Bad, Bad Blu Bloods

by Stunich, C. M.

  “You look good, Reed,” Zack says, wearing his letterman jacket with a tight black t-shirt, dark jeans, and shiny new sneakers. He looks like a million bucks. His outfit, as unassuming as it is, probably costs about the same. “Off to the party, I’m guessing?”

  “What do you want, Zack?” I ask, looking at him and wondering if he’s here out of guilt, worry, curiosity, all three? I don’t need him to pay attention to me because he feels like he has to. And I didn’t need him to transfer here out of some sick sense of duty. He can be as nice as he wants to me; it doesn’t change anything. His name is still on my list.

  “Let me be your backup,” he says with a loose shrug of his massive shoulders. The movement makes the muscles in his chest shift, and my eyes catch on the fabric of his tee as it strains with the motion. Good god. No wonder the coach was okay with taking a second year onto the varsity team. Zack is bigger than every other guy at this school, including the fourth years. I bet he crushes dudes on the field. “The staff doesn’t know about the party tonight. It’s going to be rough.”

  I smile.

  That’s exactly what I was hoping for, I think, but I don’t say anything. Miranda comes out of the bathroom and pauses, looking Zack over carefully. She hasn’t made up her mind about him one way or another. And by that, I mean she hasn’t decided if he should drown in an icy lake or burn up in a fiery explosion.

  “What the hell do you want?” she demands, sauntering up to stand beside me. She’s so regal, and daring. Her replacement in the Inner Circle is a girl called Ileana Taittinger, a first year who became an instant dislike for me when she told me I was too ugly to be a Working Girl on her second day of class. I’ve added her name to my list. Andrew’s replacement has yet to be determined, but I’m sure whoever he is, he’ll be another one for the books.

  “Let me drive you to the party tonight. I won’t hang too close, but at least let me help you make an entrance. You know those guys hate my guts, right? They’ll fucking hate seeing us there together.” I snort, glancing away toward where Andrew’s waiting on the bed. He’s still dressed in his uniform, and even though he hasn’t said anything, there’s this eagerness in him. I think he’s excited to see Gary Jacobs at the party.

  “Why do they hate you so much?” I ask, cocking my head to one side and studying Zack. “I mean, they warned me off of you before they even made their stupid bet. Clearly, that wasn’t out of fondness for me. What is it about you that disturbs them so much?”

  “My brother might be a cruel jerk, but he would never take it as far as you did. You almost killed Marnye. You’re irredeemable, Zack. Get fucked.” Miranda tosses her hair and smacks me in the face with it. I brush strands away from my glossed lips as she turns on her heel and storms back to the bathroom.

  “So you think Creed’s redeemable, huh?” Zack asks, reaching up to rub at his lower lip with his thumb. “You think that bet’s the worst the Infinity Club’s ever come up with? You’re definitely drinking from the cup of naivety when it comes to your twin.”

  My brows go up as Miranda turns right around and marches back into the room, blue eyes narrowed to slits. Wow. She looks just like Creed when she does that. A shiver overtakes me, and I cross my arms like I’m hugging myself.

  “What exactly does that mean?” she snaps, the words flicking off her tongue like a whip. I cringe a bit, but Zack just stands there, staring at us both.

  “If I could tell you, I would.” I snort at that and he flicks his gaze over to me. “What? It’s the truth. The day they told you what Lizzie and I did, I’d already come up with a plan. I was—”

  “—going to tell me out of pity and guilt? That’s not good enough for me, Zack.” I exhale sharply and raise my chin defiantly. Our eyes meet, and a small thrill goes through me. He looks sorry, like really freaking sorry. There’s a depth to his sorrow that makes my blood sing. Good. Good, let him be sorry for what he did. “If Lizzie hadn’t changed the terms of the bet, what then? What would you have done?”

  “Marnye,” he starts, his dark voice cracking slightly. “I …” Zack just stops talking, sighs, and then closes his eyes. When he opens them, that same old wall is back, crashing in front of his emotions and cutting them off at the source. He reaches up and rakes his fingers through his short, dark hair. “There’s nothing I can say to make up for what I’ve done. Nothing. I’ll go.”

