In the Arms of the Elite (Rich Boys of Burberry Prep #4) - C.M. Stunich Page 0,20

dotted with blooming cacti and bushes covered in purple flowers. I’m guessing if this dry heat keeps up for much longer, the landscape will change dramatically. For now though, the land’s enjoying the benefits of a recent summer shower.

“You dad doesn’t care that you’re using this place for a concert?” I whisper as we walk into the massive foyer with the curving staircase. The décor is Western themed, specifically expensive movie memorabilia that’s displayed behind glass with little placards. A vague memory comes to me of that first Infinity Club party when Zayd and Creed bet each other that Lizzie would show up. What was the prize? A cowboy hat? No, no cowboy boots.

Interesting.

Of course, then Creed said he wanted to fuck a cowgirl which I know now is a total lie …

“Dad lets his friends have concerts out here all the time,” Zayd says, giving me a weird sort of look. He clomps up the steps in his sea green boots, a perfect match to his hair, and turns around with one inked hand curled over the banister. “Well, come on, Charity, I want to show you my room.” Zayd gives me this exaggerated little wink and takes off.

“#TeamCreed,” Miranda whispers, but then she pushes me lightly in the back. “You go, I’ll watch Lizzie.”

“I—” I start to tell her that I don’t need her to watch Lizzie for me when I turn and see Lizzie’s hands on Tristan’s tie. He’s looking right at me, too, and there’s a sort of challenge in his face that makes my stomach hurt. Maybe he’s … what if he likes me and Lizzie both? I mean, I have a crush on five guys, so why would it matter if he liked another girl?

My stomach roils with angst, and I take off up the steps, past Zack and Creed, and all the way to the top where Zayd’s waiting.

“Welcome to Chateau Kaiser,” he purrs in that velvety rockstar voice of his, opening the door to a wing. Yeah. Not a room. A wing. My mouth drops open as I start down the hall and Zayd steps in behind me, closing the door softly. “I’ve got a music room, a bedroom, a sitting room, a game room, and a bathroom up here.”

I touch my fingers to one of the frames on the wall. There’s a chubby faced little boy with a woman’s arms around him. They have the same nose and the same full mouth. I glance back and Zayd’s face falls slightly.

“My mom,” he says, padding over to stand beside me. “She was a groupie for Dad’s band.” He taps the glass with a black painted fingernail and his face falls. “He married her, but that lasted for all of a few years because, well, you know, my dad’s a fucking druggie whore.” Zayd scrubs his hand down his face.

“So they got divorced?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder and studying the harsh lines of Zayd’s expression. The emotion is beyond genuine; he misses his mother, wherever she is.

“No, she just left. They never actually got a divorce. She was trying to get custody of me, but then she … you know, she died.” Zayd pushes away from the wall and heads down the hall, opening the last door on the right and leaning against the jamb, his strong, tattooed arms crossed over his chest. “You coming in or what, Charity? I promise I don’t bite—unless asked, of course.”

I smile slightly and let my fingers trail down the side of the picture to hang at my side before joining him. I want to ask more about his mom, but maybe Zayd isn’t ready to share just yet?

“Holy shit,” I murmur, stepping into the room and letting my eyes wander the massive wall of guitars. Like, literally there are probably a hundred hanging there, starting right at floor level and going all the way up to the soaring ceiling. “This is insane,” I whisper as Zayd moves over and grabs an acoustic guitar off the wall, sitting down on the red sofa nearby. He strums his fingers across the strings and hums under his breath, rocking back and forth slightly with the music.

“Marnye, I can’t believe you’re in my room,” he purrs, and I feel my face split into a grin. “I must be the luckiest ass alive.” Zayd drags this last word out in a soft coo that brings chills up all over my skin. “How could you possibly forgive an idiot like