Bad, Bad Bluebloods(Rich Boys of Burberry Prep #2) - C.M. Stunich Page 0,64
the harp strings, putting an end to the harp solo from Donizetti's opera Lucia di Lammermoor. I sit back in my chair and watch him warily as he approaches. Mr. Carter is in his attached office with the door closed, so nothing truly bad can happen here. I cross my arms over my chest and wait.
Oddly enough, one of the things I miss most from last year is having Tristan attend my orchestra practices. Having him sit in one of the back rows, fingers steepled, eyes locked on me … There was an intensity in him that transferred to my music. I feel like I played better when he was around.
Zayd comes all the way down the steps of the auditorium and pauses next to the raised platform in the front. I’d call it a stage, but it's only ever used for teachers giving lectures. No performances actually happen here.
“Is this how you got me?” he asks, reaching up to rake his fingers through his pale blue hair. He looks around the room like he's never seen it before. But I know he's in here all the time. That look of sweet, mussy confusion is bullshit, just like all his other expressions. Zayd plays charming very, very well. “Eavesdropped outside this door and fucked me?”
“All I did was upload your own words to one website.” I hold up a single finger. “One.” His green eyes meet my brown ones, and I can't deny that there's chemistry between us. There’s always chemistry between us, whether I want to admit it or not. His being a jerk doesn't change that. “If you hadn't said those things, then they wouldn’t be around to haunt you.”
I lift my hands back to the strings of the harp, and get ready to play again, dismissing him. He doesn't go anywhere though, just sits down to watch and listen. I play through three songs before I realize he's not going away, dropping my hands to my lap and glaring.
“What do you want?” I ask, and Zayd smiles tightly. He uses his tongue and plays with his lip rings for a moment before responding.
“I have to admit,” he says, tapping inked fingers on the arm of the chair, “you’ve got bigger balls than I thought.”
I frown at him.
“Bigger ovaries, maybe?” I almost smile, but Zayd just shrugs and stands up. He's like a dream in the white second-year uniform. It's as if the total lack of color on his outfit emphasizes how much color he's got all over his skin. He moves over to stand beside me, and my breath catches in my throat. I know I'm not the only one that notices. Zayd reaches out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, and I let him, even though I know I shouldn't.
“Whatever you want to call it, you’ve got it. Big balls, ironclad uterus, deep dark mojo … Anyway,” he points two fingers at me, like he's miming a gun, “you shot me right in the crotch with that one. Bull's-eye, bingo, win for you. The record label’s just pulled my new album.” He frowns down at me, and there's a well of sadness in his emerald green eyes that surprises me. It mirrors the face of the girl whose expression I saw in my reflection that day last year. So good. He's hurting. It's what I wanted, isn't it?
“There will be a new album,” I say with a sigh, putting my hands in my lap. I have special permission to wear white academy slacks when playing the harp. It's a pedal harp, so I need to use my foot, and if I wore the standard second-year skirt there would be more on display than just my music. “That's the problem with all of you; you’ll never know what it's truly like to hurt. There's always more money, new opportunities, underhanded favors …”
Zayd shakes his head, and reaches into his pocket to pull out a small packet of papers. He hands them over to me, and I hesitate a moment before taking them.
“Nah, not this time. My dad is so pissed, he thinks this might affect his career too, so he’s asked the label to drop me completely.” Zayd waits a moment as I unfold the papers, frowning as I find a copy of the test I took on Friday. Well, the test is the same, but the answers are not the ones I gave. My name might be on top of the paper,