  “Excellent,” Miranda says, pushing him toward the door and opening it up. He lets himself be pushed into the hallway, and the last thing I see before she slams it shut is his face, a deep frown etched into his mouth, his eyes mournful. “What a total douche. I cannot even believe that I pushed you to date him.”

  “You think Creed is redeemable?” I ask, and Miranda freezes. She’s turned away, so I can’t see her face, but when she glances over her shoulder, I see that it’s true. She really does. But, I mean, he’s her brother, so what else can I expect?

  “I mean, he’s not as bad as Zack …” she starts before turning to look at me. “He’s been really supportive about my being gay, and he even banned the Bluebloods from making homophobic comments.”

  “He’s a real winner,” Andrew says with a roll of his eyes. He sits up and gives her a sharp look. “Don’t make excuses for him. I’m not saying Zack’s a good guy, but at least he’s trying to apologize. Creed doesn’t give a crap about how he hurt Marnye.”

  Miranda sighs, and nods her head.

  I hate to come between her and her brother, but if she sticks with me, it’s going to happen one way or another. I’m not even going to have to take her away from him. He’ll do that all on his own. I close my eyes and remember rule number five on my list: Let them hang themselves with their own rope.

  “I won’t make excuses for him,” she says, meeting my eyes. I nod and then grab my new dress off the chair in the corner.

  “Let’s get going: I want to make an entrance.”

  And so it begins …

  The favor I asked from Andrew was simple: let me borrow his car for the year. Technically, no student is allowed to keep a car without special permission. But they all do it anyway. Last year, they literally just tossed caution to the wind and parked in one of the staff lots. This year, with all the new security and scrutiny, they’ve all paid to have their cars delivered to a lot just off the campus property. Getting to it means sneaking through the woods in glittering party dresses and trailing perfume. I swear, there’s so much cologne and body spray in this copse of trees, I feel like I might choke.

  “I think every freaking student in the school is here,” Miranda whispers as we walk across the wet grass in flats, our heels clutched in our hands, purses slung over our shoulders. I’ve embraced the Burberry Prep lifestyle: I’m wearing a dress that costs too much money for me to fathom, and I’ve got the heels that Creed bought me. All in all, including the jewelry I borrowed from Miranda, I’m wearing over five thousand dollars in clothing and accessories.

  I almost gag at that thought.

  Also, pretty sure I’m the most frugally dressed one there anyway.

  “It’s like a mass exodus,” Andrew whispers, passing me his keys. I can see the bright glare of phone screens, and the sparkle of jewelry and dresses winking at me from various spots in the trees. If the staff doesn’t know what we’re all up to, I’d be surprised. Then again, how can they really bust every student in the academy? The hair on the back of my neck prickles, and I look around, expecting that Kyle guy to appear out of the shadows.

  “It isn’t like one,” Miranda whispers, biting her lower lip, “it is one.”

  We hit the edge of the trees without encountering any of the Bluebloods, and I have to whistle at the shining red beauty of Andrew’s car.

  “Holy crap, Andrew,” I whisper, running my hand over the hood. Telling someone you have a red Lamborghini, and actually seeing it in person? Two totally different things. Like, I’m not even into cars, but this one … hot as hell. “What does your family do again?”

  He tuc
ks his fingers in his pockets and shrugs his shoulders, crinkling his academy jacket.

  “We manufacture vehicles,” he says, and then grins at me. “Pretty much any car made in the USA or Italy has the Payson stamp on it somewhere.” I smile back, but actually, I already knew the answer to that question. I studied every Blueblood on that list, their family, and their net worth. I know who’s the richest of the rich, and who’s just hanging on by a thread.

  Raucous laughter rings across the lot, and I lift my head to find Zayd with his head thrown back. He’s howling over something Greg’s just said, his arm around Becky’s waist. My blood boils hot as they all pile into a blue Jaguar F-type convertible, gravel churning as they take off out of the parking lot with no regard to anyone else. I cringe as Zayd just barely misses smashing the front of his car into Valentina’s Porsche.

  “Idiots,” I mumble as I spot Zack’s orange McLaren parked across the way. He’s leaning against it, watching me. “Stalker,” I add, flipping him off before I unlock the doors to the Lambo and move around to the driver’s side. Before I climb in, I see Tristan and Creed standing next to a Bentley Bentayga, basically this super pretentious white SUV. As if they sense me looking their way, they both turn in unison, gray and blue eyes locked on mine.

