, leaning back in the cushioned seat and smiling as I sit down next to him and fold my dress under my thighs. Apparently the game is broken up into segments called chukkas … or maybe chukkers? It’s hard to tell with Windsor’s accent sometimes.

  Princess Alexandra talks incessantly after the game starts, pointing out the better players—Windsor and, unsurprisingly, Tristan—and telling us all about how she once met the man of her dreams stomping divots at the Portsea Polo Match in Australia. Apparently, Wind’s dad was quite the athlete.

  I’m not much into sports, but watching my boyfriends ride around in sexy outfits on the backs of beautiful horses is a real treat, particularly because Charlie seems to be enjoying himself, brown eyes shining as he watches the match.

  The two teams are fairly evenly matched, with both experienced and inexperienced players (Zayd is a cutie, but he’s kind of useless, as is the security guard that got wrangled into the mix), and the score is close. I could tell that even without Alex explaining it to me.

  No, it’s all there in the set of her son’s shoulders, the frown on his face, and the way his eyes lock on Tristan’s from across the field.

  There might be other people out here, but they’re having a very personal and private sparring match so far as I can tell.

  Tristan smirks, and the expression infuriates the prince even further, causing him to get sloppy and desperate with his moves—just like he warned Creed about during their sword fighting match. When his team loses, and he hops off his horse in a rage, I scramble to my feet.

  “Be right back,” I tell Charlie and Alex, running down the steps and out from underneath the covered awning toward the barn. When Windsor York loses, he gets mad. And today, he is pissed.

  I manage to get in the building using a side door, just seconds before the prince does.

  Windsor storms into the barn, sweaty and furious, flicking his polo stick to the side. Dressed in those tight pants and boots, the hat, and the black jacket, he's a fucking vision. He really does look like a prince right now; it'd be impossible to think of him as anything else.

  He's panting hard and shaking. His gloved hands curl into fists as he looks down at me.

  “What an insufferable brat your friend is,” he says, struggling to control himself. He hates to lose. Hates it. And he just lost on his home turf to Tristan Vanderbilt of all people. “Maybe it was a mistake on my part to bring him back to Burberry?”

  “Is that what you really think?” I ask as Windsor moves up to stand in front of me, and I step back, putting my body against the outside of one of the horse stalls. The soft sound of hooves and whickering filters through to me.

  “I think …” Windsor starts, reaching down to unbutton his jacket, carefully undoing each gold button with perfect precision. “He's important to you, and I just want to give you what you want. There is that.” His jacket comes undone, revealing the sweat-soaked white polo shirt underneath. Wind tosses his jacket aside onto the hay-covered dirt floor.

  “You're working yourself too hard,” I tell him, because I've been thinking that for a long time. Windsor York is always on
e step ahead, and fighting like hell to keep things that way. He needs a break. Even I know that. “You don't have to be everywhere all the time.”

  “Yes, I do,” he says, and then he tosses his black helmet aside, letting it bounce across the stable floor. “I won't let some spoiled American brats beat me.”

  My lips purse, but I can feel this thread of tension in Windsor that's snapped. Here's the bully of bullies I was so worried about before. I always figured if he came unleashed, he could do real damage. Of course, he's been doing damage all along behind the scenes, but … he seems pretty pissed at Tristan right now.

  I move away from the post and walk in a half-circle around him, the short lace dress I donned for the event whispering against my thighs. A breeze whistles down the corridor, and I reach up to keep the straw hat on my head from blowing off.

  “Windsor,” I start, but he's already yanking his polo shirt aside and turning to face me, shirtless and sweaty and beautiful. He watches me with those gorgeous hazel eyes of his, a veritable mosaic of gray, green, gold, and brown flecks. It pairs perfectly with his red hair and the high, sharp lines of his cheekbones. “What are you doing?”

  “I don't know,” he says, closing his eyes for a moment before opening them back up. “When it comes to you, Marnye Elizabeth Reed, I haven't the slightest idea. I thought you'd be a fast burn, fun way to pass the time …” He steps forward, that daffodil and leather polish smell of his tickling my nostrils. It's mixed with that fresh sweat scent that brings to mind all sorts of naughty things we could be doing in the dark. “Instead, you've become a slow burn obsession.”

  “An obsession, huh?” I whisper, finding it very hard to breathe in the dusky warmth of the barn. Windsor steps up close to me and uses one of his gloves to push the hair off of my forehead. “Are you sure it isn't just because you don't want to lose?” I look up into his face, searching for the truth there. Windsor's a mix of emotions right now, the anger still riding high in his face.

  “At first, I think you're right,” he says, his English accent softening a bit at the edges. “You're bloody right. I didn't want to lose, not to the other boys, and not to the Infinity Club bastards. But … it's not like that anymore.”