Bad, Bad Bluebloods(Rich Boys of Burberry Prep #2) - C.M. Stunich Page 0,9
what you’re seeking from me, but if it’s forgiveness, I’m not ready yet.”
Zack’s mouth tightens, and he looks away for a moment before rising to his feet. I glance back at him, my arms crossed over my chest, and I wait. I don’t actually expect him to leave. He pushes in the chair, tosses down a wad of cash on the table, and then holds up his hand when I try to give it back.
“Enjoy breakfast with your dad on me,” he says, moving away from the table towards the door. But he stops when he’s behind me, leaning over and putting his cheek so close to mine that I can feel his stubble. His right hand curves over my shoulder and squeezes, sending a swarm of butterflies winging through me. “But … whether you want to deal with me or not, I’m going to destroy those preppy academy pricks for you.”
“Hypocrite,” I mumble, because it’s the only thing I can think to say. Zack’s hand tightens on my shoulder, and I suck in a sharp breath. “You’re just as bad as they are—maybe worse. Don’t pretend otherwise.”
“I wouldn’t dare.” Zack presses a sudden kiss to my cheek and my body goes white-hot before my emotions freeze over, and I’m ice-cold on the inside. “Happy birthday, Marnye.” He rises to his feet just as Dad is making his way back from the bathroom. Zack gives him a little wave and then slips out the door, leaving me to answer awkward questions.
“What happened to Zack?” Charlie asks, taking his seat and then pausing to look at the heaping pile of cash on the table. He whistles and reaches up to adjust his gray fedora. “I think he left a hundred on accident,” he says, and I smile, but I don’t think it was an accident at all.
But maybe what Zack doesn’t get, and Tristan doesn’t get, Creed, Zayd … money isn’t that important to me. Now, only a truly privileged person will tell you it doesn’t matter: it does. Food, clothing, shelter, security, medical care … Those things require money, but I don’t worship the green. It doesn’t impress me. It doesn’t buy my friendship or my love.
My throat gets tight.
“Zack had a thing he forgot about,” I say with a shrug, and while Dad raises an eyebrow, he doesn’t say anything. When our orders come out, I glance at Zack’s plate of pancakes, his empty chair, and I think about his statement: I’m going to destroy those preppy academy pricks for you.
Only … he’s not. Because that’s my job.
It’s my job to destroy the Bluebloods of Burberry Prep. Those bad, bad Bluebloods.
The end of the year prank that left me reeling, it did not go unnoticed by the staff. As Dad grabs some snacks for the drive back to Burberry Preparatory Academy, I head online and look at all the beginning of the year emails with information about classes, school policies … and bullying.
Burberry Prep is now a zero tolerance campus. Students involved in bullying incidents will be subject to suspension or expulsion depending on the severity of the offense. Respect towards peers and staff is not just encouraged, it is mandatory. If you have any questions regarding this policy, please see Ms. Felton or Principal Collins during their office hours.
My lips feel suddenly dry, so I push my laptop aside and head over to the printer to grab my class schedule. The no electronics rule will go into effect as soon as I set foot on campus. No, before. Actually, the drivers of the academy-issued cars that travel between the visitors’ lot and the school, they’re the ones that take the phones.
“They may as well post my name right there on the front page for everyone to see,” I grumble as I grab the page, give it a quick glance, and pull some lip balm out of the drawer on my side table. My bags are packed, my heart is in my throat, and I’m ready.
I’m ready.
I can do this.
My phone pings, and I turn it over to see a text from Miranda.
Can we talk sometime today?
My palms feel suddenly sweaty, and I tuck my phone into the front of my leather bookbag.
Miranda’s been out of the country most of the summer, but this isn’t the first text I’ve received from her. Actually, she’s sent me several. I’ve replied, but barely. We clearly aren’t friends again yet. I mean, if we ever will be again.