  I smirk at the Idols, twirl Andrew’s keys around my fingers, and slide into the driver’s seat.

  “Creed got a car?” I ask as I shut the door and watch through the tinted window as Tristan takes off for his dad’s Ferrari Spider, and Creed climbs into the Bentley. I swear, every rich person gets a car for their sixteenth birthday. “And did Tristan steal his dad’s car or did he give it to him?”

  “My dad offered us a choice: car or money in our trust. Creed chose the car; I chose the cash. Oh, and Tristan stole the Ferrari again,” Miranda adds with a shrug. “He’s been driving it all summer. His dad has so many cars, he probably didn’t notice. Or care. William Vanderbilt doesn’t exactly pay a lot of attention to his son.” She checks her phone and then squeals so loudly in my ear that I jump. “Don’t go anywhere yet!”

  Miranda scrambles out of the back, crushing Andrew with the front seat as she pushes past him. She’s not two steps out of the vehicle before she’s throwing her arms around a girl that I vaguely recognize as Jessie Maker, the same girl I saw her with last year. They hug so tight it looks like they might break each other’s ribs, and then they pull back and just grin at each other.

  Glancing back out the driver’s side window, I see Creed sitting in his Bentley with the window rolled down, watching the pair of them. His hands are tight on the wheel, and I know he’s as aware of Gregory Van Horn and John Hannibal watching her as I am. He turns away sharply and starts up the SUV, peeling out of there almost as fast as Zayd did.

  “Is it okay if Jessie rides with us?” Miranda asks, cheeks pink, panting heavily as she peers into the car.

  “It’s fine with me,” I say, and neither girl waits for Andrew before they push his seat forward and scramble into the back.

  “Hey Marnye, I’ve heard a lot about you,” Jessie says, her dark brown hair hanging shiny and straight around her thin shoulders. She has a genuinely nice smile, sparkling chestnut eyes, and a white dress that leaves little to the imagination.

  “All good,” Miranda assures me as I smile and shake hands with the new girl, starting up the Lambo’s engine with a delicious purr. Like I said, not a car person but holy crap, the rumble of the engine through the black leather of the seat is almost enough to make me a convert.

  Much more cautiously than the others, I back out of the space and take the same gravel road up and out of the lot, heading towards the location for the first party of the year: Ileana Taittinger’s countryside mansion. It’s about two hours north of Burberry Prep, up a winding coastal road that deviates around Santa Cruz, and ends in a gloriously long driveway topped with a fancy metal gate.

  There are students—first years, based on their uniforms, and one third year—policing the gate, and opening it only after checking to see who’s inside each car.

  We are most definitely not invited.

  “You still haven’t told us how you plan on getting in there,” Andrew says as we creep up the driveway, and I exhale sharply, glancing over at him with a sympathetic expression. He sees it and gets immediately suspicious. As he should.

  “A favor is a favor,” I tell him, and his face pales. We come to a stop just feet from the gate as one of the first year girls saunters over to us with her skirt billowing in the breeze, flashing a whole lot of lacy pink panty in the process. Hmm. I roll the window down and she leans her forearms on the door, her cloying perfume filling up the car and making me gag.

  “Excuse you,” she spits, and the vitriol in her voice makes me grit my teeth. This girl has never met me, and yet here she is, looking at me like I’m lower than pond scum. “No whores, hookers, or prostitutes allowed. Go turn your tricks in the city, Working Girl.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I say, keeping my voice neutral, my face pleasant. I can feel the tension from Andrew, Miranda, and Jessie behind me. “My name is Marnye Reed, and I’ll be attending this party, thank you very much.” I continue to smile as the girl scowls at me, and a boy in a third year uniform approaches from the other side.

  “No faggots,” he says, shaking his head and sneering at Andrew through his partially rolled down window. “I don’t care what Creed says. He’s not coming into my little sister’s party. Wouldn’t want to get raped by a homo.” The boy laughs, and the sound is rather like a donkey with a sore throat, grainy and snotty and ugly. I resist the urge to scream, my hands tightening around the wheel.

