Filthy Rich Boys: A Reverse Harem High School Bully Romance (Rich Boys of Burberry Prep #1)(7)

My mouth opens, and then snaps closed when I realize that I have absolutely nothing productive to say. I’m enthralled, held by that sharp gaze as Creed makes his way over to us. He’s tall, sure, but he feels even taller by the way he stands, his fingers just lightly tucked into his pockets, the top two buttons on his shirt undone. His jacket is nowhere to be seen.

“Mandy,” he says by way of greeting, looking at his sister’s skirt with distaste. Creed Cabot … he doesn’t even give me the time of day. Rude much? I raise an eyebrow and cross my arms, waiting for him to acknowledge me. “Was wondering where you’d disappeared to. Andrew’s looking for you.” Miranda nods and then holds out a hand to indicate me.

“Are you going to say hi to the new student?” she asks, those ice-blue eyes of Creed’s sliding over to me. I swear, even from here, I can smell him. He’s got this crisp linen scent with just a hint of tobacco, like he’s been hanging out with someone who smokes but isn’t a smoker himself.

“Am I?” he asks, looking me up and down with a calculating coolness to his gaze. “And why should I?”

“Oh for shit’s sake, Creed, this is Marnye Reed.” Miranda raises her brows and waits for him to make the connection. Apparently, he already has.

“Yeah, Mom’s pet peasant. I already know that.” Creed looks at me, his skin like alabaster, his expression as haughty as Tristan’s. “Charity work is her thing. Doesn’t have to be mine.” Creed turns away as Miranda sputters, and I do my best to come up with a quick retort.

“Charity isn’t what got me here, Mr. Cabot. It was hard work and dedication.”

He doesn’t even slow his stride to acknowledge that I’ve spoken. Somehow, that’s worse than having him come at me with a verbal assault the way Tristan did. What is wrong with these people? Is everyone at this school an arrogant jerk?

“Don’t let him get to you,” Miranda explains, but she doesn’t sound particularly sure of herself. “He’s an asshole to everybody.” She takes my wrist and pulls me along, toward a crowd that’s bottlenecking the entrance to a cavernous chapel. “This way,” she continues, nodding with her head as we move up to a small door on the left of the main entrance. Miranda uses a key to open it and then lets me into a narrow hallway with beautiful rose red transom windows situated near the high ceiling.

“Whoa, how do you get invited to this club?” I whisper, following Miranda down the hall and then up a set of stone stairs. The smell of cigarette smoke wafts over to me, and we pause at the first landing. Without skipping a beat, Miranda answers me and plucks a cigarette from the fingers of the boy who’s smoking it.

“Only Idols, Inner Circle, and staff are allowed back here,” she tells me, cocking out a hip as the dark-haired boy sitting on the edge of the windowsill turns to glare at her. “Are you fucking kidding me, Gregory Van Horn? If Ms. Felton catches you smoking on day one, you’re in for a world of trouble.”

“Don’t be such a fucking pastor’s daughter,” the guy responds, leaning despondently against the stone, and then glancing over at me. His gaze is assessing, but much less judgmental than my previous two acquaintances. “Who’s this? The charity case?”

“Everyone knows?” Miranda asks, and my heart plummets into my stomach. It does seem that way, doesn’t it? That everyone knows I’m the only person at this school whose family doesn’t have a net worth equivalent to the GDP of a small country? “How bad is the damage?”

“Girl from the wrong side of the tracks, short, chubby, dull hair, not even fuckable. If she were fuckable, maybe she could be a Pleb. As of right now, Harper’s already started calling her the Working Girl.”

My cheeks flush, but I’m not stupid enough to miss the connection. Admittedly, it’s a clever play on words: working girl, like blue-collar working girl … and working girl, like prostitute.

“What do you mean, maybe she could be a Pleb?” Miranda asks, pausing at the sound of the door slamming behind us. We both turn around to find one of the most beautiful girls I’ve ever seen staring right at me. How is everyone in this school pretty?! Boys and girls alike. Must be the personal chefs, chauffeurs, maids, personal stylists, and plastic surgeons. Life must be so easy when you barely have to live it. My hands curl into fists; I’m expecting a confrontation.

The girl at the bottom of the stairs is already looking at me like I’m public enemy number one.

“Kesha Darling is a Pleb,” the girl says, her voice high and cultured, a soprano just waiting to sing. “And her father owns a chain of pharmacies valued at over a hundred and sixty million dollars.” The girl—I’m guessing this is the infamous Harper?—crosses one arm over her chest, resting the elbow of the other in her palm. She gestures dismissively in my direction. “So why on earth should some penniless bitch from the ghetto be ranked right up alongside her?” Harper moves toward me, her glossy mane of chestnut hair swinging, her skirt even shorter than Miranda’s, makeup professionally done. She pauses in front of me, several inches taller. Several inches skinnier, too. We both notice. My hands tighten on my schoolbag. “Do you know what Social Darwinism is, Working Girl?”

“The name’s Marnye,” I say, my voice edging dangerously close to a growl. I can take a lot of shit, but I’ve already had my fill for the day. “And yeah, I do know what that is: a bunch of bullshit propaganda perpetuated by the super-rich to explain why they eat cake and everyone else suffers.”