The Envy of Idols (Rich Boys of Burberry Prep #3)(8)

“Right. Just like you and Tristan. You’ve all known each other since forever, but you’re not friends at all.”

“Tristan and I were never friends,” Creed snaps, but still he doesn’t get up from his spot in the sun-warmed sand. “Zayd is at least tolerable.”

“Good to know,” Zayd says, appearing behind us, and making me jump. Wow. My nerves must be getting to me because I’m the only one that seems so … excited. My tattooed, pierced little rock star friend squeezes between my towel and Miranda’s, stepping over the picnic basket and then turning to face us.

He’s gloriously shirtless, his ink shimmering in the bright sun. His black board shorts are slung criminally low on his hips, to the point where I’m actually concerned they might fall to his feet, and I’ll get to see … I mean have to see, his dick.

“I like the dress, Marnye,” he says, but even though he’s smiling and trying to be playful, there’s an edge to his words, a lick of shame that I both appreciate and wish I could wipe away. “Gorgeous, as usual.” Zayd squats down, his muscular legs drawing my attention. His thighs look hard as rocks, and there’s a tattoo on the inside of one that’s drawing my attention.

I force my gaze back to his face.

“Thank you,” I whisper as Miranda scoffs.

“Wow, make a girl feel ugly, why don’t you?” she says, and Zayd tears his attention from me to look at Miranda.

“No, you’re totally hot, too,” he says, forcing a grin. “You just, you know, play for the other team.”

“So a girl’s only worthy of your compliments if she’s somebody you could possibly have sex with?” she asks, raising a blond brow. Zayd’s mouth drops open as she hair flips (yes, it’s still terrible) and then reaches into the basket to offer him a Coke. He takes it, and then lifts it in her direction in salute.

“Well-said, Miranda. You schooled me.”

“Wait,” I start and then pause, “what do you mean possibly have sex with?”

They both ignore me.

“So, tonight is pretty chill, but tomorrow there’s a huge bonfire on fairly neutral territory, down the way at Myron’s place.” Zayd sits back in the sand and reaches up to twist some of his sea green hair into little spikes. “Although Harper’s an idiot if she thinks Myron’s loyalty is split; he’s Tristan’s best friend first and foremost.”

“Tristan has a best friend?” I ask, blinking stupidly. For some reason, that never really occurred to me. I guess I just sort of thought of Creed and Zayd as his besties? Although, considering the conversation we just had, that’s not entirely accurate. Myron Talbot is the only one of the Bluebloods—besides the Idol guys, of course—that wasn’t involved in my … um, kidnapping and attempted rape. The color drains from my face, and I curl my fingers against my chest, thinking about all the horrible things that might’ve happened to me at Lake Tahoe.

“Myron, yeah,” Zayd says, flicking some sand with a tattooed finger. “He’s a son of a bitch. He barely talks, but he’s always there to carry out Tristan’s dirty work.” Zayd turns emerald eyes on me, and my breath catches. I find myself suddenly aching to touch the sides of his face, to pull him close and brush my mouth to his. Instead, I curl my arms around myself and squeeze. “I’m honestly pretty surprised he never sicced Myron on you.” Zayd exhales and reaches up with sandy fingers to push hair from his forehead.

“Too vicious,” Creed says, eyes still closed. “Myron would’ve been too much for Marnye.”

“Oh, well,” I say, feeling irritation creep across my skin like a horde of itchy insects, “it’s nice to know how much nuance there is when it comes to bullying. Reading a girl’s private thoughts aloud to a rowdy mob is okay, but Myron Talbot, that’s too much.”

Creed doesn’t acknowledge my comment, but Zayd cringes.

“Myron is … you’ll see later.” Zayd crosses his legs and leans forward, putting his elbows on his knees.

“How will I see?” I ask, as my heart skips a few beats. Zayd’s eyes are so pretty in the sun, like precious gemstones. And his tattoos … it’s so damn cool to see them all exposed in the yellow light of afternoon. I thought the guy was handsome in his wrinkled academy uniform. Out here, he’s just … breathtaking.

Zayd looks up at me and then glances over at Creed. I follow his stare and find Miranda’s twin with his eyes open, gaze locked on his friend’s face.

“It’s civil war at Burberry Prep,” Zayd says on the end of an exhale, “and it’s us versus the girls. Tristan, for whatever reason, held back on sending Myron after you.” He meets my eyes, and I feel my throat get tight. “He won’t do the same for Harper.”





The next day, I’m busying sorting through my clothes and trying to decide on an outfit for the party when a knock sounds at my door. Without thinking, I just open it, and there’s Creed, lounging against the wall like he’s just too spoiled and royal to stand up straight.

He smiles at me, and it’s the most arrogant thing I’ve ever seen in my life. A quote from William Shakespeare comes to mind: How insolent of late he is become, how proud, how peremptory. Yep, that’s Creed Cabot in a nutshell.