  “Let’s just go, Marnye,” Andrew whispers, his voice and face dark. “We’re not getting in here.”

  “Please open the gate,” I repeat, and the girl laughs at me, moving away to stand next to the brick pillar on the left, tossing her hair perfectly, and then giggling at something one of the guys says. The other asshole, Ileana’s older brother apparently, snorts and flips us off before sauntering back to the group. With a sigh, I put the Lambo in reverse and pretend like I’m leaving.

  I’m not.

  “Marnye …” Andrew begins, just before I put the car back in drive, and slam my foot on the gas. With the squeal of tires and the stink of burnt rubber, we shoot forward and smash through the gate. It’s not locked, so it opens easily, the metal flying back and smashing into the bricks. The kids gape at us as we roll across the lawn and park next to the dozens of other fancy cars already there.

  I take note of Zayd’s, Creed’s, and Tristan’s cars before I climb out and lock the doors, tucking the keys in my bra. Andrew’s still gaping at me, and Miranda’s grinning, just barely resisting the urge to hop up and down. Okay, so, maybe she jumps up and down a little. Jessie just raises her eyebrows and whistles in surprise.

  “Okay, who are you, and what have you done with the Marnye Reed I know?” Miranda asks as the group from the gate storms across the yard towards me. I ignore them, toss my hair (poorly, I might add), and head for the front porch and the crowd of gawping students.

  Zayd’s right there in the thick of it, a beer in one hand, his mouth open, his green eyes tracking me as I make my way toward the front door.

  “Hey!” the Taittinger guy shouts, pounding up the steps to cut me off. His ugly face is twisted in a sneer, and I’m pretty sure he’s about ten seconds from putting his hands on me. The bitchy first year girl is right behind him, taking up on his left like a sentinel.

  “You fucking bitch!” she snarls, and it’s pretty disturbing to see such a hateful expression on her baby face. I look at them both with a so what? expression before glancing over at Andrew and smiling softly.

  “I’m sorry about the car, but there doesn’t even seem to be a scratch. Your family makes quality vehicles, I have to say.” He stares at me for a second, blinking past the shock, and then grins.

  “I guess we do.”

  “Shut your mouth, faggot,” Taittinger
sneers, stepping close to Andrew. He seems a bit tentative about hitting a girl, but I’m worried for Andrew.

  “Back off of him, Craig!” Miranda shouts, just as much a Blueblood as she ever was. No, no, more of a Blueblood than she was before. She’s practically regal in that cream colored dress of hers, like a princess. Or maybe even a queen. “If you touch him, I’ll kill you.”

  “Yeah?” Craig sneers, shoving Andrew in the chest with a palm. Andrew stumbles back, nostrils flaring, but he holds his ground. Miranda is there in an instant, despite Jessie’s attempts to pull her back. She throws herself at Craig Taittinger, and he raises a fist. I’m ready to step in if I’m wrong, but …

  A pale hand clamps onto his wrist and jerks him back so hard that he stumbles, falling into a heap on the porch. A crowd’s gathered around now, as Creed looks down at Ileana’s brother with a face so full of darkness that I barely recognize him.

  “Were you thinking about touching my sister?” he whispers, his voice like jagged sheets of ice, as sharp as glass and freezing cold. They can cut to bleed and poison the flesh with frostbite, all at once. “Are you fucking kidding me?” Creed puts his foot on Taittinger’s throat, and the crowd gasps in shock. Me, I’ve got my phone recording and nobody knows it.

  He’s just protecting his sister, I think, but I banish the thought, remembering the impassive way he stared at me while I was humiliated, remembering my panties clutched in his hand. He threw them at me like he was tossing trash at a stray dog.

  “Lay off, Cabot,” the first year girl snaps, her hands curled into fists. “These idiots rushed the gate. Craig was just trying to help.”

  “By hitting my sister?” Creed Cabot says, his voice sending a chill down my spine. I remember the way he tore Derrick Barr up with words last year, and then proceeded to flip him off the deck into the weeds. Scary. “And what did I say about homophobic garbage? I won’t stand for it.” He pushes his feet even harder into Craig’s throat, and I feel this little twinge inside of me. I’m not a proponent of violence, but … Creed’s message is a good one. Still, I keep recording. “Leave them alone.”